About The sunny South. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1875-1907 | View Entire Issue (April 2, 1887)
2 THE SHEET SOUTH, ATLANTA, GA., SATUWAT MORNING, APRIL 2, 1887. An LALLAH COURTLAND; OR, American Countess. By Author of T. K. SHARKEY, ‘Shadowed Hearts,'* “The Heritage of Sin,” “Out of the Depths,” “Viola,” Etc. CHAPTER III ‘He baa been bo long away,” murmured a woman in a tender wistful tone, as she looked otter the labyrinth of hill and dale and gleam- in The a ?cene that lay bef m her was inexpress ibly beautiful. Everything: around suggested SuK bhss. The hill-side was pink with wild sweet rose blooms, mingled with tali bnnchesof ferns. The birds were softly ca roling out their vespers from the clustering f olliage Behind her was a dejected lookin„ buildirg of greenish stone. The unattractive am e rce of the dwelling is atoned for by the large rambling garden that surrounds it on everv side and toe mass of vines spreading like a great green cloud from the roof to the ground. The very old ivy embracing the whole with its clinging caresses had years be fore given the homestead its name of V me Cottage.” „ . It was the nome or Marjory KayDi Here, she had been reared as completely shut away from the outside world as if she had ^iThere^oron'the outside of the old rambling garden, that she stood leaningagainst X”gate post watching and listening as she had for mar.v long weary evenings. The soft fragrant rose leaves fell fluttering down upon her from above and the slanting sunlight quivered on her dark hair and amongst the loose folds of her dress. Her small mobile features, the brown fath omless eyes, the rich curves of her sensitive mouth, all spoke of a true and ardent nature. A nature intense in its capabilities of loving ^Berideher’a cloak was spread on the daisied turf and upon it was seated a child about eight"or ten months old. One of its tiny hands grasped the shaggy coat of a huge dog lying meeklv at its feet, while the other Rand was lifted ^o catch a butterfly that flirted with his dusky curls. ... The merry baby voice mem wi'.n the swift waters touched the young mother s ear like music from afar. A wondrous joy steals into her face as she turns her eyes upon her dar ling laughing in the red glow of the sunset. ‘^Marjory, dear, are you not tired staudmg so lone in one place?’' “Not tired standing, aunt Debbie, turaing to greet the old lady who bad approached noiselessly. “Only very tired waiting. The sweet lips tremble and the sad eyes are aV “See the beautiful strawberries I have gath- erd ” said the aunt holding towards her a bas ket full of the lucious fauit. “Will you have some dear? There’s more than enough for “No thank you, not now,” she answered softly.’ “You have forgotten baby—see! he is holding his hands to you.” “l’oor little maul Auntie never forgets her pet ” She placed into the little outstretched hands some strawberries heaped on a kale- leaf. . .. . “How lovely your boy is growing, Marjo- ^“Yes,” looking fondly into the great lus trous baby eyes, “lie is growing so like Herbert,” her voice broke. “Oh, aunt Deb bie! why does he stay away? Will he never ionic again?” she sat down suddenly and bowed her face till it touched the fluffy curls •f her boy. , . ,, The old lady sighed and muttered inwardly: “Has she guessed the fatal tru:h I so long ago guessed? Has she at last been rudely awakened from her golden dreams? Does she suspect that the man, to whom she has bound herself body and soul, is faithless?” With angry dread the fond old aunt clutches her apron fiercely. She did not express aloud the hideous thoughts filling her own mind. What ever she might know or suspect of the fsfte of the poor girl she would not destroy the trust in the mother’s heart, would not lessen her faith in the husband who had not yet been proven to be disloyal. “He is a bonny boy, Marjory,” she said aloud, while laying her hand gently on the bowed head. “God grant he may prove a blessing to you when ” “When?” was the young mother’s startled interruption. “When you need a comforter.” “You are not hiding anything from me, aunt Debbie?” she asked, lifting a white frightened face to her, “You would not be so cruel.” The old maiden’s face was averted and she stifled a groan. “Speak! Oh, auntie—tell me—is he—dead? Have you heard from him? For the love of Heaven speak!” “No, no! I have not heard a word.” “Oh, me! It is cruel in him to leave me so long without a word—without a word—gotie! perhaps forever!” The words shivered from her lips like a wailing moan. It was the first time that words of doubt, of bitterness, had ever passed her lips. The first word of reproach that hud ever wrung from the gentleness of her nature. Abashed by their utterance she hid her face in her hands. “You have your child,” aunt Debbie ven tured to whisper. “You must be brave and patient for his sake ” “It is so hard to be brave, so hasd to be pa tient,” she sobbed. The words of comfort the sympathetic old lady wanted to utter seemed to die away in her throat. It was as one feels in the pres ence of death, and she only caressed silently the soft brown hair of that grief bowed head. For many months Marjory had been sadly depressed. Her loving, confiding nature had suffered in secret horrible suspicions which would, in spite of her loyal struggle against the doubts, oppress her with forebodings of evil. It seemed as if her soul had been taught some dark truth that had the power to crush out all ‘.he gladness of her young heart, leav ing it desolate save for the love burning there —tue love of which she was yet to learn the cost. “Do not stay out la'.e, dear,” said the old lady, leaving her alone with her child. A few minutes afterward Marjory raised her head listening eagerly to the echo of a footfall which, faint as it was, thrilled her with a new expectation. She stood up in the mingling shade and sunshine, her heart beating fast, her eyes brightly