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THE SUNNY SOUTH, ATLANTA, GA„ SATURDAY MORNING, AUGUST 27, 1887. [nn THK AUTHOR ADVANCE rBOOFSHEETS—SECURED EXy*iWSW r FOR J ..TUE By the Author of "Phyllis,” "Molly Bawn,” “Mrs. Geof frey,” “Lady Branksmere,” Etc, Etc. up? Alas! the hours I’ve wasted on your ed ucation! You must excuse her, sir,” turning to Denis with an irresistible air of apology. “She is still sadly deficient in many little ways!’’ CHAPTER V. “And grace that won who saw to wish her stay.” Last night some rain had fallen, short and youthful showers, leaving small ruin in their track, and lending a deeper brilliancy to branch and bough, and waving grasses, that all look the fresher for their midnight bath. “Green grow the rushes, O!” Merrily, blithely, skim the swallows through the velvet air! Coo! Coo! sigh the wood doves from the dark entrances to the planta tions beyond; and through all and above comes the swish-swish of the waves as they break upon the beach far down below. A heavy bunch of creamy roses, wet still with glistening rain drops, is flung by a small but unerring hand, at the casement of Dela ney’s room. It is as yet early morning, and Denis, coming to the window in answer to this perfumed command, .stands revealed in his shirt sleeves and armed with two brushes that have aB yet hardly succeeded in reducing his hair to order. “Come out! Come out!” cries a fresh sweet voice. “What! not dressed yet? Why, what do you think I have already done'! I have been down to the beach. I have had a swim. 1 have come back again, and am now re-gown ed! Oh! what a lazy boy you are!” Indeed it may all very well be true. So sweet a picture she makes, looking up at him with her pretty head thrown back, and her face, fresh as the morning, and as a lily, fair. “I’ll be out in a moment,” says he, not without a thought of his present rather unor thodox costume; but such thought he allows after a swift glance at her, is a cruel waste of time. There is no mock modesty about her; no mauvaise haute anywhere. Is he not her cousin, and is not a cousin a sort of half- brother! "You should have been out an hour ago. The air then was delicious. Hurry now, da, and put on your coat, and we’ll have a run before breakfast, litre,” flinging him a rose bud, “put that in vour button-hole, and hur ry, hurry, hurry There is scarcely need for such injunction. Never in his life before did he rush through his toilette in such frantic haste; and presently he has his reward. Long, long years after wards he can recall to mind the strange, wild, happy sense of utter enjoyment that clung round that morning hour spent with her, ere the dew was lifted from the flower, or the heart of the day was opened. Then comes breakfast—a merry meal—as neither the Squire nor his daughter can refrain from giving away to a spontaneous gaiety that affects one sympathetically, and draws one into the swift current of its own sprightliness. And after breakfast there is half an hour with the Squire, who insists upon his guest follow ing hint round the extremely untidy farm yard, and giving his opinion upon this and that. And tten there is the Duchess to cope with for the rest of the delicious, lazy, sultry after noon. “You play tenis!” asked Denis, idly, when they have sauntered through the old-world garden, and gathered themselves in a desultory fashion, a very ideal boquet. “Yes! Oh! yes,” with a brightening eye. “You have a court?” The Duchess colors. “A—a sort of a one,” she confesses. “I—” hanging her head, “I’in afraid it isn’t the kind of one to which you have been accustomed.” That this is highly probable, a moment’s re flection assures Denis, but he refrains from saying so. “Lead on,” he says instead, with a severe glance. “Y’ou are eviden ly trying to shirk D v.~. B , ,, .. the contest, and I am bent (I warn you) on otherto contradict him; and liis hair, which is giving you a beating that will last your life- i thick on h.’s head now as when he was a Ume,“ CHAPTER IV. “As merry as the day is long.” “ d foks theCdln Placidly smoking. That r^ two mvrare; N^rah is absent, on hos pitable thoughtsintent, 8gain , in brisk ana u ' Were there ever such ' ever such fools? Led scoundrels? ® r ® hler without knowing hke sheep to tbe slaugn ! ^ ^ for why j demagogues who used ■Yhem to'fllltheirown pursed didiflt cam '^Butthey'arepret^q'det round here, aren’t being attacked with a fit of aneez have rather a high opinion of the County Lorn have rattier a g F They are a n a steady go- ?e0 ? t Th? Paving their rents end that?” ^ emm indeS?” says the Squire, with an . .. e ‘ „ “Whv what do you take i«n g f n ,r? llents is it? Faith, they would not em for? K » belief if they weren’t T$e“without hiZ., which woufd mean pufgatory with *"££”** nnita an endless number of centuries, Is that you, Noddlekins?” as the Duchess stews ouUrom the window on to the lawn, behind his chair, leans on the bask of it. “Norsk will tell you about them. “They are very poor,” says Norah, with a ■^Never mind that,” says'the Square, hastily, as if afraid of being softened. What 1 m tell ing your cousin now is that they have no of honestv To pay their just dues is the last thing that^would ever occur to them. Honest,! Whv they’ve forgotten how to 6pell the word. TWve sDonged it out of their dictionaries! Look It me* 1 *^ Not a penny have I got this oTail the da—-h’m—h’m—Norah, my soul, go and get me my other pipe. This won t draw-you’ll find it in—er—if you look fsr it. Norah, with an irrepressible little glance at her cousin, retires discreetly. “I hate swearing before a girl, though it s a great relief at times,” says the Squire, mildly “Especially when one gets on the subject of one’stenants. They are such a truculent lot, and so entirely without reason; they bate rea son. <>nce let them see that you have the best of the argument, and nothing would induce them to listen another second. And then their grievances! They’d fill the pit of Tophet! “I suppose they have some,’ saysthe young man, thoughtfully. The remembrance of a little flower like face, and sweet grave lips, and a gentle voice, that had taken their part a mo ment since, is still with him. . “Pishl” says the Squire, wrathfully; who in reality is the kindliest soul alive, and as a rule shamefully imposed upon by every peasant in the neighborhood. “That’s all you know about it Such a feeble remark comes of your hav ing Saxon blood in your veins; you don’t un derstand ’em. Like the rest of your country men, you either run us up too high or run 11s down too low.” “Don’t mistake me there,” says Delaney, hastily. “I’m Irish all through. Any English blood'I may have has btcome Irish long ago. I’m a Paddy, heart and soul!” “Well done, lad! I like to hear you, says his uncle, giving him a mighty slap on the shoulder. “In spite of all our faults, and 1 grant you they’re not few, and in spite of those rascals who are disgracing us in the House of Commons, I