About The sunny South. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1875-1907 | View Entire Issue (Oct. 29, 1887)
THE SUNNY SOUTH. ATLANTA, OA* SATURDAY MORNING, OCTOBER 29,1887, 3 [mu THE AUTHOR'S ADVANCE FBOOF3HEET8—SECURED EXPRESSLY FOR THE ‘‘SUEHT SOUTH.”] THE DUCHESS. By the Author of “Phyllis,” “Molly Bawn,” “Mrs. Geof- “Lady Branksmere,” Etc, Etc. frey, CHAPTER XXIII. “But uow the hand of fate li oa tuo curtain. And gives the scene to llgbt.” In the morning that tiresome headache is worse than ever. Norah manages to get down to breakfast, but only to play with her toast and to refuse with a glance of distaste any thing offered her. “How ill you look, darling,” says Madam, some hours later, meeting her in "one of the anterooms, equipped for walking. “Like a little pretty ghost. I am so distressed about it; and your father coming to morrow, too! It is dreadful; ho will say I have not taken any care of yon.” “Whocould have taken more?” says the Duchess Rweetly, slipping an arm round her ceck. “You have made me feel always that yon love me.” | “Have I?” very pleased. “That is as it 1 should be, then, and only the barest truth. ! Every mother should love her own little dingh- I ter.” She smiles and kisses the girl with a j lingering fondness, and smooths back the soft and keeps an unwelcoma impression from short run brings hr-r to a rise in the ground that betrays to her the fact of a road that lies just below where she is standing. A high bank, topped by fnrze bushes, hides that part of the wood where she now stands from the public way, though a dilapidated gateway low er down permits her to see where the road runs. As she draws nearer to it she becomes conscious that broken sounds are beginning to fall upon her ear; panting breaths, muttered curses, the swaying movements of feet. In this moment she knows, as well as though she can already see him, that Denis is on the road, close to that broken gateway, and that he is fighting fiercely for dear life. All at once her faintness leaves her. A cold chill rushes through her, hardening every nerve. Springing to the top of the high hank, she looks through the furze bushes, down on to the road beneath, and sees— CHAPTER XXIV. “Courage is a sort of armour to the mind, ruffl»d locks from her hot brow. “You are quite feverish, darling. Do you know I am growing tea ly uneasy about you?” “It is this headache.” “But what a persisteut one. Will you see Dr. Morgan?” “No, no, indeed,” laughing. “What non sense, Auntie. I’ll tell you, though, what I think of doing. Ox going out, and staying for quite ever so long. Make an excuse for me at luncheon, and don’t expect me again until you see me. I feel as if a good dose of the strong wild wind outside is the one thing that can blow these cobwebs out of my brain.” “Then go, by all meanr, dearest. Try your own medicine first, mine afterwards,” "says Madam. “But before you go—a biscuit and a glass of Madeira. Come, now, I insist, and for reward, I’ll tell any pretty fib you like about you at luncheon.” The dull and cheerless sun, that all day long has been making so poor a pretence at jollity, has at last sunk behind the hills. Already daylight wanes, and the heavy gusts of wind that, rushing through the fir tops, stirred the wide air sinco early dawn, have now gained in strength, and are roaring sullenly with a sub dued force, that speaks of a violent outburst later on. One or two heavy drops of rain fall with a quick, soft sound at Nor ah’s feet. They rouse her from the reverie in which she has almost lost herself; roo.se her, too, to a knowledge of the fact that day is nearly dead, and that the air is full of sigus of the coming storm. So swift have been her thoughts daring her long, .swift ramble through the woods and over the hills, and thence into unknown woods again, that to her it seems as though it is but a little while Rince she walked from the broad stone steps that lead to the entrance d»or at Castle Ventry; and yet, in realjty, how long has it been? She pauses to look round her to notice for the first time how swiftly the darkness is be ginning to fail; to see, too, with a vague yet sharp touch of fear, that the place wherein she now stands is strange, unknown to her. Whither have her restless feet carried her; all the landmarks by which she had been used to guide herself are now behind her, lost to her, unless she can retrace her stops to some spot familiar. A huge black cloud has gathered overhead, and is covering ail the heavens. A little fine, white mist begins to fall, a shadowy sort of shower, that presently declares itself more openly', and becomes an honest downpour. Larger and larger grow the drops, darker and darker the atmosphere; and now that first mild sense of fear gathers in force and becomes uncomfortably definite. Turning, she begins to walk briskly in the way she believes she has come, but which in reality is only taking her the more decidedly from Ventry; when she has walked in this di rection about twenty minutes, she pauses and looks around her, only to find herself hope lessly astray. Blackor grows the leaden sky above, as seen in irregular patches through the arching brandies over her head. Slowly, steadily rises the storm; already the wind begins to rush past her with a fierceness that makes her limbs tremble. Standing still, with her arm round a sapling oak for support, and feeling a very natural thrill of terror as she acknowl edges to herself that she scarcely knows where to turn, sho happens to lift her head and there on her right she sees an old broken-down cot tage, or hut rather—close to a tall fir tree, that appears to bend over it as if offering protec tion. It will give shelter at least Running to wards it she steps quickly, thankfully, into the miserable one bare room of which it can boast. Dead leaves blown in by many winds strew the earthen floor. A wide open chimney holds on its hearth the grey ashes of dead fires old and gone. The Duchess, with a sense of rather uncanny loneliness, looks with ungrateful backward glances at this spot that alone has held out to her the arms of pity. How long has it stood hero a prey to ghosts? Not so long, appa rently. In one corner stands a pile of rotten fir logs, and near it a bundle of twigs, or “kip- pens,” as the peasants call them, that suggest a desire on the part of the late tenants to light one more lire before they should leave this di lapidated home for ever. Through two large holes in the thatched roof the rain is falling with a quick steady drip, and Norah, avoiding it as best she may, loans dis consolate against the open doorway and gazes with many misgivings on the dismal scene without. It must be now about five o’clock according to her calculation—in reality it is considerably later—and they will all be now in the library, some gathered round the welcome driving too deep into perception.” It is Danis she sees first. Ha is facing her; whilst his opponent—who has grasped him by the throat with a savage grip, and is straining every muscle to bring him to the ground, has his back to her. He