impatient for a glimpse of the one approaching. A form emerged from the thicket on the road-side. With a low cry of delight she started forward, then stopped suddenly with a scared look. It was a stranger, not the long-looked for husband. “Do you not know me, Marjory? Am I so changed that you cannot recognize your sailor oousin, Robert Lindsey?” “Rob! Rob! In it really you?’’ she exclaim ed, stepping back pale with fright. “Afraid of me, Marjory,” coming nearer to her. “Do you take me for a ghost?” She drew a long breath, eagerly scanning the sun bronzed face bent above her own. “We thought you were dead, lost at sea,” she gasped. “If it is really yon, living and well whjr did you let all these years pass with out making a sign to us that you had escaped from the wreck of your ship?” He kissed her aud with one arm still around her shoulder he said: “That is a long sad story. First, I want to hear something of my little cousin—my sweet heart of the old happy days. Y'et you did not rec illect your boy-lover.” “You had been away so long and I thought you were dead.” “Yes, five long years. I have lived another life since then. And, how has life been with you little one.” “Almost too happy to be reality,” she an swered bravely, yet her heart felt a sudden piereing pain. A ferocious frown darkened his weather browned face. Then he looked down into her upturned face with a hungry eagerness. “Day aud night,” he said, softly. “X have pictured this meeting to myself. You knew long before I went away that I loved you. Though a very child in nature you were bud ding into womanhood then aod" you promised that you would be my wife whenever I should come horns to claim you. In hours of darkest danger, of deepest despair it seemed as if I on ly lived because of my great love and the hope to me of coining home to claim my bride.” She drew herself away from him gentlv. saying: “Since then there has been a great change in my heart and in my life. I am married now, and my love and life belong to my bus band.” The low musical voice was clear with an un conscious dignity and womanly pride. An unutterable pain contracted his features. Her words recalled to him the story he had just heardjoutside of the villaga. In his great joy of seeing her again he had almo*t forgot ten it. His eyes flashed fire as he looked from her to the sleeping child lying on the grass at their feet. All the hideous meaning in it flood- ei his being and without pausing to consider the shock to her he yielded to the hot impulse, saying: “Foor little lassie! How basely yon have been wronged! Poor little innocent! How could you know about such villainy as a mock marriage?” Heedless of the white frightened face lifted with a wild entreaty he went on, mercilessly narrating what he had heard, telling it as a fact proven. His words poured forth without pause with an intense passion vibrating in them. At first a low breathless cry broke from her lips. Her eyes grew dry and bright, her face flushed with a hot wave of anger. Why could she not throw the He back into his face? It was so terrible to her to hear her husband slandered and not to have the power to defend him. But, as she listened a haunt ing, wondering dread possessed her. The fair delicate head dro iped forward and the tortured bosom heaved. The nameless, horrible doubt framed into words, into reality and rudely flung into her young life paralyzed her tongue. A great 6ob shook her frail figure. A numb ing terror seized her. She was powerless to utter one syllable in defense of her absent be loved. Her heart sunk desolate within her chilled breast. All the gladness of her youth was suddenly blighted. All the confiding trust died out from her nature and she was fUled with the pain, the fear of the mother and the woman. A sense of hopelessness, of blank de spair stole over her and like one from whom all power of sight had fled she gazed fixedly into Robert Lindsay’* face until he ceased speaking. A death like pallor then swept her cheeks and staggering, she fell into his arms. “My love! My poor darling!” he said, strain ing her to his heart, and his lips were laid on hers once, twice, thrice, in kisses of passion ate fervor. While she, having fainted in his arms was all unconscious of the impassioned caresses. A shadow fell across the bluo evening Ught. A tall slender form stood before them. For an instant paralysed with wrath the man stood motionless. Then, with one hand he wrenched Marjory away from the clinging arms, hurling her roughly aside while with the other hand he grasped Lindsay’s throat. Stunned by the suddenness of the attack Lindsay was taken completely off his guard and before he could recover his balance and presence of mind his head was dashed against a tree while both his assailant’s hands were clutching his neck stifling him. Marjory had been roughly aroused from her swoon. She crouched oa the grass at their feet gazing on, breathless and terror stricken. Her blood ran cold in her veins as she saw the reckless, relentless rage in the face of her husband. Frantic with despair she threw her self across his arm and bore down with all her weight while she slowly sunk on her knees. “Herbert!” Only the one word, his name, but in its ut terance there was a depth of passion, a depth of prayer that arrested his attention an instant. 