About The sunny South. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1875-1907 | View Entire Issue (Aug. 20, 1887)
2 THE SUNNY SOUTH. ATLANTA., GA., SATURDAY MORNING, AUGUST 20, 1887 [from T11E AT THOR S ADVANCE FSI1EETS— SECURED EXPRESSLY FOR TI1E “SUNNY SOUTH.”] TK E 'DU CHESS. By the Author of “Phyllis,” “Molly Bawn,” “Mrs. Geof frey,” “Lady Branksmere,” Etc., Etc. ‘He is coming "iie whispers, with fine CHAPTER I. “I xcept wind stands as never it stood It is an ill wind turns none to good. “But who is it, dad?" asks she leaning her elbows on the breakfast table, and smiling at him over the teapot. “Who is the «ntw of that voluminous letter? As a rule they don t take so much ink to ask for their just luies. “Who should it be but your own first cons- in, my dear, Denis Delaney , my only brother a onlv L, ai d the head of all the family., “B ess me! What titles to honor! says the eirl with a soft, low laugh. And wbat mav'our distinguished relative have to say for jgvirua;sms In his turn he leans towards her from h» seat at the foot of the table, and as the latter is small their faces nearly meet, here to slay some days, he v im .?wtc “to stay some Oh, nonsense! Given** the letter," sajs Miss Delaney, rising with much characteristic force from her seat, but h. r father waves her back , t “Now can't you be patient, my dear, t au t you now! You know if you Hurry me Duch ess. I’ll never be able to explain. Wait till I read it to you. Wli-re is it now?”-glancing ^mn at the letter he holds, with its big cnm- ^ crest and its bold handsome handwriting. ..II.ml hall! ‘To see you after all these years. ■Make acquaintance with you and my cousin. Hah! ‘din on my way here. Norah. says the Squire, laying down the letter and regard ing hm daughter with a tragic air, “that means that he'll he here in about two hours. “Two hours! Oh, dad, no!" says the Duch ess, lifting her lovely face and eaniii; at her father w-iin undisguised dismay. AU the ad mirable spirit that had dtsttngnmhed he a moment since is gone, and abject fear has ^ e We!f, P my dear, that’s just how I feel" say8 Mr. Delaney, with open sympathy. I keep on saying it, but here I’m convinced he s coming all the same,” with a rather depressed glance round the large, poorly furnished, com fortless room, “lie says he’s on Ins way, and I have no doubt he’ll finish his journey. And why shouldn’t he, too'" with quite a startling change of front and a reproachful glance at his daughter. “Who should be welcome here, 1 d like to know, it it wasn’t our own h»th ami kin? Till! I’m astonished at you now, Duch ess, to be so inhospitable—and your own lirst cousin, too, my dear.” , , _ , “Is he very rich, dad?” asks the Duchess, m a rather forlorn tone, though she has shown no surpr se at all at the sharp alteration of his sentiments. Perhaps she is used to it. “As Cm-mb!” with all the noble air of one determined to face the worst whatever the consequences. “My poor brother, The Dela ney (a proud title, Norah, as good as any juke’s)-well, never mind; but my poor broth er (as fine a man, my dear, as ever stepped in shoe leather, though I dare say it isn’t modest of me to say so, considering, ahem! w’e ^were much like), however, as I was saying “I wonder you never told me all this be fore.” “Well, my dear, he died a great many years a^o, more than you can remember, and ’tis hard to talk to the young of those who are past and gone; but before be died he married an English girl with a pot of money and jewels without number.” (‘.Toils’ Pm afraid the dear old Squire call'd those precious gems.) “Poor Terence, your uncle, had a very hand some property of his own, and he had’nt been married 10 madam three years when she fell m for two larg« fortunes, left her by some kins folk in her own country, over the water. And all this has come already, or at least will come, to Denis.” “It wiil oe dreadful!" says the girl, looking round the.room in her turn; her voice is low and melancholy. “Is he young?" Bhe asks presently. . “About twenty-seven, Ihhould say, though V- not much at a guess. I He was very young -~ltyi Vkhen niv poor tcol*’"- died; quite a i&tSeeo, for Ihematters ttaV^LYhe Squire, thought vjlv, bent, as it were, on wrestling with the tli and foil ing it to the front at all hazards, B was ..id of them when that unhappy event gppened, as Terence died at midnight, so the jbild must have been in bed.” “What is his mother like? asks the Duch- ess still melancholy. “Very handsome she was then, and very charming. Hong tong, you know, and all that; and a good soul, too,” says the Squire, relaps ing into a less fashionable manner. ‘hor she nearly hr, ke her heart when Tererce died_ She look the boy away then. Carried him off to England and had him educated there, and in fact has kept him there ever since, except on such occasions as he lias gone abroad.” “Has he gone much?" asks Norah, timidly— already she is desperately afraid of this half English cousin. “1 believe so. 1 hear he has seen a great deal of the world in his lime. The last we heard of him he was in l’ekin. You remember that now, don’t you, Norah?” “I don’t. 1 don’t believe I ever gave him a thou"'it ’’ says Norah, cetulantly. “Hut I ex- DectE.f have to give him several now,” with a little pout. “Dad,” anxiously, “how long do you think he will stay? _ “Let’s see." says the Squire. Once again he adjusts his spectacles upon bis rather pro nounced nose, and takes up the bombshell that politeness calls a letter. “All! here it is:—’1 hope to stav a day or two.’ Now Duchess, don’t you be taken by that,” says the Squire, looking at her knowingly over the sluet he holds. ‘ He’ll stay a week to a moral!” “I shouldn’t be surprised at anything lied do” disgustedly. “It’s as good to say a month when you’re about it. But no!" with a sudden pang of remembrance, “a day in our mevgne wil , I dare say, more than suffice him.” “Nonsense, now, Norah; your cousin isn’t that sort, I should hope," says the Squire. “But, indeed, I agree with you, I’m afraid he'll find it—cr—a bit rough.'i, “He’ll hate it,” says Norah. “I wouldn't care if I was sure of the dinner,” gays the Squire nervously. ' But what the ieuce will we do if that buicher of ours doesn’t give us meat fit to eat? His mutton, I allow you, is all very well, but his beef,” says the Squire, with profound dejection, “his beef is the very ’’ “Quite so; I entirely agree with you, says Norah, with admirable promptitude. “But never mind,” conscious pride in her tine. “I have fowl in the yard as fat as fat can be; and as to the beef, 1 think I’ll go to Mickey myself and tell him it’s a matter of life and death, and that he must give it us good for once in bis life.” . . . . , “Do!” with enthusiastic belief m her plan. “There’s nothing like a woman’s tongue for bringing a man to reason, and as for yours I know by experience that you could ” “Ob! daddy, now! come! Am I such a shrew?” “Coax the birds off the bushes, my dear, I was going to say Da! ha! I had you there,” laughs the Squire. . “Turncoat 1" says she, shrugging her pretty shoulders at him. “ Well don’t get into mis chief whilst I’m away, for I’m off to the village this instant to secure a loin of mutton and warn him about the beef.’ “Isav Norah. I say, Duchess, darling, don t „„ off a t a tangent like that,” says the Squire, mak n" an ineffectual grab at her gown as she passesliim on her way to the door. “I've a !- r e ,t deal to say to you yet. This young man will he expecting things grander no doutr, w<* can have them. We can t help that, of course- but I’d—I’d like him to see us as well as we can be, eh?” He colors a little as he says this, and glances depreciatingly at lus d».i<rhler “Flowers, new,” diffidently, “tiow- , S.i a dinner table give it quite a little air „ A d t here’s some of the old silver locked isn’t there, in the oak chest? And if you ■ a while gown, sweetheart, just put it on for dinner, won’t you, now? 1 wouldn t him think we didn’t know about things, though we can’t have them, eh?” US 1 so!” says Norali, taking fire at once ,e brilliant scene he has just conjured I'm quite clever at arranging flowers, 1 *ive the old silver a rub myself this af- wiiile you take him out for a walk, a long one. daddy. And—you think mutton best, don’t you? A leg sits h and there’s so much of it, and, of with a sigh, “he’s dainty; and—and iuk—but no,” despondently, l-l I am much of a hand at soito. 1 excellent, my dear not Hem, father (may Heaven forgive him). “But I don’t think we’ll mind the soap. Just a loin and a pudding. That was a glorious pudding you gave us last Sunday 1” “Custard? Very good. And I can make him* jam roll for the next day—and for the day after that Oh! but I hope he’ll go away the day after that. That is, of course,” mind- fnl of her hospitality, “if he wants to. He’s (hopefully) sure to want to.” “I trust,” says the Squire anxiously, “that Bridget won’t be drunk.” "Certainly that habit of hers is a great draw back. At all events, if she does have one of her attacks I hope it won’t be a noisy one. Last time—you remember, dad?—she was so abusive that Mary went into hysterics on the kitchen stairs and said she couldn’t attend table.” “Yes, yes; Mary’s a very poor creature,” says the Squire, with the utmost gentleness. His manner is abstracted. It is plain bis fer tile brain ia running on aome other matter far remote from Mary. “Now, where the dickena are they, I wonder?” he says at last. “What, dear?" asks the Duchess, at once in terested. “The waistcoat I can lay my band on at once, because I wore it the last time Lord Kilgarriff called, not being able just then to find my Sun day one, and I know the coat ia hanging up be hind my door; but where on earth are the trousers?" “Is it your evening suit you are thinking of? Do you mean to say you are going to dress for dinner every day ?” She is so overcome by the magnitude of this thought that she sinks into the nearest chair. “< if course,” says the Squire, with great dig nity. “D’ye think I’d let him believe we wern’t up to bo much? Tut, Norah, you haven’t a spark of genius.” “You’ll be miserable,” declares she, eyeing him with deep commiseration, “they are so dreadfully light.” “l’ride feels no pain," courageously. “And if I suffer it will he in a good cause And mind you, Duchess, dinner not a minute before seven.” “Seven! Why, Bridget will be hopeless by that t me, and Mary will think it is supper." “It can’t be helped,” says the Squire, draw ing himself up with quite a superb air. “It is absolutely necessary that wo should hold up our heads now, and let him see that we, too, are conversant with the niceties of fashionable life 1” This last is too much for the Duchess. Crushed by it, she walks with a depressed air to the door and beats a hasty retreat. CHAPTER II. “A proper man as one shall see in a summer's day ’’ Her interview with the butcher must have been stormy and prolonged, because she is late for the important arrival of the head of all the Delaneys. That young man, entirely ignorant of the sensation his coming has provoked, drives up to the door about half-past eleven to be welcomed by the Squire solus. The Squire! Who had been fussing and fuming all the morning, and leading the hyster ical Mary a horrible life; insisting on the threadbare carpets being brushed over and over again, marching in upon them with muddy boots to enforce this command, and deaf to Mary’s whimper that much more brushing will leave nothing but the floor beneath. It is in deed a reprieve to the long-suffering maid when wheels are heard crunching upon the gravel outside; and the Squire, forgetful now of all but the approaching guest, rushes forth to greet him. The guest seems very willing to be greeted. He springs off the outside car and comes quick ly up to this unknown uncle, a pleasant smile upon his face. As for the Squire, after the first glance all is forgotten—the meagreness of his household, the fear of discomfort for the stranger; there is only left the desire to make heartily at home this young man who is so like the dead brother, and who is so tall, so aristo cratic in bearing, so well set up, and so—which always comes first to an Irish eye—handsome. “My dear boy, I’m delighted to see you. 'Tis new life to me. Well, well, but mother’s patient despair over the entertain- poor Meredith was shot—the last agent but ment of such a guest, and <>[ Katherine’s cui- two, you remember—I have had ro peace.” turenijuarg j^iijl e^ucatid lifting of tiie ljrows. i “I remember, as though it were but yester- gigfi She ’ fie saps, politely, stilling Striking across the fields and gutting beyond the trees, a larger view is given to the eyes. The stretching plains, now ripening to their death; the yellowing corn, the waring barley falling wave on wave; the cloud-flecked sky; and beyond all, the silent glittering ocean on which the sun god’s hottest raya are falling; all blend together to form a scene the beauty of which enters into the very soul of the new comer. He is indeed somewhat lost in contemplation of.it, when the wild barkings of a whole ken nel, as it seems to him, breaks in upon his tranquil reverie. Barkings they are of the most agonized description, snggestive of a de sire for suicide on the parts of the performers. “By Jove! the dogs. I’ve forgotten them, and they’ve found ont I’ve started,” says the Squire, conscience-litriiken. Then a smile ir radiates his jovial countenance. “Aren't they clever?” says he, with a sort ot possessive ad miration. “The deuce wouldn’t be np to them! My dear boy, if you’ll go on I’ll go back, and I’ll catch you up in no time. But perhaps they’ll be reasonable. Sh! Here the bowlings break forth again with re newed vigor, and the Squire with a reuiorseful face gives in. “You see! I mnst go back for them—the creatures!” he says distractedly. “And if you’ll just walk straight on up that hill before yon, you’ll find as fine a view as ever you saw in your life: and I’ll be after you before you can say Jack Robinson.” Away he sails, coat tails flying behind him, as light and active as any schoolboy, in spite of his fifty years; and Denis, with an amused smile, continues bis walk alone. He is half way up the bill pointed out to him, gaziDg idly from aide to Bide at the clumpa of golden furze that deck the hill in isolated patches here and there, when something on the top of a high stone wall that stands on bis left catches and keeps his