would not be anything else my self. One loyal Irishman is as good as two Englishmen ” , „ . As good as one, certainly,’ says Denis, *^4o—two, man—two; and better!” says the Squire, with determination. He is si ting up very straight, looking as though he defies the “tfell-Hmrdly; pejhaps,”^rlth a treacherous uncrftainty of tfinb. “Let- me set,. On his last' birthday he was, I am almost sure—— “Ninety-nine!” “N—0. Twenty-flvel” “What! ’ says her consin, sitting upright and coloring warmly. Then, as though the absurdity of his extreme astonishment strikes him, he sinks back again into bis former posi tion and altera the expression of his face. “I fancied him a modern Methusaleh. I scarcely know why,” he says, indifferently. “A friend of my uncle’s rather than yours.” “His father was dad’s greatest chum down here. They were at college together, and when he died a year ago, dad fretted after him very much. Otho is now the Earl.” Otho! Somehow the word—so sweetly ut tered, so plainly familiar—grates upon his ear. “He is abroad,” he saye, abruptly. “For long'” “No, he returns next week.” “Howdo you know?” “He told me so in his last letter,” replies she. simply. Silence follows this oidinary answer. Denis, lying back with his hands clasped behind his head, is, to all appearance, gazing with rapt attention at the pale white clouds floating in the dazzling blue of the sky overhead; and yet, and yet—what is this curious sense of dUsatis faction, this contraction of the heart, that is almost a pain? It is sharp enough at all events to rouse him to a clear understanding of his own position, and with the rush of mem ory comes the knowledge that he of all men has no right to feel anything but unconcern about this girl’s affairs. This lovely child! who, whilst he is working out the right and wrong of it all, is employing her little idle brown fingers upon the adornment of his head. Surely it is true that— “Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do!” Through and through the few short hairs that his barber has left him she is threading pieces of grass, pulling them out again and re arranging them as fancy dictates, carelessly, dreamily. Denis, with this new strange fear at his heart, lifts his own hand, and taking hers from his head, put it away from him with a Spartan determination. “Do you know,” he says, sharply, with a rather forced smile, “that—that the effect of your fingers going in and out like that—is—is maddening?” "Don’i you like it?” asks she, genuine sur prise in her tone. She stoops over him and gazes into his half-averted face as if to assure herself that he really can mean it. “Why, Otho loves it! He says it is as soothing as a cigiiette.” •'I am not Otho. It does not soothe me, says Denis, still with that unnatural assump tion of pleasantry. “So far from it—that I believe a continuance of it would be danger ous—for me—Dot for you,” smiling. As though to place temptation beyond his reach, he seizes upon his hitherto discarded hat, and with quite as heroic air crushes it down upon his bead, lo! even to his brow. “Oh! you needn’t lecture me about it,” says the Duchess, with a little offended glance from under her long lasheB; “and you needn’t put on your hat like that. I am not going to touch you. I don’t icant to stick straws in your hair, believe me. I was merely doing it to please you, because Otho says ” “Oh! confound Otho!” interposes her cousin impulsively, and a second later is covered with confusion. What in Heaven’s name is the matter with him this morning? What must she think of him? The enormity of this mis demeanor is clear to him. Hut it is not so e'ear as to how he shall apologize lor it—how explain away his unreasonable burst of irritation about what has, or at all events should have, no ele ment of annoyance about it? Whilst stricken with remorse, he is casting about him for some decent excuse to offer for his conduct, the Duchess, striking boldly into the situation, makes an end of it. “You are cross,” she says calmly, regarding him with a judicial eye. “You are indeed,” with severe meaning, “extremely queer alto gether. Do you think the sun is too hot for you or the flies too troublesome? If you think you are going to have a sunstroke or—or any thing of that sort, I should be glad if you would give me timely warning.” It is evident that she is rather disgusted with him “I fling myself upon your grace’s mercy,” returns he with a snnle that is very imploring in spite of the lightness of his tone. “If you will believe me, I don’t know what is the mat ter with me!” This is strictly true “I have, I suppose, a wretched temper, and I lost it touch—that has earned for him from his laughter-loviDg neighbors, the title of “Squire,” which, as we all know, is not an Irish one. “I’m afraid you haven’t learned your lessons,” he goes on, laughing. “You’ll have to go down, sir, if you don’t bluster a bit these times Norah! I say. Duchess! Where on earth has that child gone? She’s for ever dis appearing just when I want her.” “I think you sent her away that time when you wanted to swear," says Denis, mildly, knocking the ash off bis cigar. “So I did. I remember now. There you are, my Duchess,” as Norah once again comes lingeringly up to them. “And without that other pipe. Never iulDd, here it is in my pock et after all! Hut you might have brought your cousin one.” “My cousin knows better than to smoke pipes,” says the girl, bending over her fa'her and daintily ruffling his hair. “’Tis only a vieux moustache like you who can do that now- a-days.” “Is it so?” said the Squire, sharply, turning suddenly on Denis, and for the first time be coming awaie that be iB smoking a cigar. “Bless me, the fools you beys are! Why you don’t know what’s good for you; you’ll go to your grave, I daresay, without learning the company there is in a pipe. Why; it’s twice as good as that weed of yours and twice the comfort.” Replacing his comfort in his mouth, he leans back in his chair and contemplates the sur rounding landscape, with an air of perfect con tent that might almost be termed superb. From where they sit a glimpse of the ocean may be caught, as it lies serene and placid, basking in the rays of the now setting sun. To their right rise mountains, high, wooded, and tinged now by the purple flames of a dt - ing day; whilst to their left lies silent and soli tary, as “illigant” a bog as the heart of an Irishman could desire. So large it is, so 8wampv;so suggestive of fevers and agues— and snipe! “D’ye see that?” demands the Squire, after a prolonged survey of it. He has removed his pip- from his mouth, and now points with it majestically to the bog in question. “That’s mine!” “Lot of waste ground,” says his nephew, lazily, who, after all, has been a long time off his native heath. "Waste!” echoes the Squire, indignantly. “What do you mean? Why it’s the finest snipe bog in Ireland! Waste, is it? Wait till you come here at Christmas time and you’ll see how much waste there is about it.” “Oh! looking at it in that light!” says the young man, hastily, who indeed is a splendid shot, and very devoted to sport of all kinds. “If that is an invitation, my dear uncle, you may expect me next Christmas.” “I’ll hold you to your word. I’m sorry, however, there’s nothing for you now sa.