1' or the first rime he looked down into her fair innocent face uplifted with its blanched terror and piteous pleading. Herbert smiled, a mocking malicious smile more deadly than the vilest curse ever framed by human lips. His soul was fired afresh with jealous frenzy. He turned his eyes from her to the creature so helpless in his iron grip and saw with a mad triumph the black veins swelling out on Lindsay’s throat, the convul sive writhing of his body and the gasping of the livid lips to pronounc6 the words that could not be uttered. “Spare him!” groaned Marjory. She tried to call out for help but only a faint moaning sound came from her blanched lips. Herbert released his grip on Lindsay’s throat and let him fall to the earth. Like a tiger he sprung upon the fallen body, and drawing from its concealed pocket a dagger, he finishes his deadly work with a butcher’s stroke, ripping the neck from ear to ear. Marjory uttered a cry of measureless horror. For a moment Herbert stood over her with the arm that had dealt that fatal blow half ex tended, and the dagger, reeking with blood, still in his hand. Shrinking with horror, Marjory stared at him. Her eyes fell beneath the merciless glare in his. The measureless agony, from the sight of her dead cousin’s face looking so horrible and ghastly beneath the tangled mass of dark hair, and above the wide gazing throat cloUed in blood, again aroused her. “Herbert! He is dead! You have killed him!” she panted, fixing her eyes wildly on his face; “God help me!” With one deep look into her anguished face Herbert’s arm faltered, trembled, and the dag ger dropped from his hand, falling on the grass between her and the bloody corpse. “Out of my way, woman ! Between us all bonds are severed now and forever!” Without another look towards her he plunged through the thicket and disappeared as suddenly as he had come. CHAPTER IV. “The thought I called a flower grow nettle, rough— The thoughts called b»fs stung me to festering: Oh! entertain (cried Reason as she woke) Your best and gladdest thoughts but long enough And they will all prove sad enough to sting.” —Browning. The month is June, the day the 10th. Lal- lah Courtland would remember it to the last day of her life. The summer sun blazed through the open window. The dew was still in the early morn ing air. An angry flush burned in Lallah’s cheeks— a troubled fro wn contracted her fair brow. She turns from the window to greet her fa ther with the customary morning kiss. T wo darkly blue eyes were raised to his face. In spite of her efforts she shows the in dignation she feels. “Is it true,” she said, “that you have dis missed your secretary?” The tall, fair haired man of less than fifty looks down into the blue eyes calmly aud an swers : “Yes.” The flush deepens in her face and the eyes look almost black in their flash of deep, bril liant blueness. “Why?” she asks. “It was my pleasure to do so.” She lifts one hand as she steps closer to him, and, laying it gently on his breast, re- peats: “Why? Tell me what has he done to anger you.” “My reasons for discharging my private sec retary are best known to myself alone. I do not choose to explain.” “You made a sad mistake. He was valu able to you, a proper escort and most safe and agreeable companion for me. You dt prive yourself and you deprive me of his services. How can I give up my r.des and boating? It is all we have to amuse us here.” The serenity of her manner was unbroken, hut her brilliant eyes darkened beneath the sweep of their long lashes. Insensibly to her self, she showed that she divined his reasons for diset arging her young friend, and that she resented it as unjust to herself. “Besides,” she continued, “it was unkind to him. perhaps cruel, since no doubt you sent him off in an abrupt way without the explana tion due bin.” The Impulse of indignant anger was, in a measure, checked by her great love for her fa ther. A haughty surprise glanced from his eyes as they searched her flushed face. “Words of reproof from you,” be said, “are a little unusual, a ad, allow me to say, are in very bad taste.” Her lips quivered at the rebuke. “A person in Mr. Raybumc’s position,” he added, “should not question a dismissal, was quite sufficient that I desired to make a change. It was not requisite that I should make excuses to my secretary for no longer desiring his services. I was not unkind to him. We did not part in anger. I offered to pay him the whole salary for the year, as he had calculated upon remaining with me twelve months or more, which he refused with the haughtiness of a Duke. He has been spoiled, and is, I fear, inclined to think too well of himself—to imagine himself our equal.’’ “Do you suppose that position takes away or gives nerves to wound?” she said a little bitterly, with a strange pang at her heart. He looked at her sternly, saying: “I am now more than ever convinced that I did wisely in this matter. My mistake was not to have sent him away long ago.” “I am not a sentimental damsel,” she said haughtily; “who has been teaching you to dis trust me?” She could no longer ignore the meaning in the sudden dismissal of the secretary. “Why have you net your habit on?” he asked, abruptly changing the subject. “I have ordered the horses to be brought out for a gallop with you.” I do not care to ride this morning,” she answered a trifle curtly. “As you like. I will ride alone.” Oiie hour afterwards Lallah saw a party of men bearing something like a litter, com in across the lawn. In alarm she ran to the entrance. “ W tat is it?” she faltered. “My father—’ “Is unhurt,” answered the gentleman in ad vance of the party. “But he had a narrow escape.” Upon the Utter there was the body of a man. “It is one who gave his life to save your father,” was the answer to her anxious inqui ries. In the meadow close by, Sir Richard had been attacked by an infuriated bull. The de spised young secretary who had been dis charged because he had dared to love the Bar onet’s daughter, sacrified himself to rescue the man who had humiliated him. Bravely he diverted the enraged be»st from the first vic tim to himself. He fought with the maddened creature, knowing it was death he faced. Help came. The beast was shot down; but it was too late to save the gallant defender. Lallah followed the body as they bore it to the nearest chamber. “Is he quite dead?” she asked in an awed whisper. He still lives.” It was a young clergyman who answered her in a hushed tone. Where is Sir Richard?” she asked bro kenly. He rode off at once to