is a powerful-looking man, and even as Norah looks onp frozen by horror, he makes an effort to bring down the handle of tho revolver he carries upon Dela ney’s head, with the intent to hammer out his brains. It is evidently a strugglo that cannot last long. Delaney’s face is already death-like, rendered the more ghastly because of the heavy drops of blood that are running down it from a wound in the forehead, and his coat is torn away from one arm that hangs helpless by his side. With the other arm he still holds his would-be murderer, and with the tenacity of his race is stiff holding his own, when another would be lying spent and insensible. To Norah—who is of his own blood, and who can'see for herself that unless succor is prompt the end is very near—this sight gives fresh courage. Her spirit rises within her; she sets her teeth and looks swiftly, keenly around her. A short, heavy stake, pan of the broken gate way, catches her eye; she loses no time, she moves quickly towards it; to seize it noiseless ly, to spring once again to that high part of the bank that brings her right over the assas sin’s head ami within a foot of him, takes her but a minute, aud then! With all the strength of her strong young arms sho lifts the heavy piece of wood well above her shoulder, and brings it down again with unerring precision right upon the scoun drel’s pale I Like a stone lie drops; half dragging Denis with him, but the girl, jumping into the road, catches him as he faffs, and holds him upright still with loving arms. Even now, as insensi bility at last overpowers him, as deadly stupor benumbs his every sense, he knows her. “My beloved! My own little girl!” he breathes faintly, with but a poor attempt in deed at the old fond smile, yet with love un speakable in his fast closing eyes. He makes a vain effort to hold out his hands to her, and then fails inertly against the bank. And now it comes to Norah to do what she never afterwards can remember doing, or un derstand how she had the power to accomplish it. But The God of love, ah! benedice. How mighty and how great a Lord is He! Surely ho helps her now. Looking at him, ly ing there in that awful swoon, it seems to her that she daro not leave him alone with the murderer beside him whilst she runs for help. What if the man were to recover whilst she was away. What if he he not dead. Poor, little, tender-hearted Duchessl Let her not be thought unwomanly if in this supreme moment she hopes passionately that she has killed the man who would have slain her lover, and only fears that she has not done so. What if he should rise and finish his ghastly work whilst she ran blindly along an unknown road to gain that assistance she might never meet! Moisture rises to her brow as she thinks it all out, and then all at once she aban dons that idea of gaining help, and with one quick indrawn breath steadies herself down for the work she is determined to do this night, or die in the attempt. S looping, she encircles Danis with her arms, and presently has drawn him, first towards the broken gateway, then through it; through the blessed opening that permits her to drag him out of view of that cruel figure on the ground, into the safer shelter of the woods beyond. Yard by yard, sobbing, panting, with her fear and her fatigue pressing sorely on her, yet never discouraged, she slowly—and ever more slowly, as the willing arms grow so deadly weary—drags him to the protection of that lonely hut close to the fir tree. Even when she has got him in and laid him softly downwards, with the poor broken arm as comfortably settled as she can manage it, her zeal for his welfare does not relax. Off her own tender body she strips her sealskin coat (a present from her auntie) to make a pil low for his head; and then, not thinking it high enough—careless of cold, of discomfort, nay, dead to them—she slips off her flannel petticoat and adds that to the coat. Not until she has done all this does she per mit herself to kneel beside him and look into hia face. I3 it his face, that calm, stiff, motionless mask, all streaked and dyed with blood, blood still flowing? She has been so engrossed hith erto with her terrible task of bringing him there, that the idea that her labor might be in vain—that death might already have robbed her of what she most values upon earth—has (i not suggested itself; but now it comes, and a tea-1 ray, others lounging in pretty tea-goxns ! very agony of despair takes possession of her. iu the softest chairs to be found. Nearer she leans over him, stiff nearer—her De lis, too, will have come in long ago from ! miserable eyes clinging to his death like face, his shooting, and perhaps—perhaps will uotv ‘ What a horrible pallor is that upon his cheek! be thinking of her and wondering where she ! How sunken are the eves within their sockets! is; a little uneasy, too, it may be. ~ Sue can a!- ! How cruelly calm the mouth! Is—is he dead? most sea his handsome, rather melancholy face J Uhl no, no, no! Not dead! Hurt, hurt nigh of late, with the eyes turning so constantly to ; unto death, if it must be; but oh! not dead in- the door. ! deed! Her very soul uplifts itself in supplici- Weli well; why think of it? He may won- j tion. Maimed, suffering, broken let him be— der aud watch, and long for her coming; but I hut grant that life stiff lingers within his of what avail will it all be? There is no end ! bruised body. to it but one She will not dwell upon it. Let | “Oh! thou loving lord, by whom all prayers her rather turn her thoughts to the fact that | are heard, hear mine.” she is imprisoned here until the storm shall i Softly, tremulously she entreats; and now, cease, and that even after that she will not with nervous fingers, she loosens his coat and know whai direction to take to reach Ventry. i feels for the heart that should beat beneath. How dark it grows, blacker and blacker | And after a minute (who shall say what azes frown the heavons. The dimmest twilight is I lie in it?) a faint pulsation rewards her. He all that is left of the day just done. What | lives! As yet, at least, tho vital spark is in will they think of her at the Castle? With i him. wha? a contemptuous sneer Katherine will hint i But how to keep it there! Deftly she tears at the barbarous bad taste of those who can i first her own handkerchief and then his into i lunge so unreasonably a whole household into j strips, and binds them round his brow. The astatoof apprehension, for the sake of their search for his handkerchief had brought to own idle whims! And besides I light a small fltsk which, to her joy, contains Great Heaved what is that? ! brandy.' But though she tries, even with her Only the report of a gun. But coming ! fingers, to get some between his lips, she fails through the gathering darkness of the descend ing night, it strikes with a cold terror at her hear . And then ail at once, she scarcely knows why. that past scene upon the gravel sweep, stands out before her mental gaze once more. Once again the dog’s yelp of agony sounds on the air; once again Moloney is