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JOURNAL AND MESSENGER THE FAMILY JOURNAL—NEWS—POLITIGS-JLITERATURIS—AGRICULTURE—DOMESTIC NEWS, Etc—PRICE 12.00 PER ANNUM. GEORGL4 TEL APH BUILDING ESTABLISHED 1826. MACON, FRIDAY. NOVEMBER 18, 1881. VOLUME LV-NO. 40 ME COXPAHATITE DEGHEE. Oh. grandma site in her oaken chair, And in flies Bessie with tangled hair: “I’m going to be married, ob, grandm I’m going to bo marrried! Ha, ha, ha, ha!* Oh, grandma smoothes oat her apron string; _ tL , , “Do yon know, my dear, ’tis a solemn thing 7* » Tis solemner not to, grandmamma, I’m going to get married! Ha, ha, ha, ha!” Oh, grandma smoothes ont her apron- string; And gazes down on her wedding ring, And still she smiles as she drops a t jar; •“ Tis solemner not to. Yes, my dear.” —[Chicago Tribune. A BARROW OF PRIMROSES. CHAPTER I. IIOW TUB ROMANCE REGAN, Chancery Lane is not a very likely spot fora romance to have Its beginning. There Is no poetry about U. It is a long, un sightly, dreary street, filled at certain times of the day with noise and bustle enough, as wbite-wigged barristers burry along the narrow pavements, tbelr bands filled with briefs and law papers, or busi ness men run down on their way to Fleet Street, or the traffic of carts, and cabs, and omuibuses, and such plebian vehicles, wend along to the wider tbroughfares beyond. A group of barristers were standing one spriDg morning under the gloomy arch way leading to Lincoln’s Inu. They were wigged and gowned, and talking eagerly together of some case of peculiar interest which was ocupying the public mind. “Here comes Ilerou Archer,” exclamed one of the group “Looks as if he had a power of work on hand; doesn’t be?” The young man alluded to was walking leisurely along. He saw tlio little knot of talkers, am&ecognizing two with a care less nod was about to pass by. ‘•Stay, Archer,” cried one. “Have yon heard liow Cray vs. Wood is going on? Your friend has not a leg to stand on," “Have you turned him into a Green wich pensioner already?” asked Archer with a smile, as he paused beside the man who bad addressed him. Heron Archer wasa tall, well-built young fellow of some six and twenty years, with nothing very’ remarkable about him save his powerful figure anil a certain good-humored ex pression of calmness and determination about the face. The clear gray eyes and short-cut hair, and drooping mustache were just the characteristics of many an Englishman, and.lt is probable inacrowd no one would have thought of singling him out as being lu any way belter look ing or more remarkable than his fellow- men. Yet be was so unlike mo6t of his friends and associates as to have wou the appella tion of “eccentric,” and almost everyone who knew him declared there was some thing about the young man odd and Quix otic, and clever though he was, a queer fellow enough all the same. Even,-now, as he stood listening to the chatter of his friends, his eyes were roving to a barrow heaped up with masses of sweet pale primroses, and then to the face of the boy selling them, and while he appeared to be listening to the intricacies oi;Cray vs. Wood his thoughts were specu lating as to liow many of those bunches the boy would sell in such an unlikely location as this, where men hadno leisure to listen to nature’s messages sent from mossy banks and dim green woods, but thought only of work aud. money-getting. “You should have heard Puffin’s speech,” said Herbert Gray, a rising young barris ter. “It was first-rate-the neatest thing I ever listened to. There can be no ques tion as to the issue of the case now. I wish you had been in court. You are such an idle dog. Why, bliss the man!” he exclaimed in amazement, “where’s lie run off to? I—by Jove—the boy’s down!” “What a plucky thing!—sec, he’s, got him out!” exclaimed the aioused Puffin’s. “See how the horse is kicking—he can’t hold hitn. Let’s go and help.- And re gardless of dignity and wigs the four friends rushed to tin scene ot the accident. now did it happen? How do street accidents ever occui? It was all so quick —so sudden. The boy had been standing by bis barrow a moment before, a subject of speculation to Heron Archer’s wander ing thoughts. Somcoue had beckoned bun across the street. Without looking to the tight or left lie darted across; and the next instant was lying under thehoofs of a horse. Qaick as lightning Heron Archer had seen the danger and rushed to the tescue. His strong hand was on the reins. He forced the animal back on its haunches, to the eminent danger of oc casioning a new catastrophe by tlio up setting of the liansoiu cab to which it be longed, and the boy