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BY GARDNER & BARROW.
TSII'i GEORGIA RIRROR,
Is published every SaturJay, in Florence,
'tewurt county, Ga. at THKKE DOLLARS a
year, if paid in advance, or FOUR DOLLARS,
n' not paid until the end of the year.
Advertisements will be conspicuously inserted
at One Dollar per square, (15 lines) the first, and
r,O cents lor each subsequent insertion. Nothing
under 15 lines will be considered less than a
square. A deduction will be made for yearly ad
fvtisements.
Vll advertisements handed in for publication
without « limitation, will be published till forbid,
aud charged accordingly.
Sales of Land and Negroes hy Executors, Ad
• . . „..,i ouardlaits, are required by law
to be advertised in a public Gazette, sixty days
previous to the day of sale.
Tin- sale of Personal property must be adver
tise- 1 in like manner forty days.
Notice t:> Debtors and Creditors of an estate
must be published forty days.
Notice that application will be made to the
Court of Ordinary for leave to sell Land and Ne
croes, must be published weekly for four month.-,.
QT 5 * All Letters on business must be dost
raid to insure attention.
JOB PRINTING.
(~1 ONNECTED with the office of the AIIR-
J R< )R, is a splendid assortment of
And we are enabled to excute all kind of Job work,
in the neatest manner and at the shortest notice.
of every description will constantly be ke]it on
hand, such as
INDICTMENTS,
DM CL N. RATIONS,
SUBPU'.NAS,
JURY SUMMONSES,
EXECUTIONS.
COST EXECUTIONS.
SHERIFF’S RILLS OF SALE,
do DEEDS,
l\nd DEEDS,
JUS. SUMMONSES,
do EXECUTIONS,
MORTGAGES,
LET. A DMINISTRATION,
do TESTAMENTARY,
do GUARDIANSHIP,
And a great many others for Justices of the
Peace, Administrators, Executors, &c.
\CC( )RDING to a few days notice by the
__u Trustees of Florence Academy, a public
examination of the Students was desired, and the
exercises of the first Term closed this day, and
ihe citizens who attended, were much delighted,
with the improvement of students, and tho Trustees
present take great pleasure in giving this public
te timonial of their approbation for the able
and impartial manner in which Mr. A. W. Gris
woki has discharged his duty as an instructor; and
without any hesitancy we would recommend
Parents and Guardians to place their Children
and wards under Mr. Griswold’s care; whom we
consider second to none, a- an instructor in the
English and Latin languages.
The second term of thfe in iitution will com
mence on Monday the 25th day of June, under
the charge of Mr. G. with the, same rules and
regulations as the term just ended.
We xvou'd remark that Florence lias been en
tirely healthy, and settled with good society,
hoard may be had at customary rates in Town ur
neighborhood.
WM. STAFFORD, )
J.T. It. TURNER, |
JOSEPH REESE, } Trustees.
JORDAN REESE, |
11. W. .TERN I GAN, J
Florence, June 15,1338 12
CAUTION.
[FORWARN all persons from trading for any
of the notes hereinafter described to wit :
the amount of s.'loo in small notes payal'e to
Breen B. Ball or bearer, and hearing date some
time in this instant; some of the above notes are
signed Jeremiah Cutts He William Johnson and
same signed William Johnson Ac Jeremiah Cutts;
and two notes given by myself to Harris De maid,
amounting to 837 and bearing date some tim * about
the first of this instant; also one given to W. He
I>. May for Sl7 and some odd cents, bearing date
some time about the first of Febuary last, and
"ne for $5 bearing date in April or May last given
by myself and payable to James Johnson; and
many others iu the same situation now not recol
lecteiL
All of said notes having been paid off and fully
settled by me, that they are all illegally detained
bom my possession, and I am determined not to
!«>’ said notes the second time unless compelled
by law.
WILLIAM JOHNSON.
Jmimpkin Ga. June 7, 1838. 12 4t__
STRAYED OR STOLEN.
A bright BAY MARE, about
VT five feet six inches high, long tail,
AM has some white hairs about her
right hind foot, no other marks
Collected. The said Mare either Strayed or was
Men from my house about the 20th of March,
hiy nformation will be thankfully received or
Ln Dollars Reward will be given for her delivery
me, near Roanoke, Stewart Countv Ga.
T. H. CORBETT.
Florence, June 16, 1838 17 12
rihORGIA GUARDS, parade at Lumpkin,
on Saturday, 23 inst. armed and equipped
the law directs. Bv ordor of the Captain.