-e rabbits. But have you brought your gun?” “No.” regretfully. “Oh! you ought, man! You should never travel without your gun and your toothpick, as my poor father used to say; and faith he might have added a brace of loaded revolvers if he had lived in these days. However, don’t for- get it at Christmas when you come, and I promise you we’ll have many a good day of it in that same ‘waste’ bit of ground.” It is evident that he has taken the word hardly. “I tell you,” warming to his subject, “the snipe swarm there like bees. Why, there was one winter here—was it last winter, now,” meditatively. “Norah, what winter was it that the snipe were so plentiful round nere?” “It was five winters ago,” says the Duchess, with a little nod. “Five? Was it now? Well, there’s nothing so deceiving as time! Anyhow,” turning again to Denis, “whatever winter it was, they were as thick as peas, and so tame you could sweep them off the hall door steps in the morn ing!” This astounding announcement is given wi'bout a blush. Denis who is evidently de lighted with it, and the teller of it, laughs out Ion i. “Ah! you may laugh if you like; but we know, don’t we Norah?” giving his daughter’s ear a loving pinch. Norah remains discreetly silent. “She doesn’t,” says Denis, mischievously, looking at her with such persistency that he gains his point, and compels those sweet ex - presiflve eyes to seek his own. “WhatK Wnchess! Turning traitor?” cries, the Squire, catching her hand and pulling her forward. ‘‘Why, doh’t you know yet, after all I have taught you, that when your father tells a tarradiddle, it is your duty to back him antly led thereto by the Duchess, whose desire ; for battle had cooled again as the match com menced, knowing what the intended field 1 looked like—is of so unusual an appearance that it needs all his self-command and good breeding to keep him from evincing his sur prise. It is indeed meant for a court, because it is portioned off by an extremely rustic rail ing from the field beyond—a stubbly field—yet but for the railing it might have belonged— been part and parcel of the stubby field. In fact it was—last month! “It is horrid; you won’t like to play on it!” says the poor little Duchess, plaintively, who has been enduring agonies of shame on the way hither. There is indeed such a wealth of misery in her expression as would have made a worse man swear he would play in it or die. “Is that your plan of getting out of your beating?” says Denis, scornfully, waviDg his racket on high. “If so, it’s a vain one, my good child: you’ll get it in spite of all your ef forts to the contrary. Come! Let’s begin. I thirst for the fray!” If this indeed be the truth, his thirst is con siderably quenched after the first draught. The ground may be bad—nay, it is inconceiva bly so; the bal s abominable; but the Duchess at all events is an unconquerable foe! Now here, now there she darts, swift as a flash of lightning, taking his hardest bills as though they were chili’s play to her; giving him balls impossible. In effect “taking the shine out of him” altogether, as they say down here. Is she a spirit, or an imp, or a girl? Was there ever so light-footed a creature, or one so sure of her stroke? And was there ever one who at the end of a set (won literally off her own bat) could look so cool, so lovely, so little triumphant? “You’re a swindle!” Rays Denis, who is as hot as she is cool, as crimson as she is pale. “You are,” changing his tune, “a marvelous creature!” He says this in a panting tone, from where he has flung himself exhausted on the grass. It is no joke, you see, playing a single game on a hot day in July. “Why don’t you look surprised?” he goes on. You might, if only for generosity’s sake. Why don’t you jeer at me? Are you not proud of yourself ?” “Well, no,” says the Duchess, mildly. “To tell you the truth, I generally beat every body?” Denis, as if amused by this naive remark, which is rich in truth, gives way to sudden laughter. “You’ll bring them down a peg or two at the Castle,” he says, inadvertently. Then— “Don’t sit so far away from me over there; you might as well be in the next county. Come over here and enjoy with me the shade of this hospitable tree I’d go to you, only you have knocked me up so completely.” “l’oor thing!” says the Duchess, with deep compassion. She comes to him at once and slips down on the grass beside him, and gen erously pulls out a corner of her gown that he may rest his head upon it. “Who taught you to play tennis in that mas terly style?” asked he, when he has settled himself comfortably, and as close to her as cir cumstances will permit. “I thought you told me you had no neighbors ” “What a melancholy thought! We are not quite so destitute as all that. I think what I said to you was, that there were no young men here; but there are plenty of girls. That,” with a little laugh, “is bad enough, isn’t it, without adding to it?” “I don’t tbiuk girls could teach you to play as you do.” “Well, there are some old men, too. Dad can take most balls, and the Rector is no mean foe. And Lord Kilgarriff, when he is at home, gives me lessons; but he is so often away.” “Lord Kilgarriff,” turning lazily on his elbow to look at her, “who is he? Another old neigh bor?” “The oldest we have. I remember him quite as long as I can remember anything.” (“Old fogy evidently,” thinks the young man, with an unconscious pleasure in thus thinking.) “Where is he now?” aloud. “Abroad. Somewhere in Germany. I for get the name of the town. There was a pro lessor of something or other there whom he wished to see.” (“Musty old pedant beyond doubt,” decides Delaney, still carryiag out that first satisfac tory train of thought) “Bookworm, I sup pose,” he says civilly, if superciliously. “That sdHPMs generally a bore, don’t you think? One can hardly fancy an uld fellow devo.ed to his ‘Aldines, Bodo is, Elzevirs,’ wielding the frivolous racket By-the-bye, how old is he? Old enough to be your grandfather—eh?” „—4 .I- — - al ls so « retched as 'you .