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7 VOL. V. J. H. & W a SEALS,} £ EDITORS AN Da X _, - „ . — —~ ■ i i Koi*,t,KTo,t.s| ATLANTA GA., DECEMBER I3th, 1879. surpa- quite, the jay. Bv l-'THER cjlabk. O] all the busy birds there l>e A rallying from tree to tree Throughout the day, Li uniform of blue and white. 1 claim, them all 1 be gallant Jay. ‘•Jay: jay:" ho shouts, and is awav hell lights, his soft, sweet flute to'plav Jba-ts the fierce hawk. Or spreads his broad, bright wings n-ain And dashes o’er the rolling plain " ith crows to talk. The tim'mus tomtits ’round him ]au"h Because he frightens a hnge calf And whips a pup, Th’ acknowledged captain of his clan • A model, active, business m UI1 _ He must rise up. The Wild Shriek from the eagle’s dome- llie turtle s eooing-the.se please some; or wren, j/ertJmnce, But , of ll " worthy birds there be, The energetic Jay, f. , r me, Moves in advance. Terms in advance: { FOE ANOTHER'S SIN. CHAPTER I. - fi52&I?5l,1 ; ln . {U wwer to my long epistles Ti„„- . ffu ,' .iiid 1 ve run down here toseeif'yon ,med h y the spells Of some rust I , a some rustic rhtlv an- • Wlmt you niana months 1 letter sions my curiosity and 1 were not dot; ehantress.” So ratt’ed Joe Whitney, light-hearted To.. * of society, not less because of liis sd^Jv ’ the ,l ,et lor the silver in his purse. ° n ° lZe c k an Iiichard I hore.sbv colored sli swered: Lii-x ”" n:l _ ,lj c hcai!*'”?f Rii^hVtlo nnLoA.*b^ *??? i here, utu I’ri.L gering away from the haunts of civilization is not I due to—By Jupiter, if yonder isn't Gertrude Win ter!" A lady just then entered the gate of the broad lawn in front of the hotel and came walking with a light, elastic step towards the h< mse. A lithe, grace- fvl figure, stylishly dressed, a fair, high-bred face, a classic head, proudly poised, a delicate hand toy ing with the fringe of her light silk scarf. Joe watched her without another word until she had entered the house, after bowing to Mr. Thores- l>y with the color deepening in her cheeks When she had disappeared through the hall door, Tliortsby said, impatiently: “Well, don’t you intend to answer my question.'” “What question.'" Joe answered, as if just wak ing from a dream. •I asked vou twice if you knew- Miss Winter.” Ont; V’ear, $2.5n Single Copy oo No. 231. J? is I'll, what I tal.l vou aSJa^aiiS - She Winter. im the mis S o^ 1 -r^hB 1 ^ 0 ^''hart^ 1 e e w-ords^co.‘J ere ’ * Uld gU6SSed arc tdogel’.m-ml.v? 0 ' ^ nut -'"our fault. You The rln'ivd , n l ‘ e d heart ^ 1<le ™eath it. and went was a gust v HimSS* % UU whe “ ‘here '?«** ““I eyes. "ZlT 1 the old fiLhion VenmgT aa * She ****«! herself” At ten o’clock there w. __ in the parlor: she tor her. She started after on her shoul- dm-s g lt UP tU her aui1 iai ‘ 1 In's ham "He is married.," he said, slowlv ssa* asaas acting, after all : ' ' ^° USee > do J^not, it was ”!: u :'. li ; u . ig!lt aud .p 1 >'id-bye," he said. “I shall ~ 0 i been very. iway to-mon • gr f»«»- **»S 1 few weeks the.v s th ° ,' el ' 01 ? or Tabetic. After a would fnUil& e n^??‘..^ that she 1 he man who was t< > I ■I ■If. ‘i s after that. SHE STARTED, AMD STARED WILDLY AT THE APPARITION. e was raised to his he through the windows of the drawing-room fell up- | then as the white, excited fa on his steely eyes and stern mouth. | recognized Gertrude Winter “No: mv friend brought me good news since it j “Well, the scene was finished, has saved me," lie said at length. ( Miss Betty told them what she thought of them ‘‘Saved you, Richard!—how, from what?" 1 all, and, being exhausted with ber exertions, went "From his fate,” he cried fiercely, pointing sml- i to sleep with her maid in attendance lies de her to denlv out among the shrubbery before them. She I keep oil' the flies. looked: she saw a sight that made her heart stop I Then they all trooped down stairs, and Kate said: beating with amazement and terror. The face of a j "You're not used to such exhibitions, Joe. Wait | dead man among the shadows, with a red mark till you've been through a dozen or so. Aunt Betty j across his throat and the distortion of a violent | got into a rage with her dress maker this morning, deatli mi liis features—a face she knew too well! It Have you and Miss Winter met before. Gertie— i looked horribly real in flic faint light, mixed with ; Cousin Joe Whitney." _ - - I quivering