felled to the grourni; she secs him rise, and marks again the deadly threat of vengeance in his eyes. A fear, born of nothing, as true fears some times are, becomes strong within her. Her heart beats fast, her hands grow cold, her cheek pales. How if that murderous, though silent threat, has been even now fulfilled! if even now h?, her soul’s bsieved, lies power less, dead, with the heavy cruel pattering rein falling, falling always oa the dull insensate body. h is but a little thing after this to picture to make him swallow it. Aud now again terror drives her almost wild. Can she do nothing? Wiff no one ever come to his aid? She runs to tho doorway with a vehement determination to rush through ail the blinding storm in s'-arch of help. But as she crosses the threshold she looks back, and, see ing him lying there so quiet, to ali appearance so lifeless, her heart grows weak within her and her courage fails. Alas, too, even if she were to venture forth, whither cou d she go? Tne place is strange to her; she would not know which way to turn. And if she were to wander too far in this gathering darkness and fail to make her way back again, what might not happen to him before morn, iu her ab sence, alone, untended, deserted? Oh 1 no, she cannot leave him. A vague hope that they will he rescued later she knew, at that first awful moment, bat now she looks for his stalwart frame in Tain. No man is here! She casts her eyes quickly np and down the road for many yards—as far, indeed, as her eyes can pierce the gloom, only to find that it is empty. It is plain that ehe had not killed him! He had evidently recovered sufficiently to enable him to make his way home, and terrified by the thought that succor in some unaccounta ble fashion had come to his victim, had hid den himself away as far from the spot of his attempted crime as possible. With a lightened heart Norah ran back to the cabin, and, seizing the matches, sets fire to some dry leaves, that easily igniting pres ently coax the large bundle of stioks into a flame. Cheerily they blaze, throwing out a delicious glow that warms whatever it tonches. She draws Denis as close up to it as prudence will permit, and once again tries to force the brandy between his lips—this time with some success. And at last, at last, he moves a little and sighs, and finally opens his eyes. “You, my love!” he says very low, with a faint smile, and as though not at all surprised. So near to the gates of death has he been brought, that all emotions, save the one ab sorbing passion of his life, are forgotten by him; and indeed so weak is he that almost as she believes she has gained him back again from the portals we all dread for those we love —even as she tries to answer him—he faints again, leaving her once more to watch out the long dark hoars of night alone. CHAPTER XXV. “I felt a tightness grasp my throat. As it would strangle me." It is now far past midnight, and still the storm rages overhead. Heavy bursts of thun derous rain dash against the walls of the cabin, and through the open doorway the inky black ness of the night looks in upon her as she sits cowering, shivering, by the hearth, her eyes ever fixed upon the motionless figure beside her. Every now and then she rises to chafe the uninjured hand, to listen for the faint breath ing, to wash away the marks of blood upon the wan face. Little by little she has made him swallow most of the brandy the flask contained, and now, with a sad heart, she sits watching for the dawn. Will he last till then? And even then is she sure she can make her way home in a hurry? And—and—when she gets there what wiff her welcome be—what will she say—how give an account of herself? How is she to tell them that she has spent the night—the long, long, terrible night, alone with him in this hut? Katherine’s face rises before her once again— the bitter scorn of it—the cruel contempt—the wicked meaning! A thousand times she assures herself that no one can dare say a word to her prejudice when the truth, in Denis’s shattered person, lies be fore them, and yet after ali that she knows that unkind comment wiff be made, and shrinks from the thought of it with a rather undue horror. In this dark hour she remem bers how Katherine is mistress of her secret; remembers, too, little meaning, kindly smiles, and inuendoes from Nancy and Lady Glandore, and knows full well that her unhappy affec tion for her cousin, if not shouted, has, at least, been whispered on the house tors. Yes; it is all over. This melancholy night spent here in all this desolate cabin wiff never be forgotten by her world—never! It seein3 to her in the morbid state into which she now has fallen, that for the future she wiff be a sort of outcast, an Irish parian as it were, amongst her tribe. One little drop of comfort falls into her cup of misery. To-morrow— nay, to-day, her dad is coming to Ventry. To this thought, which is the very sweetest im aginable to her sorely troubled spirit, she clings eagerly; in it she has indeed “great store of bliss”—for when did her dadever think evil where no evil was?—and if all the world were against her, would not that be, to him, one reason the more for declaring him self the more openly upon her side; dear, dar ling dad 1 A heavy sigh falls from her, and moving un easily upon her seat—(a heap of sticks)—she suddenly becomes aware that Denis has his eyes open and is looking at her. “Is that you, Duchess?” The voice is low, so faint indeed as to be half inaudible, but ‘lovers’ ears are sharp to hear,’ and Norah, rising, bends eagerly over him. Pecan Hunting. Dear Householders: While the rest of you frisk around at the Piedmont Pair (and it isn’t fair at all, and you ought to be ashamed of yourselves for being there, when 1 cannot go), I wiff strike out pecan hunting. A gay and festive crowd of yonng people sailed by my door yesterday afternoon, bound for fun, for frolic, the autumn woods and pecans, and though they didn’t mean it all, and no one would have deemed them capable of such a thing, they gave me an idea. I had been long ing for an inspiration for an hoar cr more, sit ting idly on the floor, elbows on the window sill, face in my hands, and lo, here it was! They bowed at me, they smiled at me, they flirted their every-day handkerchiefs at me, but not one of them said, “Come, and go with us,” and I didn’t. I beat that! I arose ia haste—dispensing with the grace—tied on an apron, a big sun-bonnet, shook the dirt-dob- bers from my willow basket, crammed a book therein, puffed on a pair of silk mits—made out of yarn sooks, persuaded two lady friends to accompany me, and we went pecan hunting on our own responsibility. True, we had to walk, but I didn’t mind that; a cow looked in our direction, a hog folio wid the example of the cow; I followed my inclination and scaled a barbed wire fence, the ladies minced along, were very sedate, aud didn’t giggle as often as I thought necessary, hut with these minor dif ficulties we reached the woods a'ive, and I, at least, set to work diligently hunting pecans under a live-oak tree. As