Junes) U J. P. MATTHEWS, O. S.
From the Philadelphia Visiter.
THE GROOMSMAN,
A talc founded upon incidents in real life.
BY H. If. MOOUE, AUTHOR OF “MARY MORRIS.”
( Concluded.)
CHAPTER VI.
Mr. West, when he married Julia Graham, lov
ed her—no; according t t e general acceptation of
the word—but with a fervor approaching idolatry.
His feelings towards her were of the most exalted
kind—delicate and tender in their nature—pure as
the chrysial streams of waters, and as sweet as the
tones of an yEolian harp. A s over the strings of
the harp the summer breeze trembles, with its dy
ing cadence and its rich deep tones —melting—mu-
sical; so it was with Theodore’s love—all gentle
ness—devotion—fondness ! To him a wiie seem
ed something more than an earthly being—some
thing purer—something holier!—Besides, he was
in a great measure, the creature of impulse, and
born with sensibilities natura ly superior to those
ordinarily characteristic of the human species,
why he became so easily the dupe of misrepresen
tation, is a conclusion not at all difficult for us to
arrive at. His fault in the present case was the er
ror of hasty judgment, acted upon by the lightning
like feelings of a warm and youthful heart—youth
is necessar ly without experience. But this only
serves iu some degree to palliate the circumstance
—no to excuse it. Ilad he paused, as he should
have done, for reflection, lie would have acted dif
ferently—his wife would not have been obliged to
leave him, as -lie did, nor would lie have experi
enced those conflicting tortures of the mind be
neath the lash of which ne washourly writhing.
Bv tiie side of his dying child he watched, un
remittiiKily, ti 1 it breathed its last, and when final
ly convinced that the spark oi life was extinct, his
grief was excessive,—vehement —and even blas
phemous! To this succeeded despondency. Al
ter the storm of pission the gloom of despair—in
its repose more awful than in the violence of com
motion. Upon the bed beside the corpse he sat,
with his eyes fixed upon the inanimate form, nor
could anv entreaties prevail on him to leave the
room. He was finally taken out —not exactly by
force, but with the utmost reluctance. During
this scene Clark was standing in the chamber, a
little apart from the groud, smiling with mali
cious satisfaction as he witnessed the griet his
master displayed —the whole remind, ig us ot a
scene in Shakspeare's Othello, aud off orrest and
Booth iu their masterly deliuiations of the Moor
and iairo.
Monday, the third day after the child's decease,
was fixed upon for the burial. The hearse, with
its dark hangings and mute driver, stood before
the door. Friend after friend gathered around the
mansion, from the city in carriages, and lrom the
neighborhood on foot. Mr. \\ t-st refused to at
tend the funeral—refused, nor could he assign any
reason—thev persuaded, but i;o, ho would not—
aud the train was consequently obliged to proceed
without him. Previous to his starting, Clark
whispered in private to his fellow-servants the ex
pediency of someone remaining with him in the
absence of the rest. “In his present disordered
state of mind,” he said, “it will not be prudent to
1-ave him alone. He may possibly be tempted to
suicide. Once before he' attempted his life, and
in order to prevent a result of the kind, i will my
self volunteer to remain.” It was accordingly
agreed that Clark should stay. As the funeral
left, the parent of the child about to be buried,
stood under the piazza, watching the slow and
solemn train till it disappeared from his sight.—
Turning into the house he was billowed by Clark,
and giving way to his despair, call -d tortile cup ot
intoxication. “Wine! wine!’’ he exclaimed.—
Give me the glass— these miseries are more than
1 can bear!” As ho spoke, he pressed his hand
convulsively aj aiiist his forehead, and his heavy
breathings betokened the weight of sorrow under
which he labored. “My child! my child!” he
bitterly exclaimed, and‘continued to repeat her
name with words of affection and regret. “1 have
lost her' but her!” were his words, and deep and
passionate the accents of his grief. “Mother and
child both gone—both irotn my sight—and I am
left a wreck amidst the barren waste of life!