shadows, that streamed on it through i Miss Winter, looking up with the intentien of ac- Know her by sight, lbar is more than I care | t j ie j w Yet it was only that picture of poor knowledgeing the introduction, burst into a fit of to do. She was the ( lara \ ere de \ ere of New i ]) u , r i li which Thorseby from" a wild impulse, had ! crying instead—which frightened Joe worse than A < >rk last winter Surely you heard of the Rollast- ' p[ a ” ( .q among the leafy limbs of a small magnolia | the other performance—and sent the girls flying af- tree. The foliage gave it a dark back ground, the i ter all sorts of restoratives. partial light a terribly realistic effect. Poor Joe found himself fanning the to woman A suppressed scream broke from her lips: ishe | whom his honest young soul had vowed eternal en- started and stared wildly at the apparition. I her i mitv.atid feeling a sentiinmit of genuine pity for her on affair “Hugh Rollaston who cut his throat for some wo man’s sake? Surely tin’s is not the woman?” “It is. Dick, I hope she is not your Eve?" Richard Thoresbv made no answer. He was oe- cupied in trying to control bimseif. The words he lia<l just, heard had entered his heart and scared it as if they had been red-hot iron - But he was no weak stripling: lie kept his feelings under the mas tery of a strong will. “Joe. I will go back to town with you to-morrow. We shall have to take an early start. To tell the truth I am tired of the monotony of this place.” He went to his own room, conflicting feelings raging in his breast. Hugh Kollaston had been a dear classmate of bis at college - It had been a ter rible shock when he heard the news of his death— his suicide by his own hand, because of the falsehood of a woman who promised to marry him, caused him to expend his means in the purchase and fur nishing of a house, and in presents to her, and the very day before the one she imd appointed for their wedding, she told him it was all a jest; she had never loved him, never expected to marry him. And she had laughed heartlessly at his agony and advised him to go on the stage, since he had such a talent for tragedy. That night, the poor fellow j cheeks blanched with terror. “Her guilty conscience makes her think it a ghost!” thought Richard grimly. “1 wonder she does not j fall dead, or swoon at least." She did l,either. After a moment's stupor of I amazement and terror, and a short struggle with I her emotions, she approached Thorseby and looked into his face, pale hut calm. : “Listen tome, Richard; let me explain." Her sweet, tremulous voice, her soft touch upon ! iiis arm—they thrilled him in sp.te ot his bitter sternness. “Shall I let myself be duped by her after what I 1 know.'" he thought with angry self-scorn. He threw off her hand. i “Explanation is a mockery. Spare yourself the j meanness of lies. Murder i- enough to have on your soul.” AV i'h these cruel words he left her, not daring to look back lest his resolution lie shaken. Atday the barouche of his friend took him to the little station, and the gray morning found him aboard the train for the city, seated by the side of Joe. who had just took his own life. The disappointment, the humili- 0 fl - ore j him a cigar and his usual consolation ation, the terrible revulsion from happiness to de- , • cheor up. it's all in a lifetime, old fellow spair were too great for the delicate, over sensitive i young man, whom Thoresliy had loved and protect- j ed and championed in college. A mutual friend—a young artist in New York ! had written him all the particulars of the tragedy. Thoresbv had not recognized Miss We iter's identity , with the cruel flirt by her n me, for to his mind they were not the same. His friend, the artist, wrote an execrable- hand, his W being especially slovenly. So Thoresbv had read the name of the heartless svren as Miuter. The artist also, thinking to please his friend, had from tin* city. CHAPTER II. Miss Winter was a strong-minded woman—in the true meaning of the word. She did not collapse with brain fever or go off into a broken heart de cline. But she certainly lost her roses and society grew so distasteful to her that instead of going back to town, she accepted the invitation of her friend. Miss Maysbury to visit her at her home three miles The Maybury’s were rela tions of Joe Whitney and Joe sometimes paid