eye. It is a little slender brown hand! CHARTER Ilf. “Is she not passing fail?” lie has scarcely time to wonder at that be fore a face follows it! Such a facel And then there is a swift pressure ot the hands on the stone wall, and with a movement full of youth and strength and grace a slight figure springs into the sunlight and runs eagerly up and down the top of the wall, as if in nervour haste, and anxious to find some easy spot from which to jump to Mother Earth beneath. A slender childish figure, gowned in a simple cotton frock that beyond all question has seen the washtub many a time and oil; hut yet a gown that is fresh and crisp, and cannot, in spite of'he eccentricities of the village dress maker, altogether hide the grace of the form it covers. Just as little can the rough coun try-made shoes conceal the beauty of the small, high arched, patrician foot it holds. To Delaney this latter knowledge comes far ther on. Just now he is blind to all save her face. Were ever eyes so clear, so grey, so deep? With what a delicate touch the purple shadows (those alluring supplements to all true Irish eyes) lie beneath them! How long the curling lashes grow! The rippling chestnut hair, show ing beneath the huge poke-bonnet, hardly hides the wide, low, capable brow, or the pretty cheeks flushed 1 ke the wild rose. But above and beyond all, the exqmsite sweetness of her mouth reigns queen; so rianle, tender, loving, all in one; so arch too, and so soft, and red as roses in fair June. All this picture is caught as it were, in a breath; the breathing time it has taken her to decide on where she shall jump. Now she bends forward at a rather impossible place, it seems to Denis, who has had very little to do with any except town-bred girls, and pauses as if about to spring. A sharp explanation breaks from him. “Don’t attempt ill It is far higher than it looks!” She starts violently. His voice coming sud denly from nowhere, as it seems to her, has nearly the effect of making her lose her bal ance. Turning her head quickly in his direc tion she meets his eyes, and stares at him for a full minute as if fascinated. Who is he? and what has brought him here? For thet.me she has expected cousin, but even as she looks at him she remembers. Slowly, very elowly, a rich crimson blush rises and dyes her cheeks. Is this tall, hand some, kindly young man the cousin she has so lreaded? Impulsively she bends towards him, iisnewine tome, well, well, but you re (.dreaded? Impulsively sbe bends towards like vour prfcr father. My dear fellow, 'twas fa smile quivering:on her lovely lips, i very good ot you to think of coming to see an V “You are 1 lanes,she says, iti a voice old man like me. His own handsome old head is well thrown up, and he smiles an almost tender welcome on hss nephew, who, though a good six feet, is yet half ail inch below him in height. “Come in, come in,” says he; “and as for you, I.arry Finn,” addressing the driver of the outsider, who is well known to him, as indeed is every soul in the county, “go round to the kilclien and wait for your dinner. My dear Denis,” leading the way up the stone steps and into the large, bare, comfortless apartment called by courtesy the drawing-room at Bally- hinch, “what years have rolled bv since last I saw you. A little fellow you were then, but not so unlike either. And how is madam? How’s your mother?” “Quite well, thank you. She sent the very kindest remenbraiices to you and uiy cousin; and desired me say she hopes now we have agreed to slay in Ireland for some time that we shall no longer continue strangers to each other.” “She was always charming,” says the Squire, with a rather old-fashioned but very admirable air. “And you?” laying his hands upon the younger man's shoulders and surveying him with affectionate scrutiny. “How old are now, eh? 1 should know, I suppose, but, faith, things slip me. Twenty-seven, eh!” “Not so bad a guess, and a Haltering one in to the bargain, as I happen to be twenty-eight. At that age one begins to wish a year off rather than a year on.” “Tut! What’s twenty-debt? When I was that age I called myself a boy—and the broth of a boy, too,” says the Squire, with his jolly laugh, than which there was nothiog more mu sical in the next four parishes. “But you must be thoroughly done, my dear boy, and hungry, too, of course. If”—looking rather helplessly round him— “if one only knew where the Duchess—er—Noddlekins—that is—Norah, your cousin, I mean,” floundering hopelessly over the many loving sobriquets belonging to his darling, “was, we might—” “Nothing for me,” says Denis, quickly. “Nothing at all, thank you. I slept in Cork and breakfasted there, about an hour ago, as it seems to me. It is really nothing of a jour ney here from there. 1 feel as fresh as a daisy and as fit as a fiddle. A walk to stretch my legs I should like after the train work, that is if you are thinking of going out.” “Weil, I generally do take a look round me about this hour to see that the men are keeping up to their work,” says the Squire, hazily. “Desperate lazy fellows most of ihem; and if you would really like to join me—but positive ly you must have some;hing firsl; a brandy and soda, now—” ‘ No, thank you,” says Denis, laughing and tucking his arm into his uncle’s and leading him toward the open window through which it is but a simple thing o drop on to the grass below. At this moment it is borne in upon him that it is a possible thing to feel very inti mate with the Squire in the space of five min utes or so. Outside there is a blaze of yellow sunshine, and the wild sweet singing of innumerable birds. A meadow with long grass, still s .and- ing—because of the heavy rains that had del uged the earth in the early summer—although it is now mid July, is making gentle obeisance to the soft wind that rushes over it. The short grass on which they are walking widens presently into a garden rather lower d >wn, protected on one side by a high beech hedge. Not an everyday garden, trim and ribbon-bordered, but a gay, delicious mass of all flowers, old and new, jumbled up together in a delicate confusion—one harmonious whole —thus forming “a very wilderness of sweets.” “What an exquisite hit,” says Denis, stand ing still and honestly admiring, “You have a gardener with a fine sense of taste.” The Squire laughs aloud. “Say that to the Duchess," cries he, “and you’ll make her your friend for life. Gardener, ttere is none; all you see there is her own work. No hand but hers sows or reaps in that little garden. I tell her the flowers must know and love her, or they would not bloom so; that she mnst breathe some cunning spell upon them to make them flourish as they do.” “What! Does she do it all herself?” “Every scrap,” says the Squire, with loving pride. “A muscular voung woman with a ven geance,” thinks Delaney, and pictures to him self with a shudder the tall largely-boned girl with (in all probability) fiery locks, with whom he will have to claim cousinship presently. With many fears, too, he calls to mind the er rand on which he bag been sent by his mother, to capture and bring back it».her fpr.afilongH visit this young Amazon. He thinks of his very clear, very low, perhaps a little plaintive; at all events whatever it is, it is a voice that suits her. “A creditable inspiration,” laughing and looking up at her to where she stands on her very superior ground. He has lifted his hat, and it occurs to her even at this immature stage that he is, if possible, better to look at without, than with it. “I knew it,” says she, shyly, if triumphant ly. “I saw it at once. You—you are like dad —only so very different.’ This lucid description she delivers with a ebarmirg smile. “You didn’t know me, though," she goes on, nodding her head reproachfully at him. “1 am ” “Her grace of Ballybinch!” interposed he. “You wronged me! Am I so lacking in intel ligence that I could not see that at a glance!” “But how—/low?” eagerly. “Of course there are many reasons why I should guess at you successfully. The fact that you were ex pected; that there isn’t a young man in the country except the doctor’s apprentice and the organist; and your likeness to dad. But how did you know me?” “Am I a mere mole, then, that I should be blind to the natural dignity that distinguishes you? Are duchesses so numerous that one need ’’ “Oh, nonsense!” interrupts she, with a little indignant side glance. ‘ If you won’t tell “Well, I expect I Knew you because you first knew me,” confesses he, smiling. “All! Was that it! I’m sorry now I spoke,’’ says she mischievously, her lovely eyes full of an innocent coquetry. "I could have led you such a dance!” She seems to pine over this lost opportunity. “You couldn’t have led it up there,” says he. “There isn’t room.” “That reminds me!” growing earnest again, “Dad must be wondering where I am. There, stand out of my way until I jump.” “I'ray don’t try to take that wall,” entreats he, anxiously. “Let me help you. Come ’’ going nearer and resting one foot on a projecting stone that lifts him closer to her. "Trust yourself to me ami I will take you down.” “Am I china that I should break?” making him a little moue. “Well, if you will," shrug ging her shoulders. “Let me place my hands upon your arms, so, and that will perhaps save me from a sudden and terrible death. Now, are you ready ?” The charming eyes are smiling with a mock- ing gaity into his without the smallest touch of embarrassment, although the two frees are very close together; and then there is the light est pressure p rsaible on his arms, and the next moment she is beside him on the soft turf. “No bones broken after all,” she says, sau cily glancing at him from under the big bonnet. Then all at once, as though suddenly r. collect ing something, she grows grave and extends to him her hand. “Welcome!” she says, sweetly; and again very impressively, “do you know that I am very, very glad you have come.” ‘Thank you,” pleasantly, though indeed he is a little surprised at her earnestness. ‘ That is the very kindest thing you could say to me. I have been so afraid I should bore you, or ” “Oh, no!” “I)o you mean,” says he, still puzzled by her manner, which has something behind it, “that you, yourself, are glad of my coming?” “More than I can say,” promptly, aud with quite a serious smile at him. This exceeding frankness almost overpowers him. Does she mean ii? Is she really so en raptured as her words imply at having him hen ? This charming, pretty, fasciuatiug child, who “For dad's sake,” says she, softly, knocking all bis fine sentiment to pieces in an instant, “lie has always been so longing to see again some of h s own people, and y ou especially, the only son of his only brother.” She is si lent awhile, and then looking at him iutently. “What brought you?” she asked, gently. “A longing to see him, I suppose,” returns he, smiling “I should have come before, but as you doubtless know, ever since my father’s death my mother and I have lived in England; and of late years I have traveled a good deal. Three months ago, however, hearing that af fairs in Ireland were going with a steady briskness to the bad, I threw up my intention of going to the East again and came over here instead. “Troubles with your tenant-?” ii Yes. Or ratbdr w.th my agents. Same tMtgc sieoe the terrible tragedy—^hen day. It was an awful mnrder. He resist edso long—so bravely—and,” she turns white— “they battered in hit oh! it was horriolo! And for you,” glancing at him, “worse than tor anyone.” “I shan’t forget it to them, you may be sure,” says be, between his teeth. “Well, the man after him—Strong—either lost his nerve or could not manage the people, and after a month or two resigned the post. I didn’t blame him, teally. It mnst be nasty waiting to be mnrdered like that. The last man, Mon- roe, gave in, too; ao aa I saw no prospect of keeping an agent longer than six weeks at a stretch, I thoueht I’d take the post myself— with an assis an', of course—and come over and try what 1 could do.” “Kerry is such a shocking place,” says the Duchess, with a sigh for that degenerate spot “If it could get a good ducking in the sea and have its inhabitants well washed off the face of it, I dare say it would do it good,” re plies he, lightly. “In the meantime, as I said before, I’ll see what I can do with my particn. lar bit of it The mother was rather against giving up her town house and coming here in the height of the season, but I persuaded her; got the Castle put into liveable order, and now that she has been here a month she seems to have qnite taken to it. Of course the moment I found a few days I could call my own, both she and I thought of you and my uncle.” “It was kind of you,” says she, softly. She has been regarding him nervously for the past five minntes, even whilst he has been speak ing to her. Truly he is very far apart from all the other young men of her acquaintance. Even Kilgarriff, who is quite a traveled person for his years, and should be well up in the little delicate touches that distinguish the well-bred society man from the well-bred country gentle man, does not stem to her to come quite up to Ihe mark o this new-found cousin. Something in his voice, in the unconscious charm of his manner, pleases while it disturbs her. There is an air about him as of one ac customed always to the suit places of the earth, and how will he take Bally hinch and all its short-comings? Serious reflection! Her mind flies on to the dinner and hack again to her just Consummated visit to the butcher. There seems to her now something sinister in the fact that he had so persistently, so insidiously, put aside in the bland Irish way that belongs to him, her request to see the loin she had ordered before leaving. Good heav ens! oan it be possible that loin is still alive, that as yet its primal owner is free of knife or thrust? She grows cold with horror as this fear pre sents itself, and she secs laid out before her mind’s eye the tough joint I hat, should her fears prove true, will adorn the dinner table to-night. Her cousin is still talking, and she is saying “yes” and “no” in a distracted fashion, her mind running always on the treacherous butcher, and the shame that his treachery will bring her, when something is said that re quires a fuller answer. It is a mere nothing, but it serves. It rouses her. “You don’t find it slow here, then?” “Slow? Stupid you mean? (111, no. There