telegraph for a city surgeon.” My loyal KennAth,” she whispered softly, bending over him. With an aching, tightness at her heart she looked at the stricken strength, the powerless limbs, the bare chest gored and bruised and heaving painfully with each uneasy breath. “16 there no hope?” “I think not” “How long can he live?” “ A day and night perhaps; scartsely longer.” “Do you think consciousness will be re stored at all?” “If there is strength enough left for him to revive, he will be perfectly conscious. There seems to be no injury to the brain. “My noble Kenneth! My good friend. You have offered your life for my sake. Oh, what can I do for you? I would give the world for the power to make you comfortable, happy, for the few hours left to you.” His eyes opened. There was a vague appeal in them. Instantly his words of the day be fore flashed through her mind. “If the grds were to offer you to me for one day of wedded happiness, with my life the forfeit, I would say, ‘Give me the joy and let me die.’ ” Because of that great love for her he gave his life to save her father. His impassioned words were repeating themselves in her brain. A wild impulse to grant the prayer possessed her. How could she do it? Would he under stand? She thought not of herself. She would freely give herself to him now. Would there be time to give him such a reward? She would marry him this moment were it possi ble, if only he would Uve a few days with full consciousness to appreciate the gift. She cov ered her face, And deeply agitated she u£ad to think. The neighborhood doctor arrived. She was sent out of the room. During the brief half hour that ensued while the doctor was dressing Kenneth’s woulds and administering restoratives, Lallah decided upon the most serious event of her life. She sent for Mr. Dalton, the clergyman. “You offer to become his wife now? Incred ible!” said Mr. Dalton, after she had ex plained herself. He gazed into the lovely face before him doubting his own sense of hearing. She could not mean it! There was a singular light in her face as she answered: ‘I am in earnest and I want your help.” ‘You surely do not realize what you pro pose. He may live a day only. Or, he might ive for years, hut how? a cripple, a helpless sufferer always. I know that Kenneth loves you. He is my best frisnd. I have seen his struggle against the love consuming him. But you, in your youth and beauty, with your wealth and rank—Heavens! what-a sacrifice!’’ Did he count cost? In his strength and handsome manhood he gave me his love—a measureless love it has proved to be—I was pitiless then. Ah, all his homage to me would never have moved me to this, I think. But now, his brave surrender of life itself to save the one dearest in the world to me, merits more than I can give. There can be no sacri fice great enough to repay him. If he dies it will be for me. If life is spared to him it will be a stricken, broken, helpless wreck, with endless years of pain and weariness before him. I can be a comfort to h:m if he is doomed to live a sufferer.” But wait. I believe there will be no need of this sacrifice.” There will be need of this happiness to him if only for a day. He told me he would give his life to win me. It will be but a poor re turn for what he is suffering for my sake. You say he is conscious. The joy he has craved shall be his, be it for hours or for years. Nothing can alter my resolve. I will marry him now, at once.” “But your father. A message has just come. The excitement and fierce ride has un nerved him. He will not return home until after the rest of a day.” No matter. There is not time to wait for him. My father is noble, generous; he will understand.” Kenneth will refuse to accept the sacri fice.” With a smile of infinite pity, she said softly: “Do you think I will let him know that it is sacrifice.” “We have not time to waste in further dis cussion,” she added, “will you manage it all for us?” Yes. I am at your service. Command me.” “Let all be done as your law* require. That may be a legal marriage without the faintest flaw ( to be questioned hereafter. How long will it require to get all in read! ness. Within two hours I can secure a special license. At the expiration of that time I will return with full authority to perform the mar riage rite.” ‘Than hasten away that you may lose no time. In readiness I will await you at his bedside. Let no one know about it save the required witness.” Kenneth had recovered entire conciousness, but was racked with the agony of bis wounds. His dark dreamy eyes even in the blindness pain looked at her with an infinite love as she drew near his bed. She knelt beside him and whispered: ‘I will be your wife, Kenneth.” There was a faint cry of rapture and over the dark suffering eyes a great radiance ap peared. My darling. Y'ou mean it?” In the delirium of joy and the undoscribable pain torturing his body ho v could he think of as a sacrifice to her, as a reward for the life he had saved. He remembered nothing but that she looked into his eyes with a tender compassion, noth ing but the whispered words: “I will be your wife.” You love me?” he faltered. For an answer she kissed him softly. He forgot all pains and there was a wonder ful revival of vitality. Two hours afterward she bent her proud head over his couch and the marriage bene diction was spoken over them—and the light of unutterable joy burnt through the misty pain in his eyes. The marriage had been entirely private. Doctor Denwitfc, with the gentleman who had accompanied the deacon on his return with the license, were the enly witnesses. The shock to Lady Barrington, who could not endure the sight of blood, had brought or an attack of nervous illness. Hence, she was in ignorance of the important event transp r- ing in the house. Lallah did not consult her cousin because she knew the deadly opposition she would encounter in that quarter. She had firmly resolved to marry