them a flying visit in the shooting season. One day. lie came unexpectedly, and found the household in some confusion. Miss Betty, a maiden sister of the Mayliurv’s had just, announced that she was dying and was filling the house with her moans. The im mediate family, knowing the lady's hysterical ten dencies. were not much alarmed, but Miss Winter was greatly agitated, her sympathies enlisted for bP sent a very shocking thing—a picture of young Rollaston at he saw him after death—with the half staring eyes and the bloody gash across his throat. It was a portrait in colored crayon, hasty but hor ribly real. Thoresbv execrated the artist's morbid taste and put the picture out of sight at the bottom of his trunk. There it was now. He lifted the books from the broad sheet of card board and took out the picture. “I will show it to her,” he said, with grim, stem the apparently dying woman, lips, “and then I will say farewell foi ever. Would j Joe, who had just arrived, was also frightened, tn God 1 had never met her. Heartless‘murderess! and not a little indignant at the apparent indilTer- She thought to drag me at her chariot wheels.” ence of the family. The night was dark and stormy without, but j He came running upstairs on hearing from a within the pretty drawing-room of “Lone Lake servant that “Miss Betty says she's dying sir," and House,” all was mirth and cheerfulness. Gertrude found the usual group about the bedside. Hiscous- Winter was as usual the life of the little assemblage ins were veiling their internal emotions under faces but her gayety flagged now. for her glance had of- of decent sobriety. t'-n vainly sought the door in expectation of seeing i A slight, black-dressed figure was bending over Thoresbv, her declared almost engaged lover—en- j the invalid, trying to reassure and comfort her. the room. He came at last, so grave* so pale, she j “Indeed you're not dying, Miss Betty. It is only wondered. ; a nervous attack.” “Did your friend bring bad news?” she asked,' Whereupon the sufferer, indignant at the dispar- looking up tenderly into the shadowed face. So 1 aging “only," redoubled her gasps and struggles. ’ sweet, so fair, and vet so false! Thoresby sickened ! Having an addition to her audience, she aired her at such duplicity. " I whole collection of symptoms. She threw her whole “Come out - in the piazza,” he said hoarsely. ! weight—and she was no sylph—into the arms of the She obeyed without a word. The smile had died j frightened girl beside her, and made frightful faces from her eye; and lips. Her look was anxious and and clutched at nothing, and did the whole hysteric wistful: but she did not speak. j role. 1 iqion the piazza; the light that came, “Let me take your place. The fright and excitement and general strain on her nerves emleil in a headache, and she lay on the library sofa all day, with the girls sewing near her and Joe being entertaining at intervals. In hiseruel ! judgements of human nature he had fancied that 1 with that central fact in her history she would ap- i pear to him with a legible mark of < ain on her | forehead. | Instead of which she was pale and gentle, and looked tired and troubled, a little as if there were i some under weariness of pain in her heart. I That was the beginning. When he met. her again i two or three evening after, in the midst of a gauzy I dress, he only- saw the sweet, gentle face and ask- j ing eyes. Miss Winter's trained instinct took immediate i “You mean," ■ cognizance of the state of things. She could no : nothing for me. i more help bringing her gifts and graces to boar on such a case than she could help breathing. Joe Whitney found himself going the appointed i way—or rather other people saw him. He had but one thought: when he was in her presence to stay as long as possible, when lie was cut of it to get I back as soon as might be. i am not disposed to blame Miss Winter entirely. She did not half believe in man's sincerity. She I did not give him credit for having kept so much : heart at his disposal. Slie liked him genuinely, but ■ in such a fashion that the nearer became the more hopeless his case seemed. Not that he defined the position to himself; he felt the difference and all ; its intangible impossibilities. He was three years j older than she, had seen men and tilings and knew hooks, and she treated him a.s if