for my demure companions, a fallen log served them as a seat, they gracefully fanned their slightly heated faces, conversed together in carefully modulated tones, haughtily re fused to climb the trees at my suggestion, and rewarded my effort to whistle them a tuno, with a stony stare of complete silence. Somewhat miffed at their want of apprecia tion, I betook myself to otfter fields in search of more congenial companions. Left to them selves, they arose, shook out their skirts, hoisted their umbrellas, daintily picked out the nerrest way home, and departed in great peace. Blissfully ignorant of my ione and un protected condition, I wandered on and on, singing a sweet little song, gathered up some pecans, a few acorns, a bit ot moss, a pink toadstool, a trailing vine, some scarlet leaves, sat down to rest. Burying my nose in the book (Thomas Hardy’s “Woodlaadsrs”) I had brought with me, I entirely forgot all common things, until the gloaming sent me hurrying homeward, considerably alarmed by the thought of meeting a boar who would have no body in the world to squeeze but myself. If those sedate damsels never go pecan hunting again until I take them, they will stay in the house and bleach their fair complexions for ever! Woman’s inhumanity to woman makes lots of people nearly cry their eyes out! Never theless, I had better success than the party in the omnibus. They “clung closer than a brother” to each other, laughed about nothing, chatted of the same commodity, had lots of fun, but no pecaDsl I was fearfully benighted, deserted in my time of need, lost my silk mits, “Yes. I am here,’ she whispers tenderly, the trailing vine, one red leaf and a piece of rents, our country and our God. This devo tion for home seems to be an innate principle belonging to the human race that cannot be obliterated. Oar hearts yearn for home and in our dreams we revisit our familiar haunts aud receive the caresses of loved ones. “Cold and inhuman must that heart be which does not appreciate the pleasures con nected with home, the nearest realization of heaven, on earth.” And, can you who fail to make home happy (the place above all places to be made happy) by your presence and deeds of love, hope to enter that city above and enjoy the blessings of a heavenly home? There is a land beyond the sun, And a city fair with stately domes; Where night nor death doth never come, And the weary rest in peace at home. How many members of the Household has a word of encouragement and welcome for Ivr Evkroreex. Rogers, Ark., Sep., 1887. _ _ _ on by messengers from Ventry gives her some the waits ghastly upturned face, with the dead j wavering comfort; but in truth her present staring eyes, the "parted lies showing tho j fears are so many that comfort in the future is gleaming teeth just a little. Oh, Heaven! Oh, j quickly ousted. It is so cold, too—so bitterly no! On! no. no, no! ; chill! She looks longingly at the dry sticks She shudders violently, aud flings out her j lying on the hearth: but even though she knows 1 that by the aid of the vestas she had found in his pocket when looking for the flask, she can _ _ set lira to them, she shrinks from doing so—a Sho clutches the doorway, aud with dilated j nervous horror lest the smoke shall betray' his eyes staro8 outwards, straining sight and hoar- 1 iug. hands as though to ward off the awful sigh); and as siio thus stands trembling all over, again that sharp sound rings through the daik’iesi. resting place to his enemy restraining her. She lakes one of bi3 hands in hers and feels Aea : u!—close at hand it now sounds—rings j it is cold as ice; his very lips, as she lays her out the sharp crack of a revolver, and follow- i fingers on them, seem frozen. She draws off ing on it, the bang of a breech-loader. To her I her sole remaining petticoat and wraps it round unpracticed ear toth sounds are alike, hut for j him, with dtspair fast gathering at her heart, all trat, instinct is alert within her, and holds j Oh! to light that fire! up a warning hand, and not for one moment is And now a determination enters into her she deluded by the reasonable solution of the that is only part ox the great courage that has problem that Denis on his homeward way has just knocked over a brace of cock. Conquering a sickening sensation that comes very near to fainting, she rushes impetuously out of the house, and through the blinding rain makes her way to the spot from whence the sounds have come. To her surprise, a very all through supported her. Silently she leaves the cabin, and cautiously, with her heart in her throat, steals down to that high bank that overlooks the road. Some faint light shows beyond the depth cf the wood, and cautiously she peers through the fnrze hushes to that spot whereon the man had laiu. It was Moloney, She kneels npon the ground beside him, and softly, lovingly, lays her cool hand upon his forehead. It is throbbing violently; but the wet bandage has evidently been of seme use, as the blood has ceased to flow. Feebly lifting the uninjnred arm, he draws down the little comforting hand until it touches his lips. My beloved this is a bad thing for yon, 1 he whispers with difficulty. “Canyon not go home? You are giving up too much for me." ‘Not so much as yon imagine,” whispers she back, smiling. “I have lost my way, do yon know? I can’t go, so yon see I am not doing very much for you after all.” I know better than that.” The words come slowly, disconnectedly, and as if the utterance of them hurts him. “But I shall explain. I’ll make them understand if I last tiff then—if—” He breaks off with a heavy sieh that is almost a gi-oan, and makes a vain effort, that is very pitiable ia one so strong, to chatige his posi tion. ‘You are in pain?” says Norah, miserably. No But tired—tired,” murmurs he wear ily. Then seeing her about to rise, he clasps her hand closer. “Don’t go. Stay with me. Oh! darling, if I am to die now—after this— with the knowledge that yon love me, it wiff be hard—hard!” “Do not try to talk,” entreats she, raising him with all her strength, and so taming him that he will fiqd relief. “Do not, you are only wasting the little power left you. Now, are you better, more comfortable?” I am happier than I have ever been in ail my life. Ob! Duchess, what shall repay you? not I—I cannot. Bat ” He pauses as though he bas lost himself, and a3 a sad wild light grows within his eyes. “You should not be here. You must go—go—or e lse she will have her jibes—her sneers—she.