Kenneth, to give him the joy he craved while there was yet life in him. She determined to lose not amomett in con sultations with any one, or in waiting for her father’s return. She wanted to have it quick ly over ere there could be a scene about it. She was not sure of her father’s approval though he ewed his life to Kenneth, and he might agree with her that no sacrifice on their part could be too great to repay his brave pre server. Well, it was done. She was Kenneth’s wife. All opposition now would avail noth ing. During the night Lallah sat beside the bed watching her husband, whom the doctor pro nounced fatally wounded. His life was a question of a few JKs, perhaps ouly a few hours. Her excitem mtWjWsubsided in a measure, Kenneth slept JUKindlv. being under the influence of a powSrdl narcotic. In the quiet of the night she had time think. She questioned her own feelings—did she love him? No. It was all so new to her. Only the day before she knew of his love for herself. She had never suspected it before, hence had never thought of that kind of love between them. And yet her indignant anger with her father for dismissing him, and the sense of loss she had felt when she knew ' was gone, never to come back, never again be her loyal friend and good comrade—was because he was more to her than she had thought?—was this love? No. She did not believe she loved him in that way. But, she had given herself to him now. He was her husband. If God spared his life she would love him. How could she help it? Was he not all, save in point of wealth and title, that a woman could wish ? And yet as the long Still night drew to close her heart was sorely troubled. How would it end ? Had she been too rash? If he died she would have nothing but his name—a plain, unknown, plebian name, and she had been so pijud of their own grand old name and ancestry. In spite of the nobility o’soul which had prompted the sacrifice so haitily determined upon aud so hurriedly ex ecuted, she shuddered at the bare thought of the exchange ot names. Perhaps it would have been wiser had she waited at least until her father returned. Would she regret it? H Kenneth should live she would of course remain with him in this country, would share his humble home. She turned pale aL the thought of it. How different her life would be! Would she regret her grand old hom'in England? - She lowered het,ace upon his pillow and wept. “Forgive me, dear,” she murmured, “I owe it all to you. It is weakness to regret. It is cowardly to gneve over a sacrifice once made. Ah, Lallah! The time is coming when you will bitterly regret this night’s work. Could you foresee the days of anguish in store for you, you could realize how madly rash you had been. (to bb continued). RENUNCIATION. BY NIXY. A miniature painting of a woman whose life’s romance fills me with wonder, lies in my hand. I see a slender, graceful figure robed in black velvet, making the complexion like pearl. The sheer lace at her throat is fastened by a dia mond cross, and a band of jeweled pansies keep the ringlets of vivid gold in place. Fatally sweet eyes look up to me, and a face white and sad—a perfect poem, is lit by their dusky splendor. Olive—Olive Doone was her name, and the words fall like sweetest music as I dreamily review her life. I see the Rookery, an ante-bellum mansion half in ruins, awl set in the midst of' a grand forest grove, the abode of noisy rooks and crows, hence its name. The irregular- old-time flower garden is seen, where I “Crocus and byacXth, with rich inlay Broldered the ground, more colored than with ston* 01 costliest gem.” And looking within the open casement, a woman is seen kneeling at a death-bed. Twi light shadows steals through the drawn dra peries at the window, and deepen while the frail figure upon the bed is nearly enveloped in darkness. . Long the watcher prays kneeling, and once she raises her eyes, so soft, velvety, glowing to those of her dying sister—Reata Doone, while with nervous fingers she counts the beads of the rosary, and her lips tremble mutely. As Olive looks upon her young sister, so wan and shadowy, a little cry escapes her lips, for she was the c-iuse of it all. She remem bers now the time that Vivian Lyndith came to the Rookery, asking shelter from the raging storm, of her aunt Miriam. How he remained, falling ill with fever, and afterward continued through the bright sum mer months “to recuperate,” so he said, and sketch the lovely, fantastic scenery around the antiquated homestead. How she grew to love him with the passion and intensity so natural to those of Southern climes, and, as she thought, he returned that love. Hers had been such a lonely life with only aunt Miriam and Reata, who was almost a child, and a few aged darkey servants for companions. So when Vivian Lyndith, the artist, took up his abode in the family, she found a congenial friend in him, for both loved the higher arts, had a passion for music, aud their tastes re garding literature were the same. No wonder was it then that the two were thrown much together, while Reata—“Little Sunray,” as all called her, would search the woods for ferns and blossoms, or left to her self, sang the hours away, rivalling the feath ered songsters around her. For she was a child still, but her seventeen years lay heavily upon her at times when reminded of her hoy denish capers. For Olive “Love took up the glass of time and turned it in his glowing hands,” although she was not betrothed, Vivian never having avowed his feelings. Though she was sure of his love, as his looks and manner would at times indicate. One day when the sun was crossing the Western gates of gold and the night wind sang a lullaby to Nature from across the meadows, Olive left the house in quest of her sister. Down in a shaded lane she caught a glimpse of the airy figure, and listening, heard Reata’s joyc us, bird-like notes as she slowly neared a stile in company