he had been ten years younger. What could a man do? He chafocl i ed a ui fretted, and called himself names; haunted her the more assiduously, and found himself ad- ! mitted to an unconscious confidence which vexed ! his soul. All that transpired in four weeks. Miss Winter's share in the tragedy he had known i sank into some obscure place in his mind. If she chose she could explain it ail. She did not choose, and all the same lie knew she must have been guilt less. If Rollaston chose to kill himself for Iter -nke, it was no more than a good many other men might be willing to do—with proper provocation. As to the rest. he did not believe it. Women slandered wo- i men so. And so his infatuation went on, and in j the depth of his devotion he never dared hint at a i word of love. | One morning, rainy, gray and cold, when the season hung cheerlessly between autumn and win ter. Whitney put in his usual appearance. Miss Winter met him in the hall, and laughed at him as he got himself out of his dripping overcoat. An errand from Kate was the excuse this time. The errand took two minutes, but as Miss Winter had taken up ber sewing, he proceeded to cut the leaves of a new magazine. They were so comfortably secured from interrup tion that the hour slid round to two. He glanced up from his book. Miss Winter’s work lay in her lap. her eyes were fixed on something ten thousand miles away; her face looked pale and thin. Perhaps because the dress she wore. It was a deep, solid, unrelieved Joe said softly; and 1 red. Something aliout her struck a memory or an as sociation that shook him with positive pain. Miss Winter’s eyes came hack to the present. “Well?” she said, answering the troubled inter rogation in his face. ■ Were you ever at Torquay?" “No,” she replied quietly, with her eyes on his. " l met a lady there," he went on, looking away from her. “I saw her but once. She had your name. Slu- was dressed then just »s you are now. I have always thought it must have been you— until just now. You are so much alike, and yet there is a difference—” “You met my cousin, Gertrude Winter. She is abroad now.’’ He drew a long breath of relief. “I am very glad. I could m it bear to have you associated with that dreadful—" And here he stopped. ! “I know. You are thinking of Edward Rollas- I ton. I think the ghost of that terrible wickedness ! will haunt me as long as 1 live. My cousin and I were in the same house. The message was given ) me by mistake, and I was with him when he died. It was a cruel blunder. I think there has not been a month since that I have not in some way felt its i consequences." J The tired face looked so worn and almost kag- ■ gard now. All Joe's soft heart sprung up to his J lips, and uttered itself in a jumble of incoherences. When he got his breath, lie was conscious of dead j silence and half-frightened eyes looking at him I wistfully. I “I never thought of this. I have been selfish and careless. You will not believe me, but I am so ! sorry” lid he. unsteadily, “that you care 1 knew it before, and I was mad say th's to y< in. I didn’t mean to tell you: it told itself, I think. But, oh, Gertrude, I love you so—I love you so !" Her eyes brimmed over at that, and the tears having started a sob or two followed. That finished his discomfiture. He came and bent over her, swallowing hi- own emotion, and coaxing her as if she had been a child. “There, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to agitate you. trong pi >wn prophecy in regard to herself fcouet \ looKed on the affair I when Rlutnevcame back 1 ve'r. aft< '"rr i as s!k ‘ " as rather 1 'eiing ;l celebrated m’eturt wniilow. some one wl Lspereda I her singiilg. Ac ninM ; nnv ntilipr r very nearly settled tlessly sur- uspinyed m a shop •■^“■•n'ngover her other man wanted it. ' ta \ But for all that, or perhaps bca -a ' e of that, their relations toward each other puzzled the public. One day, when one of his infrequent daylight errands had brought him to the house, she was away driving with the golden West Indian, She came in flushed and bright, and exceedingly pretty. He explained his arrangement about the concert tickets he had brought, and then stood with his back to her, tapping against the window. “Gertrude, are you going to marry that man j he asked, suddenly. “Not liefore he asks me. Probably not then. " “That's good. He