-lay, - you ongratulatcd on its loss. ' There, don’t 100k so miserable! J forgive you ” “It is more than I deserve, then. Bye and- bye,” taking the little hand he had so rudely repulsed and tenderly smoothing it, "you will remember me only as an ill-tempered fellow who ” "No! No indeed!” sweetly. “You must not think that. Shall I tell you something?” bend ing down and looking at him with such a love ly, earnest gaze. “I like you already—already mind you—much better than any one I have ever yet met; always exceptingdaid, of course.” “What! Better than Kilgarriff?” asks he, unable to refrain from this question. “A thousand times better!” frankly; "though indeed,” with sudden contrition, “you must understand that I am very fond of Otho, too ” Delaney, who is watching her with eager eyes, sighs impatiently, oh! that she were a little less frank, a little more reserved. He would that he could have seen some faint hesi tation in her tone, the lightest suspicion of a blush upon her pretty cheek. But there is none—nothing. And then once again there comes the rush of memory, and with it the new fear and the angry self-contempt. Why shuuld he wish her less frank? What should be hoped from any new-born shyness? Has he forgotten honor, everything, in two short days and part of a third? It is all a mere touch of folly, a veritable midsummer madL ess. He will fling the thought of it far from him. But alas! alas! this is easier said than done. And in the silent watches of the sleepless night, when most things are la d bare to us, be kuows that at last fair love has caught him in its toils, and that for weal or woe—nay woe, for a certainty!—he is a slave for evermore. At the feet of her who but a few days ago was as nothing to him, his heart lies wounded, stricken, hopeless! CHAPTER VI. “My va or is certainty going! It is sneaking off. ’ “Hist! Norah!” said the squire in a subdued tone, putting his head cautiously outsioe the door of his own favorite den and beckoning her to come in, great mystery in all his bearing. Drawing her in, he closes the door carefully behind him and regards her with an anxious eye. It is the next morning, and there is much sign of an embarrassed mind about the Squire. He looks puzzled, "perplexed in the extreme,” and his hair has taken that pronounced stage generally caused by the running through it of nervous fingers. “He’ll stay the week!” he says at last, get ting it out with rather a jerk. “The whole week, to a moral. I told you how ’twould be.” A little thrill ol pleasure rushes through No rah. “Well 1 Y’ou aren’t sorry, are you?” she asks reproachfully. “Remember all you said about tho duties of hospitality and the ” “Nonsense, now, Norah! What way is that to speak? Surry, is it? Why it’s delighted I am. I wish be could stay a month, only ” “Why, I never met a nicer fellow—never. Did you. now?” “Never,” says Norah, sincerely. “ ’Tisn’t that at all—but—but Noddlekins," sinking bis voice to a whisper, “do you think they will hold out?" “What?” startled. “Thechickens—themut- ton? Even if they don’t we can get ” ‘ Oh! bother take the chickens and the mut ton !” cries the Squire in a frenzied lone. “Who’s thinking of them? ’Tisn’t the dinner that’s troubling me, Duchess—tis the clothes!" Here he grows almost apoplectic in bis endea vor to whisper and still give to his words the emphasis they deserve. “Ob! Norah, darling, last night I thought I’d have died in ’em—spe cially the coat! I felt bursting!’’ “That’s how you looked, too,” says the Duchess, with deep sympathy. “Why not leave them off, dad, darling? I’m sure you look ever so nic 9 in your Sunday ones. Quite lovely, indeed, when your hair is cut ” “Never!” says the Squire heroically. .“I’ve beguu and I’ll finish in ’em, though they be the death of me. D’ye think I’d let him go back to the Castle to madam, my own sister-in-law, and say I dined in fustian?” “He wouldn’t!” says Norah indignantly. “What do you take him for?” “It might come out all the same, and then we’d be disgraced for life. But what I was thinking is this,” regarding her anxiously—“if 1 were to ease them a bitl Eh? To give a lit tle snip to the stitching under the arms, you know. It would be a great relief 10 me—and— and he’d never see it. Eh, now?” Not for the world!” declares Norah vehe mently. “Cut one stitch and the whole thing will go. Wby.-dl#, think of thWlMige! They )WerCbMde before I was born. They must fee 1 tweniy iears old at least.” 1 c -,;v’ ‘.Thirty, my love, I think," says tht pior Squire with inuch dejection. It is a great blow to him that that “snip” has been forbidden. “And you really think I couldn’t ease them? It’s great agony, Norah. I assure you, my dear, there was a moment last night when I felt as if I was going to sneeze! I’ll ‘never for get it. If I had, all would have been over with me! Not a seam, not a button would have been left! I .thought I should have died of fright! It really makes me very anxious, my dear; and it’s a thing that may occur again, I’m rather given to sneezing.” “You are. It is a great misfortune,” says Norah, sadly. “I wish you could cure your self.” “I assure you I can’t even laugh comforta bly,” goes on the Squire, with a sigh; “and that's a great loss to me. ’Tis a thing I’m not accustomed to. I don’t believe they’ll stand a week of it, Norah. I don’t indeed; and if they do give, I shan’t be able to hold up my head again.” “I’ll get a good strong bit of housewife’s thread, and sew the seams on the inside where- ever they look strained, and then you can laugh,” says his daughter, giving him an en couraging pat on his broad back. “If you do, I’m thinking you’ll sew the suit,” says he, still melancholy. “There isn’t a seam in it that you couldn’t burst with a de cent sigh.” He looks at her as if defying her to deny this, and then, all suddenly, without so much as a second’s warning, he bursts out into an irre sistible pearl of laughter. His laugh and No- rah’s are just the same; rmuical, hearty, com pelling. To hear them is to join in them, no lens volens. Long and loud he laughed, Norah keeping him company,without exactly knowing why; but youth, especially Irish youth, is prone to laughter, and is always thanktul for a chance of giving way to it.” “Speak! Speak!” cries she at last. “I can’t laugh for ever without a reason for it. It’s an unsatisfactory sort of mirth.” “I was thinking,” said' he, still choking, “that if I did burst those clothes, what a row there would be. Such an explosion! Just think of his face and yours! add your poor old dad at the head of the table—ha! ha! ha!