For a moment he paused, subdued, by the inten
sity of his sorrow, and bursting into tears, wept
like a child. A smile. Spread over the countenance
of Clark—the triumphant one of successful vil
lainy ! His victim again called for wine. Glass
after glass of it he continued to swallow—his sen
ses forsook him—he staggered—reeled-—and in
hysterical convulsions fell prostrate upon the
floor. . , , ,
“Now—now I triumph,” cried the malignant
Clark, who had been careful to ply his victim with
the inebriating draughts, expecting the present re
sult. “I triumph now! Like diuk-eyed Zanga
over Alonzo’s prostsate body I stand-—like Zi atiga
too, I must awake my victim into horrors ! What,
ho! arise,”—jerking the other by the coat collar
and endeavoring to rouse him from his stupor.
It is painful to speak of Mr. West in the situa
tion he is here before tlie reader. But disagreea
ble as it is. it is unavoidably necessary. The
thread of the narrative exacts it. Intoxicated and
insensible as he was, such was the vehemence of
Clark’s language, that it startled him ; and halt
opening his eyes, he encountered the other’s de
moniacal gaze.
“Your child died by poison—”
“Poison!”
“Ay, sir—poison!—and I administered the fatal
drug.”
“You!”
“Yes—me! Behold me!” lie cried, tearing
ofi his whiskers and false hair, display ing the light
colored ringlets he naturally possessed, instead of
the jet black curls of a wig—and revealing to the
astonishment of his hearer —
“Byard?”
“Y’es—Byard—-vour wife’s cousin, and your
own eternal enemy ! ’Twas I that poisoned your
child, —’twas T that murdered it,—”
“You for what?"
FLORENCE, GA. SATURDAY, JUNE 23, 1838.
1 “For revenge "’—thundering out his words, and
forcing a laugh of fiendish exultation, whilst his
mouth foamed with the excitement ot his passions
—“for revenge! revenge!” Here a momentary
pause ensued,during which they intently aud ear
nestly gazed at each other—the one tremulous
with awe—the other scowling with the dark and
vindictive spirit of wicked determination. Mi.
West rose to his feet, and was for leaving the
room, but Byard intercepted him, placing him
self against the door, and imperatively bidding the
other to remain where he was. “Hear me, he
said, or rather vociferated. “You married mv
cousin -Julia Graham. I loved her! and when
her preference was fixed upon you, 1 felt the de
mon rankle in my bosom—-the demon that actu
ates me now. However, 1 managed to smother
my feelings at the time, and even officiated as
groomsman at your nuptials. But your increas
ing happiness 1 could not bear to witness, and so
departed for Europe. There i planned the
scheme 1 have since executed. After the ab
sence of a year I returned to the United States—
intent upon one thing—the destruction ot your
felicity. In the first place, to arouse your suspi
cious, I loitered about these premises, night after
night, with the flute and guitar, playing, at times,
accompanying the instrument with my voice. In
your Spanish servant, Manuel Garcia, I found a
ready abettor for the gold 1 supplied him; and at
my desire, he whispered in your ears the lying
taie that so easily fired your breast with jeal
ousy.” . . ,
At this barefaced confession, it may readily be
supposed Mr. West was thunderstruck. Jle was
so; and with speechless amazement and impa
tience awaited while Byard continued as follows :
“AVorn out as it were, by your harsh treatment,
her affection for vou seemed to lie suspended, and
to leave you became the prevailing desire of your
wife’s bosom. Manuel discovered it—-disclosed
to me the secret, and at my bidding, proffered his
assistance, which she unhesitatingly accepted of.
A plan for her escape was then agreed upon, and
a night not far distant appointed to put it into ef
fect. She was to be rowed across the river, there
to take a carriage which was to be in waiting.
The night settled upon arrived. 1 had a schoon
er I hired, ready at anchor in the stream, a mile
below, and dressed in the garb of a sailor, 1 waited
with a boat at the designated spot. She came
down with Manuel, entered the boat, and was en
trapped on board ol the vessel. We got under
weigh, sailed immediately from the river, and as
soon as we got out at sea, I attempted— ’
“Impossible!”
“Yes—l did—but own that 1 found her virtue
impregnable. My endeavors she resisted—-it en
raged me—and rather than she should ever get
again to your arms, 1 determined to ay! and
now she sleeps beneath a watery grave !
“Dead ?”
“She is—she is!—murdered !”
At the announcement of this, an exclamation
of horror escaped from the lips of Theodore, and
his uplifted hands were clasped with the energy <>!
despair! His wife’s innocence was now declared
bevond a doubt, and as he thought over the wrongs
she had received—of the sorrows he had himself
been the cause of—he groaned with renaotse !