with Bess, Bonny and Blue bell, the mild-eyed Jerseys. Her sun bonnet is thrown back, exposing a fair, sunny face whose rounded cheeks were touched by black lashes, hiding from view the eyes of bonny blue. Her gingham apron is caught in the sun-kissed hands, and within lie fair trophies of her evening hunt, forest flow ers. The girl nears the meadow stile, and then some one who is watching, waiting, breaks in to that little song from Tennyson’s “Maud.” The manly voice grows tender with sup pressed emotion, singing: momiDg, and told her of their mutual affec tion and his intention of leading the little sweetheart near him to hymen’s altar, she wished them all happiness in a dull, dazed fashion. But the lovers were too much engrossed with one another to notice the troubled expres sion of Oli ze’s face. And after that, would she ever forget it? One beautiful June day when all nature seemed glad aud happy, she found herself in a wild portion of the estate. But Olive feared her own temptations, feelin ts, more than ev erything as she proceeded with lingering foot steps and bowed head the distance. Hearing a slight noise she looks up and sees Reata eyeing her with astonishment. “Jfd belle, I thought you were afraid to ven ture ary where alone,” laughed Reata and then continued, “you look ill, worn, what is the matter?” in an anxious tone. “Nothing, don’t ask such simple questions. But I am thirsty, do you know where we can get water? ’ exclaimed Olive with a forced laugh. “ Yes, not far from here is a lovely pool,” and taking the lines from Ben Johnson’s Sad Shepherd: “ ‘There lo the stocks of trees, white jays do dwell, Aud ?;>au-loiig elY-s t3a: d-ace £bcu*; a pod*, Wild each a little changeling m their arms’ Reata replied merrily. Satisfying her thirst, Olive sank upon the velvety bank in a thoughtful attitude, idly drawing her fingers through the water, and which seemed to drip diamonds. Then, with a sudden start, she asked: “Are you not very happy, dear? And when shall silver-tongued wedding-bells ring out your wedding morn?” “One question at a time, ma soeur, for you take away my breath with such momentous inquiries!” and the two converse for a long time, one with a face care-free as • the blue wilderness above, the other’s features that were a synonym for thought, gleaming lily- white with a desolate woe. And then they began the walk homeward. Through the intervening growth of tall, mat ted ferns, palmetto plant and swampy luxu riance, a precipitous rock over which a silvery cascade tumbled in merry confusion was found. Nearer they approach and ere long are standing upon the slippery edge of the abyss. Reata reached out lor a spray of fairy blossoms and then—Olive with a desperate, bitter sound on her lips, and one mighty ef fort flung the girl at her side down, down into the depths below. Homeward she sped with flying feet, the one last despairing wail of her unfortunate Reata still ringing in her ears. Weeks later, and Reata who had been found by a servant aud carried home, lies prostrated from the effects of her terrible fall; for days her life had been despaired of by the devoted Josier. [Texas Silting*.] Ttare lived a ebao whose only aim Was to be called a flyer; An empty-headed ass, bis n&ms Was, to be brief, Joiier. He once engaged a maid to conrt. And costly things e’d buvher; Which she pronounced “Delightful sport,” Which much upset Jo’s-3ire, For he declared it was a sin Such costly I bings to buy her; “I’ll not supply you with the tin;” Thereat arose Jo’s-ire. But useless ’twas to grow enraged When giits b e did deny her; Sbe cried: “No longer we’re engaged.” His name was then “Jo-sighei.” Day after day of love denied, He ambled sadly by her. Hi** speeches would the maid deride, For wealther Jos-eye her. At last one day he took Ms gun Aud cried, “Furewel , Marisr; Ah. bu!'’ he yeiled, “this ;i!e is done.” Fizz! bang! “O'* M': J**s-higber!” One Society He Had Forgotten. [Toronto Grip.] “John, I would like to invite in my friend, Mrs. Smaliey, this evening. Will you be able to be in?” “No, my dear, I must attend the meeting of the Ancient Order of Foresters to-night.” “Well, to-morrow evening?” I have the Ancient Order of United Work men, and you know ” “What about Wednesday evening?”’ • . , , , r . . - T .. .- , , , “Oh, the Odd Fellows meet that night, and watchers and Vivian Lyndith half crazed Th ; rsday 1 have a meeting of the Knights w,th rrrief s ««ms *r, old ™ *n ,h a „™d I Qf ^ Qn rriday ° the R oyal Tem _ with grief seems an old man so changed has he become these few weeks. And Olive, looking back upon them, thinks at times ’tis some hideous dream, for she would not kill her sister, her heart’s treasure. She had meant to tell Reata of her own love- dream, to mar the girl’s perfect happiness, but that was her only selfish thought, desire. Ah, no, she never intended harming her, but when they reached the precipice some mad impulse came over her, thinking of her own fruitless love that came back with empty hands, and somehow, before Olive was aware of her thoughts, she pushed Reata—and only knew the awful deed when that agonizing cry came back to her from below. And when they brought her in and she lay so still upon the cushions, Olive realized in dumb agony what she had done; but she pray ed forgiveness; would then leave them all, go out of their lives forever—those whose enjoy ment she clouded with her wretchedness. But Olive lingered with feverish anxiety by her sister, and this night as she lay dying as they thought, was left alone to watch away the hours in the death-chamber. She thinks of her past life which had been pure and spot less until that awful act was done, feeling that the love which she had given in vain was her soul, and she would play for his heart at all risks. Now her hopes were wan and ashen, and the last faint gleams of passion had died. The plars of Temperance; on Saturday there’s a special meeting of the Masonic lodge, and I couldn’t miss that, and then Sunday night— let me see—what is there on Sunday nigh:, my dear?” “The Grand and Ancient Order of Chris tian Fellowship.’ “Why, I had forgotten. Am I a member of that—let me see ” “But you have forgotten another society, John, of which you were once a member.” “What’s that?”j “Your wife’s.” A Boston Belle’s Qrief. [Oil City Buzzard. J Claude’s arm entwined her slender waist; Tbe zephyrs fanned her golden hair; She looked like sculptured marble chaste, Sublimely formed, etherlal, fair. Her little fairy band he pressed, And gazed into her bright blue eye; She nestled softly on his breast, Then dnoppad her head and heaved a sigh. “My precious Bells,” cried Clande, in grief, “Tell what this secret sadness means; “Sueak, aDgel! What can give relief ?” Sbe sweetly murmored, • Folk and beans.’ A Scrap of Conversation. The following conversation between a coun girl on the low cot stirs, and Olive hastily | cil of newsboys in Park Row, says the New glances in that direction. York Star, will give an idea of the American Reata’s eyes are fixed upon her with a con- foim of the English language as improved up scious look, and Olive Doone trembling, is at to date: “I told that ‘rooster’ to ‘hump him her side immediately. self.’” “Did he ‘acknowledge the corn?’ “Can I help you, darling?” she asks tender- “ ‘You bet.’ If he hadn’t I’d just put a ‘man ly, but a thin little hand steals out to her own, sard over his eye.’ ” “ ‘Hold your horses,’ and Olive bending low her head, listens to the ‘he’s on his muscle’ and could ‘lay you out.’ ' faint voioo. “.‘Not much.’ He s only a ‘toddy blossom’ “Am I dying, sister—and—where is Vivian? and ‘hangs up his landlord.’ ” “That’s ‘small feel so—tired, what—hurts my head so?” potatoes, and if I was his landlord I’d ‘sit “Oh, God sp*re my little “Sunrzy,’ ” Olive down on him.’ ” “That would be the “cor- gasped in half stifled moans, and with tears rect thing.’ You see he’s a ‘bad egg,’ and I’ll dampening her eyes she kissed the brow, lips ‘make it warm for him,’ ‘don’tyou forget and cheeks. But with forced calmness she it.’” “All right;‘let’s take a nip.’” “Have summoned Lyndith resting near by. you got ‘the necessary?’ ’’ “Well, ‘I should The spirit which had almost escaped its smile.’ Yes, I met an old chap who was‘dead beautiful casket was cal ed back, and when gone’ on piety, and I played ‘innocent’ and another morn was dawning, with a thin white | he come down with the ‘rhino.’ ” moon that fled down the sky, while spectral stars kept the' tryst, they knew she would live. As Reata grew better Olive’s spirit seemed bursting its bounds with thanksgiving, and grateful for the escape, she|Jremembered her holy vow pledged to Heaven. Once when the invalid lay reclining amid silken cushions, just where a rosy light bathed To choose mover, By your heart be led; To choose a husband, Better ask your head. “She Is coming—my life, my fate, Tbe red rose cries, ‘She Is near, she is nea- And the white rose weeps, ‘She is late;’ Tbe larkspur listens, ‘I hear, I heai And the illy whispers, ‘X wait-’ Sbe is coming, my own, my sweet— Were It ever so airy a tread My heart wonld hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed.” “Whose voice was that? Surely not Lyn- dith’s,” thought O.ive, as with strained senses she hears the song in that rich tenor so famil iar to her. But she starts from her retreat as she sees him, her heart’s idol, bound the low steps and with a passionate, yearning look in his, eyes, hold wide his arms; and then Reata, her child-sister, with a glad cry runs and is clasped within his embrace. “It could not be true, Vivian her Vivian loving the girl at his side,” thought poor Olive as she stood spell-bound, while anguish crept into her dilated eyes. But she listens, forget ting all else, and hears him woo her sister with his voice of low, tender music that thrilled her soul to pain. And they pas3 out of her sight, while the cattle, forgotten, slowly traverse the lane, their jingling bells making merry music. She never knew how she reached the house; but in the after-time the memory of a briar- torn dress, dishevelled hair and wild looks came back to her, as aunt Miriam had ques tioned with open curiosity. How the long summer days passed after that she had forgotten; but she showed no sign, to those around her, of her heart’s agony. So wheu Lyrdith came leading shy Reata one Fragment of the report of a San Francisco law case: _ | In the Hopkins case, Judge Finn said that he petite figure in soft radiance, Olive coming he would appoint Msses Hopkins adminis- o her knelt lowly at the girls feet. Heart- trator, and, estimating the unsettled residue hungry, disappointed she attempted “little | 0 f the estate at $6,500,000, would require a bond of $13,000,000 General Barnes: “That will need $26,000,- 000,000 in securities behind it.” The Judge: “Yes.” General Barnes: “All right: I’ll bring it up in the morning. I haven’t got the change with me, or I’d fix it up now.” “Edward,” said a mother to her son, a boy of eight, who was trundling a hoop in the front yard, “Edward, you musn’t go out of that gate into the street.’’ “No, ma, I won’t,” was the reply. A few minutes afterward bis mother saw him in the street manufacturing dirt pies. “Didn’t 1 tell you,” she said angrily, “not to go through the gate?” 