slipped like au cel through the plunging hoofs, and was sate on the pavement ere anyone could recover presence of mfnd enough to give assis tance. Scfftr well. Hut llie haneomcab had an occupant, aud that occupant was a lady. When the horse was released it showed many signs of ill-temper at. the treatment it bed race! red, and reared and snorted aud shook its bead, and altogether behaved in a manner quite unbecoming a well-broken London cab horse. Perhaps be was now to this business. The lady became alarmed. She appeal ed to Heron Archer. “A9k the man to stop,” she cried. “Thu Is a horrible ani mal. I have been frightened to death all the time I have been in the cab.” Her face was very pale. Two frighten ed eyes met the calm glance of the young barrister. He needed no second bidding. “Stop,” he said sternly to the man. “You are a very careless driver. You had no business to come dashing down a street like this at the rate I saw you.” The msn made some sulky rejoinder, but he stopped his steed at that peremptory order, and Heron Archer assisted the lady to alight. She trembled very much. “Allow me to pay the man,” he said gently, and then sternly demanded the fare and settled It with another caution against such driving as had occasioned the Catastrophe. He then turned to bis companion. She looked better now; the color was relum ing to her cheeks. “Thank you so much,” she said grate fully, as she liauded him the money be had paid. “Where is the boy? I am so sorry. I hope be la not kart.” “He is ever there," said her companion, i- ’intiiig to where the hero of the event already the centie of a sympathizing end admiring crowd. “I should so like to speak to him—to know he is not hurt,” she said eagerly. “I will briog him over here,” said Heron Archer. “The crowd,Is dispersing, you see. Ab! there comes a policeman now he is not wanted.” He crossed over to the boy. “The lady wanto to apeak to you. 8be is afraid you were hurt,” be aaid. “No, sir, not a bit, thanks to you,” said the lad gratefully. “I don’t bolieve I’vo got as much as a bruise.” The crowd began to melt away as aud; denly as it had arisen. The lad, with dust and mud of the road on his torn clothes and bare arms and lace, looked anything but an inviting ob ject; but the lady’s face was fkill of sweet compassion aud sympathy as she question ed him and beard, tu course of time, many more of the eveuts aud troubles] of bis life than that one accident. and paid blm treble the value of her pur chase. Then catting short h!s thanks and bless ings she turned to the spectator of her gentle charity, and with a grave bow was about to pass on. Rat Heron Archer was cot so minded. “Pardon me,” he said abruptly. “This is a rough neighborhood for a lady. Can I be of any further assistonce to you?” “No; 1 thank you,” she said graciously but firmly. “I know my way, I am close to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, aud I shall meet my fatber there.” He could not ‘say more. He would have given anything to have detained her —to have beard tho sweet low voice—to have gazed again in the solf shy eyes, but he had no pretext to delay lier. He could but return her bow and watch the grace fnl figure vanish through the gloomy arch way, taking with it—for him—all the sun shine and brightness or the young spring day. That was how the romance began Heron Archer weut back to bis ebam bers in the Temple, and I lien sat himself down and tried to bring bis mind to the work he had to do, but surely no work in the legal profession entails the perpetual drawing, on every available sheeufl paper of a girlish profile, which was the sole use of time, fingers aud brains that Heron Archer made that morning. Aud none of the drawings satisfied him. He tore them up in disguest at last—all, save one sketch; which displeased him less than the others, That one he locked away in a drawer of his writing table, and then in a most un settled frame ot mind ho put on bis hat and weut out to get some lunch. “I wonder If I shal I ever see her again?” he thought impatiently. It was slrauge for a face to haunt him so. He was not a man who held women of much account, or ever troubled Iiis head about them; but now, suddenly, bo could not put this pale sweet face out of his ntiud, or cease to hear the echo of that low, musical voice. The voice in especial had pleased his rather exacting fancy, for if lie had one weakness it was for a per fect sweet-toned woman’s voice, and ho bad never beard one like this. How it lingtred on bis ear all through the day! How many times ho found him self gazing into vacancy, wrapped up in yagae dream, yet always having that same syft music Uostiug through the mists of imagination and thrilling his whole soul with ils spell/ “Poob, this is all nonsense, I shall for get her to-morrow,” he said with angry impatience, os he sought his conch that night. He had forgotten other women so easily—had cared for them so lightly, why should it not to the same now? Why? Well, he could not answer .