Remorse ! remorse! and his groans were music
to the exulting villainy of Byard. But at this cri
sis—in the very midst of his triumph, the door, of
the room was burst open, and Garcia, witi several
police officers, entered. “ J here he is—seize
him—”
“Ila! traitor!” cried Byard. Drawing a load
ed pistol from his breast-pocket, he levelled it at
Garcia and fired, who instantly fell upon the floor,
drenched in blood! The officers secured the per
petrator of the deed, who made no resistance, as
he knew w ell enough it would be fruitless to do so.
“Hear me,”—gasped the dying Spaniard faint
ly, at the moment recovering sufficient strength to
to raise himself on one hand—“l am the murder
er of the tavern keeper—killed—Baltimore—
year—eighteen—twenty-five—” uttering which,
he sunk back and expired.
Byard was conveyed to prison. The coroner
was sent for, and a v v lict given over the corpse
of Manuel, which was then taaeu to the city for
burial.
CHAPTER VTI.
Owing to the shock he received at the certainty
of his wife's death, and the confusion of crowded
incidents treated of in the preceding chapter, Mr.
West was taken sick. Before three days he was
very low indeed ; so much so, that tire skilful phy
sician, whom we have previously had occasion to
notice m the course of our narrative, had actually
fears for his safely. He recognised no one—not
even his most intimate acquaintances. \l bile in
slumber liis breathings were long-dravn, and ap
parently painful. Thus he lay (or months—four
months—upon the verge of the grave as it were,
but fortunately, and much to the joy of those a
round him, he all at once began to get better, lie
had lain in a dream, comparatively speaking, from
which he was suddenly awakened. During the
sickness he was mentally insensible; and his re
collections of what had occurred, even after his
convalescence, were at first imperfect; but as the
renewal of his health continued, the facts gradual
ly unfolded themselves—the flight of his wife—
liis daughter’s death—Bvard’s revenge—and Gar
cia’s fate, these and the circumstances connected
with them. Amidst it all, too. he remembered
seeing, at intervals, when his sight was open, but
his reason less clouded, the form of afemale mov
ing noislessly and with care around his bedside. —
He remembered boras a vision—seen—but in
distinct. Where was she now ?
lie was as yet confined to bed, and it wnsrequi
site that sonic one should constantly he at his side.
“Eliza,” said he addressing a servant girl in atten
dance.
“Sir—” . . .
“Who has been nursing me during my sick
ness ?” .
“The seamstress, sir,” was the reply to his ques
tion; an answer, unexpected indeed, and Mr.
West was unable to comprehend it Thinking he
might possibly have been misunderstood, he re
-1 peated the mterrogatory, to which, however the
same response was returned.
“The seamstress! who is she?”
“Indeed, sir, 1 cannot say. Your wife s rela
tives recommended her here, but ever since she
entered the house, instead of pursuing her occu
pation, she has faithfully devoted her attention to
you.” •
“How long has she been here?”
“Bite came two or three days after you were
first taken sick, and has remained since then.
Here then w as a pause of silence and of thought
on the part of Air. West for a minute or two, then
broken by him with auother inquiry. “A seam-'
stress you say she is ?”
“Yes, sir.”
At this moment, as it will often happen, the
door was opened and the person they were speak
ing of entered the apartment. Eliza left the
room. The seamstress, as she encountered the
ardent gaze of Air. West, trembled,—a crimson
blush spread over her pale w hite cheeks, and site
paused in confusion. Recollecting herself, she
i'alteiingly advanced to the bedside ot the invalid,
and with a trembling accent inquired after his
health.
“I am better—much better, T thank you—and
to your kind nurture during the hours ot suffer
ing, am 1 indebted for the restoration and relief.—
It must have beeu wearisome to watch so loug by
the couch of peevish sickness; and lor the sake
of administering to my comfort, how much ol per
sonal inconvenience you must necessarily have
overlooked.”
To these remarks of his she unhesitatingly re
turned a negative answer. The performance of
the for which he thus, without flattery,
comtnencred her, was not felt as a trouble—no—
but, were the disinterested promptings ol human
ity, which a tender solicitude will always suggest
to an affectionate heart. Air. West admired! —
Upon the intellectual countenance of the seam
stress his eyes were riveted, and it seemed as if
the lineaments were not unfamiliar. There was
sadness pictured in those expressive sobs ! sorrow
and resignation blended, like tlie colors, the lights
and shades of a finished painting. He noticed
that she was dressed in mourning, too, and asked
if she lamented a near relation.
“Yes, —” was the faltering reply,—“my .child!”