—she ” He has wandered agaiD, hut mercifully those cruel imaginings soon come to an end, as he sinks once more into the old lethargy, and lies as if dead, save for the faint breathings that make themselves heard now and again. Beside him,'her hand still clasped in his, Norah sits quietly, her head bent upon her knees. And presently on tired thought kindly sleep descends, and conquers it, and Boon all is f irgotten. Oh, blessed, health-giv ing unconsciousness, where would the tried ones of the earth find rest if then wert with drawn ! It is dawn, as with a pang of acutost fear she wakes. Nay, more than dawn. The day is well awake, and on the mountain tops the first fine clouds of coming morn are dissolving beneath the sun’s warm rays. Springing to her feet, Norah turns a terrified alance upon Delaney, to find that he stiff breathes, and with a rush of thankfulness she bends over him and presses the last few precious drops of brandy between his lips. She knows perfectly the task that now lies before her, and having heaped the few remaining sticks on the still glowing embers, she prepares for departure, and a return to the place where a severe cross- examination, as she believes, awaits her. At the door she looks back, and something— is it the helplessness of his attitude or the utter forlornness of him—touches her? In a moment she is by his side again; she is lean ing over him; softly her loving fingers brush back the short hair from his brow; long, long she gazes at him, as one might upon their dead, with, in her case, an intensity born of the fear that it may ba for the last time. Those wretched ones, whose beloved are al ready dead, may he counted happy in compar ison with these who stiff wait upon their dying, fighting each minute with the Tyrant who con quers ail things—love and hate, and pride and lust, and jealously and envy aud ail uncharita bleness. Norah, kneeling beside him, feels s.3 though indeed this were a last farewell, and at the thought her heart fails her, and she bursts out crying. She dares not believe the terrible idea that so obstinately forces itself npon her, or else (she knows) she will never be able to sum mon the courage to leave him; yet go she must, for his sake. She presses her lips to hi? hand, and then, emboldened by his unconsciousness and strengthened by the innocent love she hears him (it is. after al', but a ti tle the more), she stoops and gives him soft, gentle, loviDg kissc-s upon cheeks and hair and forehead, and, at last, after some faint, honest hesitation, his Ups too! Cold, unresponsive lips! but all tha dearer because of the sad reason for their cold ness! Then, now bitterly weeping, she runs out of the cabin, and gaining the road, turns, without knowing why, to the right. A.l roads, indeed, are alike to her. so great is her ignorance of her locality, but fortunately instinct, if one may call it so, has in this instance led her aright. It has stood to her so weil, that half an hour’s brisk walking brings her within view of the gilded vane of Veniry, glittering gaily in tha morning sunlight. [TO BE CONTINUED.] the toad-stool, but I got the pecans—a dozen or more—and all the king’s horses can’t make me divide them, either! I hope you will all enjoy the Fair to your hearts’ content—get jnst as worn out and wearied as the nature of the case will permit, and that’s a very great* deal, I know, lor I’ve been to Fairs, if I do live in Texas! I was at the Dallas Fair last year; and though yon will turn np your numerous noses at the very thought of comparing it to'tue great Piedmont Exposition, yet there was much more there than I could possibly see, and what else would you have? I am going again next week- health, strength and qey pocket-book permit ting. Little Bess, dear, if you will write just what yon know of me, the letter will come safely, and find a welcome, too. Cornflower, yonr style of thought reminds me very much of a friend who has a spick span and new martgage on some of the very best caltivated land of my heart. Lita Vere, how I did enj cy yonr “Ashes of Roses.” Butterfly, I am so glad to see you among ns again. How can you ever stay away? Little “Old Maid,” welcome. Virginia is the land of my dreams. Dear Night-Blooming Cereus, I see yon have renewed your subscription; will yon not also visit the Household again? I remember—ah, I do—to-day you whose “lines have fallen in pleasant places” wiff meet together in solemn conclave in the Household reception room. I can see yon, each one of you, if I am not there myself. The eyes of my fancy are as big and bright as a deer’s. How your hearts throb, your eyes shine and your cheeks burn! And your hands won’t stay in place, neither will yonr feet. You don’t want to sit still, and you are ashamed to walk about. You are not .looking just as you meant to look, not focling just as you expected to feel, not saying the things you intended to say, thinking much more or less than you purposed to think— surprised, disappointed, disenchanted; Mother Hubbard is too young or too old, too tali or too short, too lean or too fat; your ideas got mixed, your sentiments change, your dreams take flight, and while I hope your sur prises may all be jolly pleasant ones, stiff am inclined to the opinion (and its agreat ermfort to me in my affliction,) that we, who stay at home, retain our credit, and the charm that distance lends, have by far the best end of the bargain. Some of you arise, and contradict i*e. Musa Dunn. Waxahachie, Texas. Hems, Sweat Home. Dear Mother Hubbard: Is there room for one more in your charming household circle? I am an ardent admirer of the Sunny South, Mother Hubbard and all the members of the Household department. Susie Steele, won’t you extend to ms a hand-clasp of sympathy and welcome? I, too, am a country girl, persevering and ambitious Although I sometimes rebel at the “sameness of country life,” I do love the fr£3h green fields; the distant hills wrapped in peaceful repose, and the shady woods in which the song3 of the birds, the hum of the bees .and the murmur of the rippling brooks blend in a wordless melody. As I sit looking idly about me, this mo'Lo—“Home, Sweet Home,” at tracts my attention. Ah, how much is com prehended in that one little word home. “The most expressive in auy language, the most en dearing io every heart.” To the poor laborer, worn aud weary with his daily toil, homo is “a refuge” where he may rest during the night and arise with fresh courage aud renewed strength to contend with the many burdens of the day. The homes of the rich are resplen dent with all that is beautiful to the eye or es sential to one’s comfori; luxurious coaches p.re spread and dainty viands that would tempt the most devoted epicure. Bat, alas! are the ricn rnoro grateful to the Divme Ruler who has be stowed such blessings npon them than he who toils from early dawn uncil the beams of the going down sun flecks the sky with gold aud crimson. Those far away in a distant land—how their lonely hearts yearn for home and tao presence of their loved ones. Though the smiles of kings and princes be conferred upon them, they cannot be compared to the tender words and loving smiles of home. Tne dying soldier ou the bloody field of battle where the boom of artillery and the groan of the fallen are the only sounds that greet the ear, breathes his last prayer for home. The doomed culprit in his ceil, waiting for the laws decree when he shall be brought before “public gaze” lo an swer lor his foul crimes, sighs “alas, alas! had I obeyed the law of my Heavenly Father I would have been at home to-day, free and happy; whereas, I am doomed to misery both here and hereafter.” If