—with vacancies in his raiment, and Oh! my Oh! my!” The tears of mirth are running down his cheeks as he pictures himself the scene that a moment before had reduced him to despair. Norah, too, is laughing with all her heart, when Deuis, ojp&itilg the door, thrusts in his head. , “It does one good to hear you,” he says. “May I know what it iB all about?” “No; it isn’t good enough,” says the Duch ess, hastily. “It is too ancient: a perfect threadbare joke.” “Good for you, Duchess!” cries the Squire, beginning to explode again. “Faith, the sub ject of it is threadbare enough in all conscience, and ancient to a fault.” “Never mind, dad, you have come to tell us something,” says Norah, addressing her cousin pointedly, as if to turn his attention from the Squire, who is quite a dangerous mood. “That letter in your hand ” ‘Is from my mother, asking me when I in tend returning.” “My dear boy! Why you have only just come,” exclaims ihe Squire, forgetful now of the joke, the fragility ot the evening clothes, everything. Nevertheless she says she can’t do without me. The house is f u 1 1 of people, and it appears the task of keeping them in a good temper is beyond her. Norah, she wants to know also if you are coning back with me.” “Back with you! To the Castle! Oh! no! Certainly not!” says the Duchess, in a tone of horror. All the laughing is gone now, giving place to a nervous astonishment. Involunta rily she steps backwards until she reaches the wall behind her, as if desirous of getting as tar from the Castle in question as possible. No words could be as eloquent as this move ment. “But why?” asked the young man, reproach fully. “My mother is so anxious to make your acquaintance, that she will take your re fusal hardly. As you know, she cannot well come to you at present, but if you will go 10 her ’’ I haven’t thought of it. I didn’t know she wished ” I told your father. Y'ou didn’t tell her?” looking at the Squire, who is now the picture of guilt -Fiction. deciuti f roi the first that Norah could never got on ;ithout him or he without Norah. “More than that. I cave you my mother’s invitation, I hope, Norah,” regarded her earnestly, “that you will accept it. You will like my mother, I know, and as there are so many people staying there at present you won’t feel dull.” “Oh! That’s just it,” miserably. “What?” “All those people!” growing quite pale. “Nonsense!” laughing. “Not one of them will eat you, and some may amuse you. 1 am quite sure you will enjoy it.” “I shouldn’t indeed. Dad,” indignantly, “why don't you speak. Why don’t you say I should be wretched ajvay from you.” “She would. She would indeed, I assure you,” says the Squire, waking to an enthusi- assic defence of the position because of that indignant glance. “1 assure you my dear Denis, she would be the most melancholy creature alive if deprived of my society even for a?Jay!” He says it in such perfect good faith, and with such an open desire to help her in her ex tremity, that he is irresistable. Even Norah gives way to laughter. “It is true, though,” she says to Denis, a lit tle defiantly. “We have never been separated, never. Even for the three years I was at school in France lie cauie over and lived there with me.” “Then I wish you would changa your mind and come to Ventry too,” says Denis. “I wish I couid,” says the Squire; who in deed would have desired nothing better; “but I’m tied by my heels just now. You know what a worry the tenants are.” lie refrains from mention of the evening suit, and the utter inability to order a new one. “Norah,” says her cousin, suddenly, “come out and let us talk it over.” [to he continued.] DEATH OF Me. A. B. PHELPS, SR. The death of Mr. A. B. Phelps, Sr., which has already been announced in the newspa pers, removes one of the old landmarks of Georgia citizenship. Born in Northampton some 74 or 75 years ago, of one of the best and most distinguished families of Massachusetts, he left the parental roof and bleak atmosphere of New England at .an early age and came to Georgia to carve his fortune. He located in the little town of Powelton, in Hancock county, and without friends or money, went nobly to work and soon won the esteem and confidence of all the people of that community. He estab lished a general mercantile establishment on a small scale, but under his vigilant apd ener getic management it grew to large proportions and became the leading, if not the only, mer cantile house in that then growing and prom ising town. His business prospered and he accumulated mosey rapidly, and when the war came he was among the largest and wealthiest planteis in all that portion of Georgia. Though born in a New England State he be came a staunch and thorough Southerner. All of his sympathies were with the South on every question, and no man hated New Eng land extremists more bitterly than he. ^ He owned large slave property, and magnificent landed estates, and so heavily did the great crash and general wreck from the war fall upon him that he never recovered from the blow. He belonged to tbat large class of Southerners who cannot forget the past and accommodate themselves to the new order of things, and hence their latter years are gloomy and unhappy. , _ , . He married the mother of the Editor of the Sunny South, by whom he had four children, three of whom survive him and are prosperous and solid citizens of the State. He married the second time and leaves, a noble and warm hearted widow to mourn his death. He possessed many noble and admirable traits of character, and whenever his sympa thies were fully enlisted he was a true and lasting friend. ' . A , It will revive many sad reflections in the hearts of old Georgians to hear of his death. But such is the end of all flesh. “I Love Her Better than Life.” Well, then, why don’t you do something to bring back the roses to her cheeks and the light to her eyes? Don’t y° u Bee 8 ^ e i® suffering from nervous debility* the result of female weakness? A bottle ol Dr. Fierce’s “Favorite Prescription” will brighten those pale cheeks and send new life through that wasting form. If you lore her, take heed. I seldom read novels, nor, indeed, any kind of fiction,” said a little woman, while a com placent smile passed over her rather vapid face. “Oh dear, no! I consider doing so a sheer waste of time.” She settled beraelf in a deep rocker, and drawing out a roll of what ap peared interminable crochet, set to work upon it with a zeal ana diligence worthy of a nobler occupation. ... , , “The domain of fiction includes the drama. How about Shakspeare?” I asked. “Oh! who thinks of reading him, now-a- days! He went out of fashion with oar grand fathers.” “And Scott, Dickens, Thackaray, and lam, bat never least, George Eliot,” I answered, waitirg with some curiosity for her answer which came at length, after she had smoothed the chrochet out on her lap and gazed admir ingly at it. “Oh, I suppose I read Scott’s books when I was a girl, but to be candid, I don’t remember much about them. Some years ago, I took up a volume of Dickens—Oliver something—but soon dropped the book with horror. He is so low—carries one among such dreadful creat ures. As for Thackaray, he is too satirical; besides he shows us people just as they really exist; now when I do read a novel, I want something sensational, something that is far removed lrom every day, humdrum life.” “Something after the order of ‘She’,’’ I terrupted. “Well, yes, though I did skip a great deal in that. George Eliot, I have heard, was not good, and I have never so much as peeped into her books.” “1 am sorry for you,” was the only retort I thought it worth while to make—knowing it would Oe a sheer was e of breath to endeavor to prove, to oue of her calibre, what erroneous ideas had entangled themselves in her brain. I watched her as she sat before me, all her en ergies centered in the manipulation of those countless yards of thread she was weaving