“Your child /”
“Yes,—my own child !” Tears streamed over
her cheeks, and she asked to be excused as she
left the chamber, to conceal the rising emotion#
of her bosom, to weep in secret! Air. Wast was
of course, sorry that he had so abruptly broached
the subject, and w as upon the point of calling her
back to apologize, but was at a loss for her name,
he had forgotten to ask it. The servant girl again
entered the room and he appealed to her.
“What’s the name of the seamstress, Eliza?”
“Airs. Bennett,” was the answer.
“ Do you know any thing about her child—how
long it lias been dead ?”
“No, sir.”
“Is her husband alive ?”
“Indeed, sir, I cannot answer you positively—
but 1 believe she is a widow.
“You have heard so ?”
“No, sir, 1 have not. I judge from incidental
impressions, altogether. 1 may be mistaken —
she may have a husband.”
“When in conversation, have you ever know n
her to revert to the child ?”
“Never, sir—when she first came I merely un
derstood she was in black for a daughter she had
recently lost.”
“Daughter! the child she lostw’as a daughter
then it seems.?”
“So 1 understood, sir. As to knowing any
thing about her, she associates so little with us,
that w e've not the opportunity to discover for our
selves. With the old housekeeper, Margaret, she
is intimate, but w ith none of us.”
“Tell Margaret 1 wish to speak with her.”
The girl accordingly left the room to obey the
order, and her master, leaning back upon the pil
low, v.as immediately involved in a labyrinthian
train of thought. Airs. Bonnet!.the name was
not familiar—but the face aud the tones of the
voice were. A seamstress, she had been recom
mended bv his w ife’s relations in that Capacity so
said the girl—but since her entry into the estab
lishment, had devoted her time entirely to the care
of himself. There was surely kindness in that—
was there not alfectian ? Being a seamstress, she
was consequently dependant upon her own la
bors for a livelihood. But what of that ? Life is
full of changes, and to be poor reflects no dis
grace. Louis Philippe, a king, and the wealthi
est of men, was once obliged to teach an humble
school in the wilds cf America, for a living. Re
verses in life are daily occurring, and those that
are. now rolling along in the luxury of a carriage,
may soon be begging for bread. Such most likely
was the case of Airs. Bennct —she had experi
enced a reverse. Her manner and conversation
avouched it. The outline of her face, the high
forehead, and the soft blue eye, resembled his late
wife’s, but there the likeness ended. Mrs. Bon
net's smooth dark hair, so modestly retiring beneath
the snowy w hiteness of her cap, corresponded not
w ith Julia’s auburn curls, nor the almost spiritual
paleness of her cheeks with Julia’s mantling
bloom. Besides, she looked older than Mrs.
West.
11 is thoughts were here interrupted by the en
trance of the housekeeper, Alargaret, whom he
had sent for—an old woman who had been in the
service of his father before Theodore was born,
and who was considered more as a relative ot the
family than a hireling. At the period of Mr. arid
Mrs; West’s domestic differences, she was the on
ly one of the household that sympathised with
tiie latter. When her master finally insisted upon
having separate sleeping apartments, she took tae
Hberty of remonstrating against it, and even went
so far as to upbraid him with injustice. After the
departure of Airs. West, the others would throw
it up to Margaret as a confirmation of guilt, but
tho old woman would not hear to it, and on all oc
casions faithfully defended the character of her
former mistress. W lien asked by any out her
Vol. I.—No. 13.
reasons for thus insisting on the innocence of he (
master’s wife, her exclamation would be, —“guilty •
she guilty! no—she is too good-—too amiable!
“Well, Alargaret,” said Air. West, as she en
tered the room, asking her some trifling question
as a matter of form, and desirous ot humoring
her old ago before he ventured upon the subject
for which he expressly wanted her. Taciturnity
was, by no means a quality of hers, and when
pleased she was talkative enough. Old maids are
generally starched, stiff and formal— precise in ev
ery thing they do or say, and at the age of fifty
and upwards, with as'many wrinkles in the face as
there are crimples in the Elizabeth-like collars
round their veiny necks. Alargaret was an ex
ception—there are exceptions in all things. She
was hale, happy and bustling. Her younger day s
had been tainted with the breath of calumny, but
her latter years were unimpeachable.