is always a great deal to be done and not so very much time in which to do it. There are the usual things to battlo with everyday, and often a startling surprise just to wake us up a little. To-day,” with a lovely, gracious glance at him, “the surprise has been a very liappy one.” He makes her no immediate, at least no spoken answer, but his eyes say as much as need be said—perhaps, indeed—more. “Now rhat I see you,” she says, falteiingly as she thinks of the mutton, “I know you are not what I thought you would be, you are an other person altogether, as it were.” “Yet the moment your eyes fell on me you knew me.” “Yes; that was flattering I admit,” laugh ing. “Oh, was it?” says he, laughing, too. “Thank youl Then the ideal yon had conjured up was of a being very superior to me! Am I to understand that!” “I’m not going to explain or refute any thing,” declares she, with a charming (ouch of mutiny about the mouth. “I think your in stant recognition by me should suffice you.” ‘ You gave a very sorry reason for that. It showed how you held me, something better than the organist, and a little dearer than the doctor’s apprentice.” “I don’t remember saying that you were ‘dearer’ than anything,” replies she, calmly. There is a suspicion of coming battle in her tone. It lends an additional color to her cheek, an adileJ hljJIn: to, her eyes. Froviden- tially for Delal* ^hb h-Vunp at. this moment comes into v(ew, and with ft the Squire, breathless, but beaming, a dozen dogs of every age and description clustering at bis heels. “So you’ve met her!” he cries, cheerily, whilst yet a long way off. “That’s all right. She,” evidently indicating the Duchess, though his indications are vague, “is worth a dozen of me. I hurried all 1 knew, but one of those fel lows from the Kingston Farm—you know ’em, Norah—caught me, and his tongue, once he gets an opening, is as long as the lane that has no turning.” (to be continued, j THE(oiTnTF(Y Philosopher ( [Copyrighted by author. All rights reserved.] NoTR.-—By special arrangement with the author of these articles and the Atlanta Constitution, for which paper they are written under a special contract, wo publish (hem in the Sonny South under the copy right. No other papers are allowed to publish them. The Sightless Cadets. [Philadelphia Press.] Sixty boys in military uniform, whose sight less eyes were blind to the sunlight which trickled through the leaves of the trees above their heads and who could not recognize the faces of the friends and kinsmen who sur rounded them, marched and drilled yesterday in the grounds of the Pennsylvania Institution for the Instmction of the Blind, with the pre cision of veterans. The drilling of the cadets is a feature of this institution, and it is an oiiginal feature, to which there is none similar in this country. The patience, the study .and time spent upon this branch of instruction presents a reward in the improved bearing of the little soldiers, and in the health which the exercise gives them. When the cadets marched from the gymna sium to the playground it was almost impossi ble to believe the miniature militiamen were bln d. Tbeir shoulders were squared, their heads erect, and their step was firm and regu lar. The muzzies of their muskets made au unwavering lire of light, and the red stripes on their blue trouser legs rose and fell with the regularity of a machine. It was the final full dress drill of the cadets, and all of their friends aud relations and the friends of the institution were gathered around the walls of the play ground. But the applause which saluted the cadets as they filed post was the only knowledge they had of the near preseuce of hundreds of spec tators. The left hand of each boy rested, as he marched, on the left shoulder of the one preceding him. The first boy in each company could see. Commandant Major Henry W. King di rected the battalion to “guard arms,” and at the word every gun touched the ground at the same moment. The cadets separated and stood at two yards distance. Then at the spo ken command they went through a calisthenic drill, clapping their bands, raising their arms and swinging them like so many automatons worked by tne same p ece of mechaiism. It was only when the boys btnt over to touch the ground with their finger tips that there was any irregularity. Then the difference in height of the cadets made it impossible for the long- limbed boys to recover themselves as quickly as did their younger comrades. The guns were picked up and the command was given, “Twos, threes and fours, forward!’’ The ranks broke and there was a scattered movement to the right. The right hands and arms of the cadets held their muskets firm and the left hands moved anxiously in search of a companion’s shoulder. By some instinct finer than sight itself, the moment the wandering fingers of a cadet touched the person of a comrade he seemed to know instantly that it was the man he sought. In a few seconds the battalion was formed in close ranks of two. As the ranks marched aud countermarched, broke aud reformed, the other inmates of the institution sat and sLood in groups around the walls, guessing from the words of command what the r companions were doing Among them was a large, heavily built man, who sat with one hand over his sightless eyes and with the other clasped in both of those of a little girl. She called him father, and, as the drill wont on, told him as graphically as a child could what her black, pretty eyes saw be fore her, aud how and what the cadets were doing. At the conclusion of the drill Acting Princi pal Frank Battles called from the ranks those of the boys who had won the nine gold and bronze medals which different friends of the institution have awarded annually to the best soldiers of the battalion. It was a pretty aud pathetic picture the young soldiers made as tiey stepped forward wilh their faces flushed with pleasure and saluted while the inedats were pinned to their breasts. And it was still more pathetic to see them, when they had been led back to the ranks, nervously tiuger the new decorations to read, if possible, their beauty through their finger-tips. j[ n / The Georgia Agricultural society is still a power in the land—agrowing power. The leg islature is a big thing, but when these solid farmers file a veto against any measures that affects the farmers the lawmakers must sur render. They took bold of the Brady bill at Canton and choked its life out in thirty min utes. They didn’t read it three times nor re fer it to a committee nor debate it, but they killed it and buried it without a coflin or a shroud or a prayer, and there were only twelve mourners at the funeral. I thought from the tone of Mr. Livingston’s address that they would tackle the tariff and settle that but they didn’t. They are against protection unless they can be protected some, too, but the trouble is the government has got to be supported and there is no other way to do it except through the tariff, and if the tariff protects certain trades and businesses we can’t help it. If foreign nations wanted to sell us corn or cotton or wheat or meat then we could piolect our farmers by imposing a duty on those things, but they dont. So now what do tie farmers want done!’ Just let them say in their power and majesty what they want done I am afraid that we farmers are in the same fix these anti cot vict lease folks are. Wo can’t set up a substitute. We can grumble and growl and complain bht where is the subs.itute. There is only one thing that we can do, and that is we can quit farming and try something that has got protection. We can go to mining or manu facturing. We can dig ore or make chairs or brooms or ax handUs. The government Las got to have three hundred millions annually, and nobody wants a direct tax. Georg a would have to levy and collect about twelve millions if we had fe ieral taxation. So I reckon we had better let the present system alone and quit tussing. I had rather give one dollar for a hat and pay no direct tax than give fifty cents for it and pay twenty five cents tax, for jou see I could refuse to buy the hat if f choose and pay no tax. No man likes to pay taxes in money, lie had rather give two prices for a hat, for when he buys a hat he don’t think about the tariff. It never enters his head, but when the tax gatherer calls on him it takes away his ap petite for supper. He feels like he is cheated out of that much money, and that it all goes to s-pport officeholders and keep up the jail and the court house and to build bridges that he never crosses. I’ve paid about * >0U taxes in my county and nearly half of this has gone to build bridges that I have never crossed. That is all right I know, but I wouldn’t have paid that much if I could have helped myself. A man has got to be a mighty good Christian to be a good citizen. But if we can’t get protec tion roaybn wy can get even some other way. My friend Bib' Ramey wanted to buy a mule one day for a hundred dollars, but he didn’t have the money. So he gots over to the bank and sells his note for thirty days and gets the money and pays five dollars for the use of it. That was very high protective tariff for the bank, but Ramey didn’t care. He sold the mule for 125 dollars before sundown, and made five times as much as the bank did and yet Ramey had r.o protection. The best protection in the world is for a man to protect himself, and a smart, diligent man can do it. Shifty is the word. lie must be shifty. The trouble is that nine-tenths of the farmers spend all they make, and many of them a little more They will do this tariff or no tariff. More depends on economy and industry than on the tariff. The rich pay 00 per cent of the revenue any how. What the poor pay does not bother them. I never hear the average farmer grumbling about the tariff. Most people complain of the tariff not because they really feel oppressed by it but because some energetic, thrifty manufac turers are gettnig rich. I heard a Macon man quarreling wilh an Atlanta man about the two lairs, and he said Atlanta was selfish and mean and wanted to gobble up everythir g. The Atlanta man fougut back as hard as he could, and finally said: “Well, why don’t you move to Atlanta and gobble some, to?” It is human nature to be envious of those who are doing better than we are. We can’t help it, and so we criticise their methods and quote Scripture like the devil, f jrthe devil does quote Scripture sometimes. The little unpretending town of Canton sur prised me, aud 1 fell in love with it. I thought it was an old w-odeii town that was looking up a little since the railroad got there, but I found it nearly all of brick. A ne w brick court house with all the modern attachments, brick stores, brick churches, and a fine, large brick hotel that is well kept. I had to wait for the second table, and didn’t expect much, but I never sat down to a betier cuickeu pie. The Kimball house nor the Markham can’t make such, for they can’t getthe chickens until they have been smothered in coops and hot cars, and perished out, and they lose their flavor and freshness. And besides, a French cook can’t make such chicken pies. It takes a good old fashioned patriarchal motherly woman, who learned how from her mother fifty years ago. Well, the beef and mutton and potatoes were all seasoned up right, and the peach pot-pie was just splen did. The hotel at Canton is full of visitors from the low country and there are a number staying in private families. Indeed, Canton is quite a summer resort, and her aluai spring is getting famous. I rode out there with Judge Browu. He had a jug and a cup and we did not go by the distillery. When we passed the old abandoned copper mine we stopped to look at the yawni ig pits, where twohundrel thousand dollars were sunk. It was the hard earned money of solid men aud they lost it all, “Did they all lose what they invested?” I asked of the judge. “Well, yes,” said he. “That is, nearly alfof them. In tact I believe every one Inst what he put in, except brother Joe. He came out pret ty well, pretty well. He made about; twenty- five thousand dolars. lie sold out when the boom was up.” “Just so,” said I, ‘ exactly so,” as Virney Gaskill would say “correct,” or as King Solo mon said, “a wise man foreteeth the danger aud avoideth it.” The little railroad that is booming Canton and Jasper and Ellijay, is also doing wonders for that inteiesiing region. It has increased the values of property along its liue for m>re than the road has cost. It has brought comfort aud convenience and a higher civilization to thousands who were almost hidden from the outer world. No wonder these people are in dignant when the legislature u-fuses to let the road go on to the capital. < )f course it can buy its way into Atlanta without a charter, but the day has passed for exclusive rights or privi leges. Let the railroad come and go whertver enterprising men want to push them. The more roads the better it will be for the people. If we had another line from Cartersrille to At lanta we would be happy, for there is no com petition there now. I left Canton with regrets and a kind fare well. May her people live loDg and prosper. Everything is lovely in that region, aud her crops of c >rn and cotton are as good as they can be. Indeed, I believe they will make more cotton than they can possibly pick, and more com than their cribs will hold. But there is Governor Bullock’s barn close by, and it will hold a vast amount of the surplus. It looks lonely aqd desolate now, and the farm around it has grown up in bushes and briars. It is a monument of something, but T don’t know what. A Northern Opinion. Mixed Schools; in the South—A Let ter From Jfctev. Dr, A. D. Mayo. Boston. Mass., August 1.