isn't the man." ! “Ah. well.” she said, with a little sigh, ‘‘he's as | good as the average. And I’m getting on in years, ' vou know," she added, after a pause. “Yes.” | “You musu’t come here so much. People will 1 gossip. And then—pardon me—you know all that ! was over so long ago that I may say it—some day ! this may stand in the way of some one for whom ; you might care:’’ said she, looking up at him half I timidly. j “Pm not alarmed. I've no doubt my time will ! come, as every one elsc's seems to. It hen it does I shall report to you the very first." I So the winter went and the summer after, and [ another winter came. These two kept the even tenor of their way. and people had nearly stopped talking for want of any thing new to say. Their relations had not altered by one single degree. " Whitney had found a pretty country blonde dur ing his summer, journey mgs, of whom he talked a good deal to Miss Winter, but as this was the sixth fate he had met in a year she did not feel that a crisis was imminent. Of Richard Thoresliy not one word had been said between them. Miss Winter had meanwhile learned from Mi's. Grey a little more of him than Whitney had told her. He had married a pretty, brainless flirt, who had flung herself at hie head, and they had gone abroad. The engagement had lieen cf the short est: of him Mrs. Grey knew nothing since his mar- thL^DonVcrylear ” ***** * “ ^ ‘‘If any weight of monotony oppressed her days Aiui the absurdity of the position striking Miss ^^^.^e^ceXdtiy fixed there is a kind She could rav nothing to him-she knew better ! of rest about it not wholly devoid of wnffnrt. than to try advice or comfort now. For once she j ti ^ ls h ^^Vh succ^ divinity he used to watch her eves and lips, hoping to catch some hintof what lav underneath. He knew that he never came very was sincerely sorry for the climax just attained. She meant sure, and perhaps at the bottom of it all was just a little shadow of tender belief in his love for her which made her trust him. “I'm going to tell you,” said she, putting her hand on his as he stood beside her. "ion'll think me cruel and weak. I'm afraid, but you had better know the truth. I’ve been ver> selfish—thinking only of myself all these weeks. I've been very un happy. Last summer I met a man whom—don t sneerat me—I loved. I thought he cared for me but—there was a mistake—he would not listen to near her life. Sweet and friendly, and entirely un constrained as she was, beyond a certain limit he never passed. „ One day—the day before Christnms—Miss VV mter was coming home, laden with Christmas packages. The railwav carriage was crowded, and she had no thought of recognizing a familiar face among the other passengers. Absorbed in a new book, she did not glance up tut he b*I no WM j» •». »'« •» : ''“iUESSiS v 1!"!!-"Ll l.irndfe (ell, the ale 7“ '“V? i "°£'S enough io fret me'rccause l can't worship him. , fallen ''U^'^s ’ir ^ssisted her from the carriage till You see I’m not very well worth loving, ’ she added, . she tui ned to thank hi looking up at him with a sad expression. “It was last August. The man was Richard Thoresby,” cried Joe. “Yes,” she said. He walked away from her and stood fora minute by the window, looking out on the dripping rain and falling leaves. There was a hard struggle going on. Joe jib” ney had never been afraid of consequences in his life, but he quaked now. “I think Thoresby did love you. W hen 1 ran down to see him to get him to join a fishing party, I saw you from the window, mistook you for your cousin, whom I had once met, and told him. ’ He waited fora minute with bent head, expect ing to be crushed with her next words. Bhe only said, wearily: Then she stood face to face with Richard Thors- bv. There was no time for talk in the little inter val before the train again moved on. As she turned away she saw him re-enter the car riage. She had seen him—that was all. There had been no words, no looks that told any- thiiig. When she reached home she sat down to think, and found no material for that process. She had promised to attend a Christinas party that night—a children’s party in the Whitney fami ly, and Joe was to attend her. She dressed early, and was in the unlighted parlor when he came. “I’ve something to tell you. young woman. Is the pulse steady?" he said, holding her wrist. Concluded on ^th page. •rSi