into an elaborate design—ultimately to adorn some garment that, perchance, after its first exhibi tion to admiring friends, would fall under no other eyes than those of my lady’s washer woman. And as 1 marked the deft fingers, there fiitted across my mind the following quaint words: “Lost, somewhere between the honre of sun rise and sunset, ten golden hours; no reward is offered, for they are gone forever!” This little woman I cite is only a type of thousands, who, with heart and brain, dieu donne, devo e their lives to the accomplishment of no other purpose than that of making fancy work, which work, in divers forms, sweeps from time to time over the fashionable world in the shape of a “craze.” We are told that “where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise;” and this may be true, for, as laird By ron says, “Knowledge, though power, is not happiness.” Nevertheless my heart goes out iu pity to the man or woman whose mind fails to feed on the rich and rare fruits of fiction spread before it in this glorious “Communism of Literature.” And let me add, par parenthe sis, this happy age when that wizard of pub lishers, John B. Alden, is flooding the land with books so choice, and such marvels of cheapness l hat they are equally within reach of the mill onaire, and the ambitious jrouth famishing lor knowledge beneath some obscure and lowly roof. I cannot give the right hand of fellowship to the woman who complacently avows she sel dom, it ever, reads fiction. There would be no congeuiality of thought with a mind so blank, so utterly wanting iu ideals, so ignorant of the works in which—as Miss Austin tells us—are displayed the most thorough knowledge of liu- mau nature, the happiest delineations of its va rieties, the iivest effusions of wit and humor, all of which are conveyed to the world in the best chosen language. Of cjurse, in the almost limitless catalogue of iicti u, there are books of such deadly poison that it behooves us to put them far away, so that the young and innocent minds of our chil dren cannot feed upon them and their tastes thus become vitiated ere they have been suffi ciently formed to detect and shun the fatal L'pis-laiut that lurks in every page of these productions. If some uiagic power were granted me I would gather together, from the four quarters of the globe, all obscene writings, all dime nov els, those compounds of moral aconite and henbane that are poisoning mentally the youth of our land, and the insipid, enervating trash known as children’s literature, into one vast, hear- and •'Jen. as the Caliph (invar lone ci.” turies ago, applied the torch to'a" far nobley collection of books—to heat, lorsootb, me baths of his soldiers—so would I touch this reeking heap with brands of fire until not one leaf or shred was left to tell these books had ever been. Some people—viewing this matter from a re ligious standpoint—look upon reading nov els, and fiction generally, as a heinous sin, forgetting—if they ever knew—that these works are in most cases only chronicles of the lives daily pulsing around them—re cords of the human heart with its manifold hopes and fears; its aspirations and its disap pointments; its passiions and its sorrows. of love and kindness which this gentle and generous and charitable soul has contributed to the happiness of the world. I take and en- jjoy my share, and my a benediction for the meal.” Anna W. Yobno. Walhalla, 8. C. THE(0lfNTF{Y Philosopher [Copyrighted by author. All rights reserved.] NOTR.—By special arrangement with the anthor of these articles and the Atlanta ConstUtUion, lor which paper they are written under a special contract, we publish them in the Sunny South under the copy- i i<ht. No other papers are allowed to publish them. “I never read fiction! It is a waste of time!” Shades of the mighty Dead—ye whose match less conceptions shall live ’till time shall be no more—veil your spirit faces at this shameless avowal! Never read fiction! Never enter the magic realms Shakspeare created and peopled with “characters that combine history and life, who are complete individuals whose hearts and souls are laid open before us.” So true are they to human nature, that “in forming our opinions of them we are influenced by our own characters, habits of thought, prejudices, feel ings, impulses, just as we are influenced with regard to our acquaintances and associates.” I hold it true that not to know Shakspeare, the keen and mighty prober of the deep heart of humanity, is to lire in a mental dark ness most deplorable. I would not give my acquaintance with his men and women for the costliest gem that ever sparkled on a monarch’s brow! They are such good and varied company, and stand out so clothed in their own individ uality that we think and speak of them as sen tient breathing creatures—while their homes— whether amid the glades of Ardenne, or on that enchanted isle where ethreal sprites “ran upon the minds, rode the curl’d clouds, and in the colors of the rairbow lived,” or yet, in stately Belmont’s palace halls where there “Is a lady richly left Aud she is fair, and fairer, than that word, Of wondrous virtues” become a local habitation and a name in our hearts forever. But leaving the hights of fiction, and pass ing over many names that, though standing far lower in the scale, occupy no mean place iu it, we come to our own ti mes when authors are as thick throughout the land as falling leaves in Vallambrosa. Out of this host, I single one whose life and genius were spent in careless endeavor to ben efit and reform what was wrong in the age he lived in. “lie taught the world,” said Dean Stanley, as he stood beside the new made grave of Charles Dickens, “great lessons of the eternal value of geuerositv, of purity, of kindness, and of unselfishness.” This great novelist whom men delight to honor as the Prince of Pathcs—the Emperor of the realm of Fun, chose the broad arena of fiction as a medium through which his best and purest lessons were taught. What days and nights of pleasure have we, who love our author, not spent in the glorious company of the children of his brain? And what a legion they form, as, at our bidding, they pass before our mental sight. There’s noble John Jarn- dyce and dear Dame Durden with her “beau tiful darling” close beside her; there’s poor Richard, too, and the little mad woman, both of whose pale and haggard faces tell of wasted lives spent in the vain pursuit of a phantom that has its charnel house in that foulest of places, the Chancery Court of England! And here is one, “a daughter of the gods, divinely tall, and most divinely fair,” but her loveliness is dimmed by the shadows of sin and passion; she has been most grieously wronged and I pity, more than I condemn, the course she has taken to wreak vengence and disaster on the House of Dombey. “Thank God for Germany!” exclaims Wil liam Black in his own “Kilmeny,” and I, with equal heartiness, cry: “Thank