we love home ardently we love our pa- Ono Day in the Penitentiary. Dear Mother Hubbard: Not in the peniten tiary of the State, but a basin scooped out in the mountains of East Tennessee, surrounded on all sides by high peaks, with tha exception of a narrow gap facing the Hiwassee river, and all who either go in or come out have to pass through this narrow gap. Leaving the farm house in this basin with a few mountain girls as companions, we climbed np the steep and rugged side of the high peak overlooking the river, and there had a grand view of the surrounding peaks and the beauti ful river lying far down below us with its sparkling drops of water chasing each other over and around the rugged rocks lying in its bed. While some drops were going down other drops were coming up, all fuff of glee smiling, giggling, laughing, romping, dancing bubbling, kissing each other as they go mur muring oa their way to the sea, saying to us “Men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.” Why cannot we be as happy as those drops of water? Because that foolish girl ate that apple. Ohl shame on you, E7e! Bat there is no use talking—we might have done worse, Some of our girls, perhaps, might have taken the devil for a husband and kicked good old Adam out of Paradise with none to comfort or console. After spending the evening npon the moun tain we started for our home, gathering wild flowers on the way, and among tho others found some mountain daisies, and at once my mind turned to Burns where he says : “Wee, modest, crimson tipped flower, Tbon’st met me in an evil boar, For I maun crash amang the suture Tby slender stem. To spare thee now Is past my power, Thou bonnle gem.” Arriving at the base of the mountain just as the twilight was setting in and the quiet of the evening was coming on, and our thoughts had mellowed down to that mysterious hour in na ture when light is turning itself into darkness and the mind communes most with its own thoughts, a large owl jnst over our heads be gan his mournful “whoo—whoo—whoo;” and then I knew that Burns had been among the mountains, too, when he said; “Sad bird of night, what sorrows call thee forth To vent tby platnts thus In the midnight hour? Is It some blast that gathers in the North Threat’nlng to nip the verdure of thy bower?” And then, just as we arrived at the farm house, one yonng mountain sprout called ont to another: “Say, John, did you see that red headed girl?” “No, but I saw a white horse.” Now what do you think of. that? I could have torn the last hair ont of his head il I could have got a good hold of it. Obi super stition, what a monster thon art I Will yon never let go the human mind? If my head is red, is that any reason why I should be for ever tormented with a white horse? With much love to the Household from a stranger, lam Veep in. New York Notes. NUMBER ONE. Dear Mother Hubbard: We enter the harbor by the narrows; on the right hand side is Fort Hamilton; both are built of granite, with mas sive waffs acd mounted with large cannon. That gloomy old fort built on a shoal is Fort Lafayette; it is bnilt of sandstone and is now dismantled and abandoned. It was used as a military prison during the late war. That pretty green Island farther on is Bedloe’s Is land, where stands the great Bartholdi Statue. It stands on a granite pedestal in the centre of old Fort Wood, which was built in 1812. That other Island on the right is Governor’s Island; and that old fort which looks like a gigantic cheese box, is Castle William. On a slight elevation is Fort Columbus, built in 1812; it is now garrisoned by a few regular soldiers. The narrow channel between Governor’s Island and Brooklyn is called “Butter-milk Channel.” That pretty park yonder is called “The Bat tery.” About fifty years ago it used to be a grand parade ground, an 1 tho oid time mer chants built their mansions oa State street aud lower Broadway. Many of those old man sions are there yet, but they are now shipping offices, and emigrant boarding bouses. That round stone building facing the Bay is Castle Garden; it was built originally as a fort, but was never used as such; then it was a theater. Many years ago our uncle took us with him lo hear Jenny Lind, the famous songstress, who sang in Castle Garden when it was a grand place; it is now used as an emigrant landing. Passing through the park we come to ‘ Bowl ing Green;” a little park now covers the spot, in the centre ones stood a leaden statue of George III. It was torn down during the Revolution and cast into bullets to be used by the American patriots. Tho circular iron rail ing was once adorned with six pound iron balls, at intervals of every ten feet; those were knocked off also, during the Revolution, and used for cannon balls. Newark, N. J. Ira Jokes. Dear Mother Hubbard and Householders: After much hesitation and wondering whether I would be welcome among you, I concluded that that the best aud only way to find cut was to boldly knock and see. So here I am— Dor"—asking admittance, and hoping that should I chance to come again, some one wiff say “welcome,” although I wiff be, in reality, a Dot, compared to the older and wiser ones of the Household. I have long read the let ters from the Householders and gleaned many noble and instructive thoughts from them. One of my greatest desires has been to be among you and number you among my friends. Please, now that I have ventured to come, don’t point towards the door for a while yet, for I have come a long distance and am tired and want rest. Householders, I wish you could visit my “cottage home.” Indeed, I am only visiting it now, for ere three weeks have passed, I will ba flying away across to Vi’s home. Vi, won’t you write to me? I am sure we should be good friends, aud I would like to write to you, not under your nom deplume. hut your real name. Perhaps wa may meet soma when I reach your city. This is a calm Sabbath day, and I have nothing to do but think. Left thus alone to my own reflections, I hive b9ca thinking how absence—even short absence—teaches one to appreciate their home, and realize that “there is no piac6 like home.” In to spot oa the earth would the sun seem to shine as brightly for me as at home. I forgot, though, that you eoull not appreciate my home unless yon were here, so we wil! talk of t titer things, as I have only a short lime to stay with you. Musa Duua, I love you. Can’t you make room for me ia some little corner of your heart? Please do; no matter how small the space, it would inspire a poor stranger with courage. Veritas, vou are one of my favorites; aud you, too, White Wings. Rosa Alba, every one welcomes you, and you must come often. Halle, will you be my friend? Is that ask ing too mnch for a stranger? I have long read j<mr letters and admired you from a distance, wishing I might be yonr friend and yon mine. Won’t some member of the Household start np some real good subject for discussion? Love has been discussed until it has grown to be a very tiresome subject, especially to one who has had no opportunity to know anything about