—Editors Consti tution: It is with no special desire for public expression that I call attention to the follow ing item, from your journal, which has just fallen under my observation: “Rev. A. D. Mayo, a republican and an orig inal abolitionist, who knows more about the school systems of the south than anybody, is opposed to mixed schools.” Whatever may be my qualifications for im partial judgment on this subject, justice to my self seems to demand a full statement of my opinions and the reasons thereof. Whether wise or otherwise, they are the result of care ful observation and are held with a single eye to the interests of universal education. I hold that an essential duty of the people of every American state is to offer to every child the opportunity of that educational training which bears on good citizenship, the extent to be measured by its ability. All questions of organization, methods and supervision are sub ordinate. Thus, while every state of the union has now a public school system on the ground; all agreeing in this essential, the schools of each state, in various ways, r« fleet the opinions and ability of the people. All these peculiarities are the result of practical experi ment, and fairly represent the settled convic tion of the school public—that body of intelli gent, progressive and influential people, on whose watchful interest and fidelity the com mon school so largely depends. The sixteen states, once known as the fifteen slave states, have established their new public schools on the basis of the separation of the two races in the work of instruction. After a long and careful observation of these schooD, in every state, I see that this arrangement was absolutely necessary to the establishment and is now an absolute condition of their support. So I have always maintained that the southern school public, in this matter, has been guided by an honest desire to promote the cause of universal education and has taken the only path open for the permanent establishment of the common school. During these years of observation I have seen the growing »ffort of the pubbe school authorities to do justice to all children, with a fair measure of success. I have everywhere borne testimony’ to this work of educational upbuilding in the south, during the past twenty years—a wc rk unparalleled in its magnitude and signilicar ce in the history of education in any age or land. The main hin drance to this effort appears to me the finan cial inability of the majority of these states to place on the ground, in one generation, in their present circumstances, the public school sys tem needed to educate tlieir people. To-day, a full third of those needing instruction in these states arc in no school and not one half enjoy schooling more than four mouths a year, for a bi ief term of years, often under great disabilities. I see no relief save in national aid, which shall supplement and stimulate the efforts of the people. The Blair bill appropri ates 000.000 of the $77,000,000proposed, to these states which educate the races in sepa rate schools; with the sole condition of a per capita distribution of the funds to all children. The congress of the United States, in like manner, for years, has voted haif the expense of the public schools of Washington, 1). C.; respecting the local preference for the separa tion of the races in the school house. While I claim for the Southern school public of each State the right to decide this, as all questions of public t-chool administration, with the one condition of the maintenance of the -icivil rights cf all men, I claim, also, for the school public of the Northern States the same right. These States are now, in succession, abolishing a'l distinctions and coming to edu cate their children together in the common school. The S\ate of Ohio was the last to adopt this policy. I suppose, in the majority of these States, not only the public schools, but the leading collegiate, academical and pro fessional institutions are open to students of every sort. This policy has been a success and has wrought no hardship to any class. The South has greatly profited thereby from the large number of able colored teachers edu cated in the North, who have returned home to work for thair own people. I claim the same respect for the Northern school public in this successful experiment as I cheerfully accord to the school public of the South. The common school can only be main tained in our country by the mutual endeavor of the school public to appreciate local condi tions. And, while the school men of every State should provoke each other to good works, they should remember that the American com- moi school cm! only be navigated in a broad sea, and only by mutual uuderstanding and mutual helpfulness can we educate the chil dren. * I believe, more firmly every day, that the growing enlightenment and uplifting of the masses, through the education of the heart, the head and the hand that makes for good citizen ship, is th#» only assurance of the tinil settle ment of all vexed questions which arise from the blending of so many elements in the popu lation of the republic. But, while I hold that the State should grant support to schools of which it reserves the right of supervision, under the general public school system, I also understand that the suc cess of universal education in our country is largely involved in its elaborate system of pri vate instruction. With a few exceptions this includes the whole department of the higher college and university, and a large portion of the secondary schools; with a great variety of , family, church, private, corporate, profes sional, industrial and artistic establishments. Beyond this the wonderful new Chautaugua system is bringing the Protestant Sunday school work into the methods of the common school. With this is connected the whole ma chinery of public libraries, reading circles aud the lecture system. This va3t realm of education is now outside legislative control or support; a world of free dom; where every man, family, church, group of people and corporation, under the so!e con dition of obedience '.o the law of the land, has full liberty of orgaLizat on, instruction and ad ministration. Our pub ic school owes the general acquiescence and support of the people largely to the opportunity thus offered to every citizen to educate his children in his own way, without appeal to the State. This department of our educational life may be c died the safety valve of the whole machine. Without it, pop ular opmion, work*ng through legislative bodies would perpetually trample on the mos: sacred right of the parent and the family, with con stant danger of violating the rights of con science, in forcing education into intolerable mechanism aud making the public school the most hateful agency ot political partisanship, religious fanaticism, social intolerance and barbaric prejudice. The American people have so far resolved, that this most important department of Ameri can education shall only be held amenable to the regulating influence of public opinion, rep resented in the personal, social, religious and economical status of the public that supports these schools I am uot aware that any se rious attempt has been made, by the legisla ture of any State, to interfere with this large freedom of private instruction. To attempt this, on any pretext, or to secure any supposed advantage, would set a precedent that would rapidly develop into a habit of legislative in terference, involving alike the fate of public and priva e education. It has been wisely held that public opinion can be safely left to deal with the eccentricities and evils of this liberty of private instruction so closely bound up with freedom of speech and the press, and the sacred rights of religious belief and wor ship. No where is the defense of this