“I am well, 1 thank you,” was the reply she gave
to a question he asked. “As long as 1 keep upon
my feet I have no fears, but when an elderly per
son once becomes bedridden, lile’s not good tor
much, it’s more a torment than a pleasure. I was
forty odd when J first came to live with your fa
ther—l’ve outlived him aud your mother these fif
teen years, and if 1 survive them till next tall I
shall be sixty-four.”
“You may outlive me too,” said the invalid,
smiling.
“I hope not,” replied She seriously. “Your
parents 1 followed to the grave—your sweet little
daughter too—and your wife is now Ah,
sir, you have lost a treasure in her that you can
never replace. She loved you, and she has——
“Died for me ! She has, Margaret, she has ! 1
know it—the truth of what you sa v 1 am aware cf,
and till the last moment of my existence shall I
repent in the bitterness of my heart ; ’
“I always told you that she was innocent.”
“You did, but 1 would not believe it, and now,
alas ! it is too late to repair the injury done! She
sleeps—not in these arms as once she did—but in
the sleep ol death—the long cold silence of an
ocean-grave—to wake on earth no more !” Alter
given utterance to these words, he lay back upon
his pillow for several moments without speaking,
and Alargaret, under tiie impression that lie was
desirous of repose, advanced to the door and was
about leaving the room—but Air. \\ es motionpd
her to remain, and after a second intermission ot
silence asked, if she did not think there was a
strong resemblance between the seamstress, Airs.
Bennett,and his late lamented wile?
“Why, yes, there is a likeness,” said Margaret.
“I had not observed it before, but now that you
speakof.it, I think she does look something like
the portrait in the drawing-room. But Airs. Ben
net has got dark hair, and she’s very pale too—my
mistress you know, had light hair, and always a
high color ?”
“Yes, but still the resemblance is great, so
much so, that I am on the tiptoe of curiosity, as it
were, and anxious to know more about her. She
seems far above her present situation in life; and
from what I have already seen of her, 1 am satis
fied she has hitherto moved in a higher sphere
than the humble orbit in which she now revolves.
What do you know of her?”
“Me!” exclaimed Margaret. “Why, what
should 1 know of her? There was some linen to
be made up, and she was recommended here as a
seamstress—-1 know that”
To this followed successive questions and an
swers. Were the replications returned by Alar
garet equivocal or not ? Mr. M ost gave it no
thought, and of course did not susppet they were,
but merely considered it her usual odd way, which
it was indeed very similar to. Finding he was not
likely to gain any further information, he dropped
the subject, and Margaret afterwards left the a
partment. Still Air. West’s curiosity, or rather
his impatient desire to become acquainted with
the past history of the seamstress was not a
bated, but sharpened by the obstacles it incurred.
She came into his room the next day, solicitously
inquired how lie felt, and taking a seat at his bed
side, composedly joined in a conversation with the
recovering invalid. This continued for several
forenoons, and the after part of the day was con
sequently dull and tedious to him for the want of
her presence. The more he saw her the more he
liked her; and one morning as she was about leav
him, he asked if she would not come in in the af
ternoon and read a few pages for him in a volume
he named. She answered that she would with
pleasure, and did so. This was repeated, and she
was subsequently at his side for the most part of
the day. ft was not long before A f r. West was
able to walk about bis room, and shortly afterwards
to be out of doors leaning upon her arm as they
promcnafed around the piazza, or leisurely strolled
down the gravel walk. How often-would their
eyes meet—hers bent on him with looks of ap
parently the sincerest affection,' and his on her
with a*gaze of admiration—admiration mingled
with respect and reserve—reserve, however, which
gradually wore off, and they eventually became
more intimate, but still not enough so to warrant
his making the inquiry he wished concerning her
former life and present connexions. Frequently
was he upon the point of adverting to the subject,
but the tears she shed when bespoke of her child,
recurred to his memory nod his heart would in
variably fail him. The next meeting he would
certainly speak of it, but the same hesitancy would
then occur; he would postpone it till the next,
and so the time slipped by. Alas! the human
heart! how susceptible!—for it can no longer bo
concealed that his affections were hourly cement
ing themselves with the form, the thoughts and
beauty of the seamstress—w ho was indeed a per
son every way meritorions—a person whose pure
sentiments were mingled with a generous regard
for the opinions of another, and whose affable de
portment at all times commanded admiration and
esteem.
CHAPTER ATI!.
Still the time slipped by—aud still the seam
stress remained at the mansion, the same accom
plished and amiable being, the courteous Compan
ion of Mr. West, and the delight of the house
hold. Each day she put forth a budding virtue,