it. Can’t some one start a snbjtct we all know something about? But I must go. It is a long trip home, and so I bad better start at once. Cornflower, here’s a farewell kis3 for you. Mother Hubbard, please don’t say I have stayed too long, but I fear you are going to say it has seemed long, so I am gone. May I hope that shonld I ever he tempted to knock and try to enter again, there wiff he 8 place and a welcome for even a little Russellville, Ark. Dot? BOYS A GIRLS’ DEPAKTMENT. Dear Aunt Judy and Cousins: Will you consider it an intrusion for me to apply for ad mittance into your circle? I have been read ing the Sunny Soctu only a short while, but think it by far tho nicest paper I have ever read; and I have become especially interested in the cousins, and long to be one of yon. I am more emboldened to ask for membership since reading the spirited and somewhat “cheeky” application from Charley Chesnut in the last number. Wo may pardon his “cheek,” however, as his letter betrays the fact that beneath his flippant tone of composi tion there is a layer of exceptional sense, and I am sure that he wiff prove an amusing addi tion to—may I say our circle? My only objec tion to him is his pseudonvm. Ha should have selected something less “Ratty.” Another letter which interested me greatly (though of a different stamp to the one to which I have just referred) was from Victoria Regia, on dancing. Her debate was a good one, and indicates most plainly that enviable gentleness and sweetness of disposition so characteristic of many of your household. But as yet I cannot endorse all her objections. She says the Bible says it is wrong. I have never seen a passage in Scripture which for bids it; but doubtless it is because I have never devoted enough time to its study. If any of you know of such a passage, p’.eas8 refer me to it, for I am eager to convince myseif beyond all doubt that it is either right or wrong. I assume the affirmative side mostly from a self ish motive, for I love danciDg beyond every other amusement, and the sacrifice it would cost me to renounce it can only be appreciated by those who, like myself, have long been a devotee at the shrine of Terpsichore. We all admit, do we not, that God loves the beauti ful? No creation of nature, that has come within the range of my vision, can I call ugly; and, try as we may, the lines',, the grandest masterpiece of man sinks into utter insignifi cance when compared to the most inferior of God’s works. Christ commands us to improve our talents in whatsoever direction they may lie. If we have fine vocal powers we cultivate them; if our talent rests in something else, we nourish it, etc. Why, the finest, the most el oquent ministers of the gospel practiced and recited and gesticulated before mirrors; and why? That they might not appaar awkward ana clumsy whee the criticising eye of thou sands should rest upon them. None consider this wrong, and yet dancing is so bitterly con demned, though it undoubtedly tends to make us ploasing to the eye. When indulged in moderation, I claim that it is rather beneficial than otherwise, for it is both graceful and ex ercising. It takes away much of our natural clumsiness of carriage and imparts a freshness and activity to girlhood refreshing even to those who condemn it. And now why should there be harm in it if practiced in moderation? I think it is the most innocent of girlish pas times. God doesn’t mean for us to sit with long, sober faces frowning at every amusement which contributes its share towards rendering our lives happier. He doesn’t mean to exclude us from al[ the pleasures common to youth. Don’t you all think we should each assert our individual conscience in this matter? The wisest men differ, and as we all have the same holy book for our guide, why not read it and judge for ourselves whether it be sinful or not, independent of the opinionsof others? Excuse this long talk on a subject which, to many of you, is doubtless uninteresting; bat if you have read it through without complaint, consider you have done something noble, and utter with Longfellow—"Patient endurance is God-like.” I see many of yon differ in regard to “She.” I think it required an intellect and imagination beyond the easy reach of man to portray in such exquisitely glowing, eloquent language a story so weird and unnatural. Bat it seems a pity that Haggard should at the finale appear to endorse the Darwinian theory. I was deep ly disappointed in the insignificant ending of She who-must-be-obeyed. Most of you give descriptions of yourselves, but I have reserved that bitter dose for the close, fearing that should I give it at the be ginning many of you would turn from my let ter in disgust. Do you understand me when I say that iu my personal appearance I claim an affinity for “Iloily ?” Iam eighteen years of age, rather inclined to be a blonde, and ngly without a question mark after it. Musa Dunn, I was charmed with ycur letter, but more so with the thought that you were a Texan; aud as I also claim that honor, let it serve as a bond between ns. With many apologies for so long an intru sion upon your kindness, believe me very sin cerely, I- B. B. Dallas, T<.xas. Dear Aunt Judy and Cousins: Oh, some one do open the floor quickl for 1 have ran all the way from the lovely "Oleander City” of Texas, to join (with your permission) your de lightful circle, and was so much afraid some one would catch me before I coaid peep inside, that I just had to scream—but don’t get frightened because I am from Texas and hol low so loud, for I won’t bite—oh,no,’cause my Auntie says its naughty. Weil, as is tha cus tom of each new cousin, I will try to give a brief description of appearanoe—hut please do not judge me harshly, and say if I was only a little smaller you would put me in the waste basket. I am 5 feet 2 inches, and weigh 120 pounds; am neither a blonde n or a brunette, but a “betwixt and a between.” I have stood the heated sands of 18 summers, but the falls! —“don’t mention it”—yet, so long as I have never taken a tumble great enough to break my neck, I am Bull left a jolly little orphan from the Lone Star State. I have read for some time the boys’ and girls’ department with great interest, and have long wished to be numbered a3 one of the cou sins, but have kept back on account of that horrid waste basket. Now, Aunt Judy, if you wiff excuse my rude intrusion, also the length of this letter, and ad mit me into your joliy circle I shall feel greatly honored, and in the future endeavor to write something of interest; but if you attempt to throw me in the waste-basket I will write Uncle Punch a long, sweet letter, and I know he wiff love me and l6t me in, too. With bsst wishes for all, wiff say “ta, ta ” Yours, Oleander. Dear Cousin3: I know it looks like j have deserted you all but it is not so I am going to tell you all something that wiff make you envy me.; I am hoarding in the very same house with Goldie Ashburn. She has come back to school and so we are boarding in the same house. There is a lot of us to gether and we have more fan