-hat question; lie only knew as to-morrow, and yet to morrow passed on,"and days came and went, and tho busy hum and stir of lite was about him, and he AM liis usual work, and tried to appear bis usual self, that there was a difference somewhere in it all. ' . “ * ' ' Nothing was the same quite. The flavor had gone out of bis life, and it was dull, insipid, commonplace. . ... One evening be bethought himself sad denly of the barrow ol primroses, and re membered also that lie bad the boy’s ad dress. He resolved to go and see him; perlians the girl had already done so; lie might hear or her, learn where she lived. The thought was delightful. Ho put it into execution without loss of time. It was about six o’clock when ho left bi3 chambers and went on his errand. Such visits were nothing new to him. He had a score of poor pensioners on liis bounty, and did more good in Ins quiet unostentatious fashion than many a mil lionaire with his pompons donations, for there is so much more in charity than more money—than the actual momentary relief of bodily necessities. A kind word, a token of sympathy, asnfllo ifencourage meat, an outspoken appreciation of man ly efforts to light against the ills and temptations of life—all these which cost so little to the giver; linger longer lu the minds of the recIpisnUhan the gold which is pompously offered and ‘considered as more than equivalent for any other ex pression of sympathy. ‘ After au hours walking ho fonnd the court he was in search of. It was dark and lcul, aud full of miserable tenements, at one of which be paused and knocked, A thin slatternly woman came to the “Docs Jack Murphy live here?” he ask ed. “Yes,” answered the woman, “survey ing lier visitor with evident surprise. “Is he In?—can I see him?” he contin- The woman regarded him doubtfully, “The lad hasn’t been doing anything wrong, lias he?” she questioned anxiously; “or maybe you’se one ol the School Board chaps agiu.” “No,” he answered with his pleasant smile. “Both your suppositions are wrong. I only want to see If Jack lias got over the ellccts of his accident the other day. Are you his motbet?” “Yes. Ate you the gentleman he told me of, who kept tho horse from running over him?” sho exclaimed with sudden eagerness. rsfRpjpi* , . ■ “Oh, como in, sir, pray, if yon do not mind our poor room. 'Jack has always been talking of you. He’s all right, not a bit hurt. My! won’t ho be glad to see yon!” Heron Archer followed her into the close dark room at once. He was account ed a fastidious man, and one whose artis tic taste was rarely at fault, but there was no sign of disgust in his face as his eyes royed over the dirt and disorder around, and people who declared they hardly dar ed invite him to their tasteless, inartistic rooms for fear of bis cynical criticism, would havo stared at him in amazement now. The place seemed full of children, of all ages aDd sizes, aud in various stages of dirt and raggedness. There was noth ing around that was not wretched and hideous and unsightly, but Heron Archer spoke pleasantly to the wondering urcli- inrs, and seated himself on the rickety cbalr by the fireplace, and made himself so at home that they stood and gazed in wonderment and admiration, and Mrs. Murpby herself forgot to blush for her own neglect and untidiness. Heron Arch er learned all about the family. Tbo fatber worked as a composilcr at a print ing-office in Fleet stg Jack, tbo eldest, a lad of thirteen, sold flowers and fruit in tbe street; tbe intermediate-aged children went to school; the younger ones tumbled about In the dirty court at borne. There was nothing pathetic or sad in tbe story, it was only one very commonplace, very dreary, aod very often to be beard; hun dreds and thousands, in tbe great city and its surburbe, live similar lives, share sim ilar fates, told similar stories. Herod Archer knew that well. These people bad a roof to skelter them and enough food for tbe many mouths— that was eQougb for them. They drudg ed on in an aimless, indifferent fashion. They were neither happy or wretched, neither discontented or reverse, yet some how the utter barrenness amTunloveliness of such an existence seemeu to Heron Archer a more(pitia*rie fate than tbe sharp ness of utter poverty; tbe pathos of a bitter