freedom of private instruction so impirtaut as in the Southern StaUs, which depend so largely on private and religious schools of all kinds. We know of no emergency that would now justify any legislature in the attempt to tie up th< se schools, even by regulations cheerfully a - cepted as a necessity of the common scho« 1 system. Iu the shifting aspects of educational tuougnt and the growing tendency to make the public school cover the whole field ot human life, such legislative action would be fiaught with such possibilities of complex mischief that I can conceive of no American legislature entering deliberately on a road that dips down ward to such an abyss. I believe we can sale- ly leave our American system of education to work out its blessed result in its present lines of operation, the pubdc school representing waat the majority of the State is willing to pay for the private school, the realm of free dom, regulated by the powerful aud subtle in fluence of public opinion in a Christian laud. A. D. Mayo. . sirs A Sirius Matter, r. [Er M. N. B ] All things are mucilaginous; It Is aa bot as Hades plus Si L°nls. O. It's Sirius, U ogdajM You’re roasted, toasted, frizzled, tried. Your eery blood is torrfiHd ; All Ch'Gtlan comfort Is denied, Dog-days. Your bad bone and your ci ffi are limp. Your t’other Ha l’s balr out of crimp, That “bleosed baby” but an "In p!” Dog-days. Domestic bliss, where ts It when One fly he bas the buzz of ten And comes back o’er and o’er again, Dog days? There Is no thing you touch but sticks; No o«e to ‘kick against tbe pr'ck-!’’ The Fiend gets In bis biggest Hot s, Dog-days. Midst melting misery ard moaDs. Each man would give more than heowDS Could he sit down in his bones. Dog d»ys. The woods are dripping, dirty, dank, The **ky 1“ but a bioondrg blank, Old Probabilities a crank, Dog-days. Tho’ Business. Lnye, Ambition, Fame, Wilt in the aJ-aevi uring fl ime, Expenses go cn Just the same, Dot-days. Muddled Gent—“Say officer, (hie) do you know where John Williams lives'’" officer—“Why, yoa’re John Williams your self;" Muddled Gent—“Y'es I know (hie), but where does John Williams live?” “Here is another h ck out,” said tho bar ber, as he examined the tlierly gentleman s head. There was joy on the farm when Ben, the oldest boy, came back from college in his soph omore year, aid the village was proud of him. “Cheese it, cully,” be said when he met an old friend, the son of a neighbor who joined farms with his father; “chee: e it, cully; thove us your flipper, clench daddies, pardy. How’s his nibs, ard what’s the new racket?” And his proud old father said: “It was jest worth inore’n tw ce’t the money to hear Ben ralt c off the Greek just like a livin’ language.” How She Changed Her Name. Her Dame was Buiggs—It didn’t suit Her rich, tettnetlcal nature. Amt so she i nought she’d have it changed By act of Legislature. She sought a limb—a legal man With Jots of subtle learning. And unto him she did coLfide Her soul’s most painful yearning. He heard her through—he asked her wealth, She sighed and rose—he took her hand And quickly said. “How stuplo! I old forget the precedent Of Hymen vs. Cupid!’” “Just substitute my Dame for yours,” The maiden bill-lied and faltered— But in two weeks she took her name To church and had P alrar’d. “So yer going to lave school soon, Misther Arthur,” said the Irish jrnilor to a student in W one of tbe Eastern law schools. % # “Y'es, 1’atrick, 1 leave to-morrow.” ^ “And phwatdo yez be inthetidiiig to do?” “Pretence sk the bar.'^^r , — “At the bar, is it?” WHfocd luck I’ll go wid yez, for man’y the toime Oi’ve heard the b js say ye wor the best dhrink mixer in the class “Eternal vigilance in the price of liberty.” as the husband remarked when he pulled off his boots iu the front hall about 2 o’clock in the morning in order not to waken his wife when he went up-stairs. Lucky for the Burglar. Mr. Foots—“Where is that burglar, Maria? Where is he? Where’s the villain gone?” Mrs. Foots—“Gone to the station-house. (> dear, I'm so distracted. A policeman came and took him. O, John, why did you leave me all alone when the alarm rung, and run into the garret?" “Why did I run into the garret? I keep my arms in the garret, that’s why.” “But you’ve been gone an hour.” “Took over an hour to oil up my gun and grind my hatchet. But it’s lucky fer the bur glar that my atnrs were not in order.” “Say, mister” (thus ail all night and bleary rounder to a gay but younger convivialist on the Campus Marais), “gimme ten certs to git a bite of breakfas'. ’ “No, can’t do it. Y ou want to get a drink. I know the symptoms. I’m in the same fix myself, an’ I’ve only got a nickel.” “Rats!” was the animated reply. “Come with uie’u I'll show you where we can git two for live.” Stonewall Brigade Band. Professor Webb, is in receipt of an invita tion to the Band to visit Chicago in October, on the occasion of the Military Inten a iona Encimpmert, which then takes pi co. In teresting sketches of the history of the Band from the time it entered the Confederate ser vice to the present have appeared in the Chi- Vhago papcrSs'.’ 0 .'' Love’s Progress. [Uiom tbs later-Oceao ] Tbe maid be Idolizes Is “a dove He very bigbiy prizes K’eu ber glove. He sentiment devises. Prosaic things despises, So every one surmises He’s in love. If not congratulated He’s eni aged; Her virtues intimated, He s assaulted. Wttn bliss lutoxlcated His vices are abated. He is not dissipated— He’s engaged. ’Mid glasses brightly cllnfcing. Him we see, And thoughtlessly he’s drinking. Though it’s three. Wniie«liver’s sweetly chinking O’er cams he’s bllcd y blinking Of poser ho is thinking— “Ethel, dear,” he asked tenderly, “do you believe in love in a cottage?” “Yes, indeed ” she answered enthusiastically, “if the cotta’ e is at Long Branca.” & “One difficulty about a chip off’n the old biock,’ said Deacon Searchly, “i«, that it's ureneffn a blockhead.” She scolds and frets, She’s fuff of pets. She’s rarely kind and tender: The thorn or life Is a fretful wlff— I wonder what will mend her? Bobby—‘Ta, what's tbe meaning of ‘phe nomenal?” His pa—“Don'tbother me, Bobby. It has something to do with base-ball pitch ing.” A small boy declined to eat soup at dinner the other day, cn the ground that he “hadn't, auy teeth that were little ei ough for soup.” Physician, Hare Found Ont That a contaminating and foreign element iti th« blood, developed by indigestion, is the cause of rheumatism. This settles upon the sensitive snb-cutaneons covering of the mus cles and ligaments of the joints, causing con stant and shifting pain, and aggregating as a calcareous, chalky deposit which produces stillness and distortion of the joints. No fact which experience has demonstrated in regard to IIostetter*s Stomach Bitters has stronger evidence to support than this, namely, that tins medicine of comprehensive useschecks the iormidable and atrocious disease, nor ia it less positively established that it is prefer able to the poison? of* used to arrest it, since the med* j only salutury iu- gredients. 1 signal remedy for malarial fever*,. viQustipation, dyspepsia, kidnev and bladder ailments, delwJJtv and other disorders. See that you get the genuine.