God for Charles Dickens.” Ye who roll up your eyes in dis dain, and complacently declare you never read fiction, come oat of your shell of ignorance; surround yourtelf with this great and good man’s novels and learn from them the beauti- timl lessons of loving kindness, charity and generosity. “I delight and wonder at his genius,” said Thackaray. “I recognize in it—I speak with awe and reverence—a commission from that divine Benificence whose blessed task we know It will one day be to wipe every tear from every eye. Thankfully I take my share of the feast The interstate convention was a success. Our leading farmers will keep pegging away until they find out what is the matter with farming, and then maybe we will change our methods and get along better. I am glad the convention fonnd out what was not the matter. That is a good way to narrow down the inves tigation. It is now settled that it is not the tariff that depresses farming—but Kentucky mules and western meat and northern specu lators have a good deal to do with it. But the greatest embarrassment over our up country farming is a disinclination to work. Our farmers will plow and hoe pretty well when they get at it, but Joe Bradley told me that if a man didn’t scratch bis head in the field by sunrise he wouldn’t succeed at farming. I have watched Joe ten years and he is a success. He never went to town except on business, and he attended to his business and returned home with alacrity and went to work. Some of his nabors would lose nearly the whole day when they went to town. Joe saves the scrappings of his barn yard and the fence corners and has heaps of compost. He raises his own meat and has some to sell. lie buys calves in the neigh borhood and pastures them until they grow big and fat. lie oils his harness and keeps his wagon greased, and when a rainy day comes he goes to his workshop and fixes up the plows and hoes and axes. Joe loves to work and is always at it, and so of course he is accumulating. But a good many of our farmers have almost quit a'tending to fillle things. It is so handy to buy meat that he won’t raise hogs. It is so handy to buy fertilizers that he never scrapes the barnyard but lets it all wash away. He will give fif een ce ts for an ax handle rather than make one. If a man comes along the road he will talk to him half an hour. He will hunt squirrels aud go fishing, or attend justices coui t when his crop is in the grass and so of course he is always behind. lie has to rent poor land because he aint ‘fitten’ to tend any other kiud. So after all it is more in the far mer than the farm. I don’t know that there is such a great difference between farming and other occupations. The farmers say they don’t have a fair jdmwong witt_ inercheota and 4 uann- fac urers q^l lawyers and doctors., bu tl don’t know any class who are so independent as far mers of the Joe Bradley type. He has every thing to make h s family comfortable and he made it on the farm and still makes it. liis family help him to make it. They all work and when he hires a darkey the darky works. He makes him work. He is ashamed not to work for everybody and everything ou the place is alive and kicking Joe will draw a bucket of water in half the time he used to. I believe that as many farmers succeed as merchants or manufacturers—in proportion to their num bers. The statistics prove that fifty merchants out of a hundred fail. Thirty more just squeeze along and make it a support. ’Ten more get ahead ahd accumulate slowly and the other ten get rich. It is about the same way with manufacture rs. As for lawyers and doctors nobody knows until they are dead whether they are ahead or be hind. But the average farmer don’t break, lie can’t break. lie can’t even suspend. If the merchant who runs him can’t get his ad vances he must run him again, and be hopeful of a better crop next year. The farmer is too apt to compare his situation with the merchant’s apparent ease and comfort, but he doesn’t know that the merchant has bank notes falling due every sixty days, and has to lap over and shin dig around to keep up. He doesn’t know the strain there is to keep his family along with the upper crust. It won’t do to pick out the exceptional cases like the Nobles or Keely or Kiser or John Ryan, for those men would have made money ra sing cow peas in Sahara, or driving terrapins lo the coasts at half a mile a day. Wuy suouldu’t the farmers be doing as well as they used to do ten j ears ago. Colton is a little !o .ver, bat it costs less to make it. Corn is never less than fifty cents a bushel, and that is fifty per cent higher than it is up north. Last year the Augusta Chronicle sent out cir culars asking the most reliable farmers what cotton cost to grow it. The replies were pub lished aud were very interesting and very satis factory. They were carefully made up from their actual txperience, acd the result was an average cost ot six and a half cents a pound. So that gives a profit of ten dollars a bale with hired labor, but when a man with half a dozen children to help him, does his own work and raises his own supplies, his cotton money is nearly all clear profit and can be added to his capital stoct. There are three classes of farmers: Those whe own the land and cultivate it with home or hir ed labor; those who are landlords only and rent their land to tenants, and those who are ten ants only. Mr. Munford and C. M. Jones and Captain Lyoa and Mr. Davis and Joe Bradley and Ma jor IVooley and Mr. Milam are fair samples of the first-class, aud they are all prosperous. They trade and traffc some outside of the farm but the farm is the mudsill, the foundation of their prosperity. Their farms are not for sale. On the contrary they buy more laud, and I ex pect would like to own all that joins them. Men of their class are not complaining of depres sion. Tnev are not as rich as they want to be, but their neighbors don’t complaiD about that. I have the honor to belong to the second- class. Since my boys have quit me for more ambitious things, I rent out my land and have only a general supervision. The farm cost me six thousand dollars. My tents average four hundred dollars, which is about six per cent after paying taxes. Besides this we have a comfortable home and plenty of cheap fuel, which may be put down at another hundred, and there are the fruits and vegetables and potatoes and chickens and ducks and spring lamb and fall mutton and a fat pig now and then lor a barbecue, and there is latitude and longitnde and springs and branches and a creek to fish in and a mountain to hunt on and wild fruits and wild flowers all around, and all these ought to be pat down at another hundred, and this makes up altogether about ten per cent on the investment, which is as good as Georgia railroad stock, snd less liable to change and the accidents of commerce. We have no con flict with labor, no perils of fire or thieves or robbers or detalcatore. Even General Sher man failed to destroy it, aud where he dog hU trenches is better laud than ever. I wish I had control of him and his diggers for about a month—I would have my whole farm subsoiled three feet deep. The third class are the tenants, the humble yoemanry of ihe land—the toilers and sweaters who are not working to get rich, bat to make a living. They have no ambition for fame or fortune and are contented with their lot..