than a little, bat “letter' 1 studying. We girls go to school every day, even on Saturday; aud on Sunday we all go over to the G. M. C. A. club. I wish some one wonld tell me whom Mack married? I was absent from home and so missed the in formation. I received a beautiful gold watch for my birthday present. I wish 6ome one would tell me something of Lynnette, can’t yon, Alabama? The weather is simply awful I am a sister of Minnie May; she is now residing in Arkansaw. I am glad to see the new Cousins, but would like to see some cld face now and then. Tne old mem bers have gone to the household. Never mind you deserters, such as Gfidie a id Bertram. Mountain Hoosier, I would like to know yon; couldn’t you write me a letter? Goldie don’t know I’m writing, bat goodness me, won’t I Gatch it when she finds it out! Which had youralhr-r be G >ldie, “the fool of the family,” or “the laughing stock of the crowd,” under stand? Don’t you wast to go for some more tomatoes? Love to all. Nkl Gilmore. Dear Aunt July and Cousins: As the leaves turn brown and fail, they seem to whisper to ns that autumn now is here and winter is fast approEcning. as a sit n*re, with the sun shedding its last faint rays upon me, and wrap ping hill and vale in a beautiful golden light, and the sky a mass of bine and gold, I hare a a burning desire to become one of yon, haring long been a devoted admirer of the Letter Box. And Auntie, I will ask yon this erening to admit a timid stranger into your charming circle. If I may oome, jost give me a seat in the corner and I’ll oceupyjnst as small a spade as possible. I am tall, am a blonde and I’ve a heart that is true. Cousins, I love you ali and hope to gain a tender spot in each heart Amtie, I think yon are one of the Rweetest little ladies in this great world of onrs. I’re been taking the Sunnt South only a short while, bnt, through the kindness of a friend, I have been reading it some time. I await anxiously for the com ing of the dear old Sunnt South and when I read the last paragraphs and lay the paper aside, my only wish is, that it came everyday. I have often desired to enter yonr charming circle, but—being timid—was afraid I would fall a victim of the dreaded waste-basket and now, if I escape, I will come again by-and by. Will not Auntie and the Cousins speak one little word of welcome to Bonnib Violet. “I Feel So Well.” “I want to thank you for telling me of Dr. Pierce’s “Favorite Prescription,” writes a lady to her friend. “For a long time I was unfit to attend to the work of my household. I kept abou', but I felt thoroughly miserable. I had terrible backaches, and bearing down sensa tions across me and was quite weak and dis couraged. I sent and got some of the medi cine after receiving your letter and it has cured me. I hardly know myself I feel so well.” The silent man is often worth listening to. FAITH CURE FAIRLY BEATEIf. Chaplain Halt Writes the Following Ba- markable Letter. j From the Albany N. Y., Express k For many years my wife had been the victim of nervous dyspepsia, of the chronic, distressing and apparently in curable type from which so many of her sex suffer, languish and die. It was all the worse because the tendency to it was inherited. She had been under the systematic treatment of many of the best physicians in New York andBrook- Iyn and elsewhere for twenty years with only temporary relief. In fact, there were few, if any, kinds of food that did not distress her, so diseased, sensitive and torpid were all the organs of diges tion. The usual symptoms of dyspep sia, with its concomitant ailments, were all present—bad taste in the mouth, dull eyes, cold feet and hands, the sense of a load upon the stomach, tenderness on pressure, indigestion, giddiness, great weakness and prostration, and fu gitive pains in the sides, chest and back. I have often risen in the night and ad ministered stimulants merely for the sake of the slight and transient relief they gave. Intermittent malarial fever set in, complicating the case and making every symptom more pronounced and intense. By this time the pneumo- gastric nerves had become very seri ously involved, and she had chronic Gastritis, and also what I may be al lowed to call chronic intermittent ma larial fever all at once. For the latter the physicians prescribed the good, old- fashioned, sheet-anchor remedy, Quin ine gradually increasing the doses, until —incredible as it may seem—she actu ally took THIRTY CRAINS A DAY FOR days in succession. This could not last. The effect of the quinine was, if possible, almost as bad as the two fold disease which was wearing away her strength and her life. Quinine poisoning was painfully evident, but the lever was there still. Almost every day there came on the characteristic chill and racking headache, followed by the usual weakness and collapse. About this time I met socially my friend Mr. Norton, a member of the linn of Chauncey Titus & Company, brokers, of Albany, who, on hearing from ms these facts, said: “Why, I have be - n through almost the same thing, and Lave got over it." “ What cured you?" I ashed eagerly. “ Kas- Line,” he said, “ try it for your wife.” 1 iiad seen Kaskine advertised, but had r.o more f.tiih ia it than I had in saw dust, ior such a case as hers. Mrs. Hall had r.o higher opinion, yet on the strength of my friend’s recommenda tion I g.)t a bottle and began its use as directed. Now recall what I have already said as to her then condition, and then read what follows: Under the Kaskine treatment all the dyspeptic symptom* showed instant improvement, and the daily fever grew less and soon ceased altogether. Side by side these diseases vanished, as side by side they had tort ured their victim for tep years—the dyspepsia alone having, as I have said, existed for twenty years. Her appetite improved from week to week until she could eat and digest the average food that any well person takes, without any suffering or inconvenience. With re newed assimilation of food came, of course, a steady increase in flesh, until she now looks like her original self. She still takes Kaskine occasionally, but with no real need of it, for she is well. I consider this result a scientific miracle, and the “ New Quinine ’ isen titled to the credit of it, for from the time she began with Kaskine she used no other medicine whatever. If you think a recital of these facts calculated to do good you are welcome to make them public. I (Rev.) JAS. L. HALL, Chaplain Albany, N. Y., Penitentiary, j P. S.—Sometimes letters of this kind are published without authority, and in case any one is inclined to question the genuineness of the above statement I will cheerfully reply to any commu nications addressedto me at the Peni tentiary. Jas. L. Hall. ■ Other letters of a similar character from prominent individuals, which stamp Kaskine as a remedy of un doubted merit, will be sent on appli cation. Price $i.oo, or six bottles, $5.00. Sold by Druggists, or sent by mail on receipt of price. I The Kaskine Company, 54 Warren St., New York, and 35 Farringdoa Road, London. * -Li O'