'Well, I didn’t, mother,” was the reply; “I climbed over the fence.” Sunray’s” life, and yet the sin was forgiven amid tears and kisses. ****** Four years have passed away, and looking I see the Convent of Santa Maria. Within, the sunset’s dying radiance falls on chancel gloom and sculptured shrine; the niched saints and pictured walls are wrapped in glory, while sweet-tongued vesper-bells ring oit the closing hours. “Low at our Lady’s spotless feet A white-stoled woman kneels in prayer— The ‘Dens Meus’ murmurs sweet— The ‘glorias’ throb on perfumed air; Before the glimmering altar-rail She breathes her ‘Aves’ soft and low— The golden hair beneath her vail Wreathed like a glory on her brow.” I look once again, and see the silver stars of Twilight fall, the moonbeams tremulous hand is laid on carven saint and pictured wall. Without, a woman stands who has vowed her life away as an expiation. Above her head the swallows circle to their nests, and at her feet the yellow-jessamine swings its golden censer filling the air with perfumed odors as from the shores of Araby. Olive Doone of the past, Sister Cecilia of the present, keeps her vows, but forgetting is impossible to her mind. An ingenious little instrument called the “hyalolyphotype,” or (more sensibly) hot pen, has been invented, by means of which draw ings can be made on glass or glassy substan ces with a waxy composition, which is solid and somewhat hard at ordinary temperatures. The pen can be heated by gas or electricity, and when heated the waxy material flows ea sily from it, setting so quickly on the glass that cross patching can be done more rapidly than with ordinary pen and ink, without risk of blocking up the angles. Corrections can be made with a penknife. After the drawing has been made, the plate is etched by fluoric acid, , h a young man of brains? >* inquired and when complete it can be either electro- an Q , d t f em J reepecting a swell youth, typed, stereotyped, used directly, or applied “Well, really,” replied his daughter, “I to any purpose for which engraved surfaces | haye ^ nQ 0 ^ ortnn P ity o{ judging S ! never ‘You know, my dear, I have often said that, like the rest of the human kind, I am only a poor, weak sinner,” said Mr. Jones as he was trying to excuse himself to his wife. “Yes,” replied she, “you have so. And I never saw anybody in my life- so anxious to prove the truth of his statement as you seem to be.” The Boston Transcript asserts that “The Spaniards have a religious reverence for the banana, believing it to he the fruit of which Adam partook. In our own land we have seen many men prostrate themselves before it.” It is not an unusual thing to hear our citizens swear by it. Oh, softly the lover did lute on his lute ’Neath the pale, gentle light of the moon; But he swiftly turned and began to scoot When he noticed the dangerous, large-sized hoot Of the man who came too soon. fnfmnFnr ijjJiiUiui, A FATAL MISTAKE. " Thr Cleveland (Ohio) Press, of February 23d, 1883, pub lished an account of a fatal surgical operation which caused a great commotion among med ical men throughout the whole country, Dr. Thayer, the most eminent surgeon in Cleveland, pronouncing it scandalous. It appears that a Mrs. Xing had been suffering for many years from some disease of tin- stom ach, which had resisted the treatment of all the physicians in attendance. The disease commenced with a slight de rangement of the digestion, with a poor appetite, followed by a peculiar indescribable dis tress in the stomach, a feeling that has been described as a faint “all gone” sensation, a sticky slime collecting about the teeth, causing a disagree able taste. This sensation was not removed by food, but, on the contrary, it was increased. After a while the hands and feet became cold and sticky— a cold perspiration. There was a constant tired and lan guid feeling. Then folio wed a dreadful nervousness, with gloomy forebodings. Finally the patient was unable to re tain any food ‘whatever, and there was constant pain in the abdomen. All prescribed rem edies failing to give relief, a consultation was held, when it was decided that the patient had a cancer in the stomach, and in order to save the patient’s life an operation was justifi able. Accordingly, on the 22d of Febraary, 1883, the opera tion was performed by Dr. Vance in the presence of Dr. Tuckerman, Dr. Perrier, Dr. Arms, Dr. Gordon, Dr. Capner, and Dr. Halliwell of the Police Board. The operation consist ed in laying open the cavity of the abdomen and exposing the stomach and bowels. When this had been done an examin ation of the organs was made, but to the horror and dismay of the doctors there was no cancer to be found. The pa tient did not have a cancer. When too late the medical men discovered that they had made a terrible mistake; but they sewed the parts together and dressed the wound that they had made, but the poor woman sank from exhaustion and died in a few hours. How sad it must be for the husband of this poor woman to know that his wife died from the effects of a surgical operation that ought never to have been perfoimetL If this woman had taken the proper remedy for Dyspepsia and Nervous Prostration (for this was what the disease really was), she Avould have been liv ing to-day. Shaker Extract of Boots, or Seioel’s Curative Syrup, a remedy made ex pressly for Dyspepsia or Indi gestion, has restored many such cases to perfect health after all other kinds of treatment have failed. The evidence of its ellicacy in curing this class of cases is too voluminous to be published here; but those who read the published evidence in favor of this dyspeptic remedy do not question its convincing nature, and the article has an extensive sale. are required. Blackville, S. C. Editor Sunny South : We have been vis ited by quite a destructive fire, and nearly all tbe business portion of our thriving little town laid in ashes. I was burnt out, and, unfortu nately, had no insurance, bu: will be on my feet again soon. As to Blackville, she will rise from the ashes of this great disaster stronger and more beau tiful and prosperous than ever. L. S. Blackville, S. C., March 28, 1887. met him anywhere else except in society.” “Can February March?” asked the punster, with a sickly smile. “Perhaps not,” replied the quiet man, “but April May.” There is a paper published in Florida called the Kissimmee Leader It should be a won derfully sweet society paper. 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