- Their fathers left them but little beside a good exam ple of industry and honesty and patriotism and they will do the same by their children. They are generaly good lawabiding citizens. When the overseer of the road warns them to come and work the highway they shoulder a shovel and go and have a good time joking and laugh ing and playing marbles and swapping the na- borhood news. Whilftt the sheriff summoiW them to serve on the jury they take it afoot to town, and like patience on a monument, sit and listen to the lawyers quarrel and so earn their two dollirs a day and are thankful. They have not settled it jet whether a level moon or a tilting one foreshadows rain, but certain it is, one or the other. They still believe that botts kill horses and that a weak eyed nag ought to be cut for the hooks. They are rough and strong and self reliant. They never surrender to misfortune, but dare to love their country and hate the niggers and live poor. These men make no complaint about depression, but take life as it comes and are ready for the Dext war. Too many things are charged up to the farm that don’t belong there. My farm does not support my family, but it is not the fault of the farm. One of my boys msde a thousand dol lars clear money on it in one year, and it was a poor year, but we spent it for him, and so he got discourged and qnit. A diligent managing young man with no dependents can take that farm and clear fifteen hundred dollars on it raising grain and hay and cattle and hogs. When an aspiring country family is trying to keep up with town ways, and social customs and falls behind in money and credit, the de falcation should not be charged up to the farm. < >ne of my nabors kept a team on the road to town every day and he wore out his buggies and har ess every year, and it took half the farm made to keep up the team and the repairs, and pay the driver. One summer he had lots of company and when they began to come there were three or four hundred chickens in the backyard, but before the company left he was buying about twenty a day. But he is a shifty man, and manages to get along. A man can’t run a free hotel, and a Iree livery stable on a hundred acre farm and save any money. He couldn’t do it in the good old days when nig gers was—and he can’tdo it now, but I know a man who tries to. 'iT/HuMOg Where Peppermints Grow. [Bartba H. Burnham In August Wide Awake. J O- Myrtle Belle! what do you s’poee? It really, dear I9 so— I’ve been down Into Candy Land, To see where pep’mints grow. I’ve been to Grandpa P rcy’s, dear, Alaiott a month, seems if, And, playing In the mea^w there, I 9. iffcd a pep’mict sn’if At first I thought the candy man Was waiting therf* or me. And thrn I 9pled. O. Myrtle Bjllel A cunning pep’mint tree. There was no candy to be seen, Bat baby fl >wers Instead— But they mean c «nry by and by— Peppermints white bud red. And so. when Grandpa harvests io Hi < citron, lash and qu.nce, I’m going down to Candy Land To get my pepperu lnts. “Secretary Evarts uses some remarkably loug sentences doesn’t he” said a traveler to hisjseat-mate with whom he had been discussing the various statesman. “Yes, but I don’t think any of his can com pare in length to a sentence that 1 heard Judge Bromley get off last week.” “What was it?” “Twenty live years. 1 ’ „„ V - h _, / The real reason why negroes live to such an extreme old age is that they don’t know exact ly when they were born. Man wants but little here below, and he gen erally gets it. “Who is that pretty girl you walked home from church with last Sunday?” “Oh, she sings in the choir.” “Ah, yes, I see, a chants acquaintance.” $ For Expectant Bridegrooms. [Kdwa d P. Jackson.] A husband duly trained should be A model o sagacity— Should understand especially The marvelous capacity. The clever persp cacity Of woman's wisdom and esprit. Compared w th his capacity; Should listen silently when she Indulges in lc q iacity. And trust unhesitatingly Her knowledge and veracity. If now and then she chance to be Comparatively tacit, be May venture the audacity To speak a word respectfully, If "he unnoticed pyss it, he Mu9t show no pertinacity, No masculine pugnacity, B n humbly wait, and patiently To swallow with voracity Whatever crumbs of wisdom she M»v drop, and to her precepts he ^ Should cleave with meek tenacity. An article is now going the rounds entitled “What to Wear.” Bless you! We all know what to wear, but we want to know “how to get it.” Smith (with effusion)—Hello, Brown, is that you? I heard you were drowned. Brown (with sadness)—No, it was my broth er. Smith (thoughtlesslj )—What a pity. Angelina—Whatever made you tell Uncle Harpagon you’re making §5000 a year, when, with all your hard work aDd my economy, we can scarcely make both ends meet?” Edwin—My love, he’s worth half a million, and if be think’s we don’t need it, he’ll very likely leave it all to us. The Bravest Battle. [Jjsquin Mtl.er ] The bravest battle that ever was fought— Shall 1 tell you wnere auo when? Oa the maps of the world vou wl 1 find it not: 'Twa» fought by the mothers of men. Nav. not with cannon or battle shot, With sword or nobler pen; Nay, not with eloquent word o* thought Prom mouths of wonderful men; Bnt deep in a walled up woman’s heart. Of woman that would not yield, But bravely, silently bore her part— Lo! there is that battlefield! No marshalling troop, no blvonae song No banner to gleam and wave: Bu oh! these battles! they last so long— From babyhood to the g ava. The Rev. Sydney Smith being asked by a lady why it was reported that there were more women in the world than men, he replied, “It is in conformity with the arrangements of na ture madam: we always see more of heaven than earth.” Evidently St. Patrick Gladstone doesn't mean to rest so long as there is a coercion snake left in the Emerald Isle. Heiress—“I am afraid it is not for me that yon come so often, bnt for my money.” Ardent Wooer—“You are cruel to say so. How can I get your money without getting you?” A timid young man in handing a small fee to the minister when he got married said in his embarrassment “I hope it will be more next time.” “How shall I s habit break ?” Am yon«ld that habit make. A§ joe gathered, yon most ion ; As yon yielded, now lefuse. Thread by thread the suand we twist Till they bind us neck and wrist: Thread by thread the patient hand Must urn wide ore tree we stand. c. „ .Atwe builtied, Stone fey stole. We most toll, uuhelpea, alone. TUI the wall is overthrown. —John Boyle (yiieilly.