struggle. There was nothing to do here, nothing to relieve, nothing to comfort. “They an well enough,” tbe woman said. Well enough! N o wonder tbe visitor She got Us address and bought as many sighed, thinking bow hopeless it seemed to of his prlmro«M as would fill Ber basket, j urge her to make Usings a little better; to give cleanliness aud tidiness to tbe borne and neatness to tbe children and not be lieve tiist prodigal wastefulness one day, and stint and deprivation at other times, was good management- However, he was too wise to urge anything at present. He sat there aud chatted with them all, aud made friends witii even the dirty crying baby, yet he could not summon up cour age to ask Jack that one question burning on bis tongue. He rose at last to go, and his eyes fell upon a lame bowl of prim roses in tbe window. He bent over them for a moment. “Have you ever seen that lady again?”- ho asked abruptly, with a curious wonder that bis heart should throb In so odd a fashion, as be waited for the answer.. >. “Ob yes, sir!” exclaimed Jack eagerly. “She came round here tbe very next day. So kind she was too, and gave mother half a sovereign to buy some clothes for the baby, and she spoke so nice to me, and wanted to know if she could do anything for me. I told lier as how I should like, to be an errand-boy in a shop, and she said she would speak to lier father about me; and I’m sure she won’t forget, though she do seem so grand a lady and was dressed so beautifully; aud had lota of gold money in her purse. “She told you her name, I suppose?” questioned the visitor with well assured carelessness. “No, sir; sho didn’t.” “Nor where she lived?” “No, sir.” . > Heron Archer feels as if tbe world had grown suddenly dark aud empty again; He takes leave of tbe family, and with bunch of primroses in bis baud (the pretty yellow flowers seem always associated now with her), goes away through the noisy, dirty court, and so home to his chambers once more. Charity bad brought him no reward this time. ...» CHAPTER II. AN ECCENTRIC BESOI-JTION. Another week went by, but, despito the press of business aud the fact that lie was at last retained in a great ami impor tant case, Heron Archer could not get ibis fancy out of liis mind. That fair sweet face floated forever be fore bis eyes and lumuted Ids dreams Such an experience was new to bis life, and perplexed and. worried him according ly. He beard no more and saw uo more of the girl, and gradually began to think it unlikely he should do so. One evening, just as ho was putting aside Ids papers and thinking of leaving off work for the day, a note was brought to him by a little ragged urchin. It con tained a few hastily-scrawled lines, but they evidently gave him deep concern, for he put on bis liat, locked his room,: and went out at once. , , He hailed tbe first passing hansom and was driven rapidly to the northwest of London. In a small mean-looking street of this district ho alighted and dismissed the cab. A few steps up the street brought blm to the house he sought, A moment later, and he was bending ovor a slight figure lying on a coach in a poor, ili-furnbhed room. In one corner stood a piano littered over with music, and the instrument, though plain, was solid and good of its kind, and looked sin gularly out of place among - the shabby furniture of the room. ‘So you are ill; suffering again,” said ilenm Archer gently, as lie bunt over the the young man. “I am sorry to hear it.” The pale wan face lit up brightly at sight of tbo welcome visitor; the young man made an effort to rise, but sauk back directly while a violent fit of coughing shook liim from head to foot- The strong man b/ bis side looked with inexpressible compassion at the slight fig ure, tbo thin palo face, and delicate, at tenuated features. “Hush! lie still,” he said, “I sec what it is; you havecaugbt fresh cold again. You must take care of yourself for a day or two. You will be all right then. What Is it I can do for you?” “It Is so vexatious, so unfortunate,”said the invalid faintly. “I had such a good cngagement.for to-nlghl, and up to au hour ago I was lit hopes I should bo able to keep it. But I see it is uo use. I wrote to you, I thought you might help me. I tried to get a deputy, aud could not., I was to have two guineas. It is such a loss to me. H«t perhaps you know some one who can take my place; only itissuch short notice. At 0 is tbo ball.” “What ball? Where?” “It is a private subscription ball, and takes place at tbe Marlborough Rooms, not far from hero. I was to play the piauo. There are three other musicians —cornet, violin and double-bass. It is most unfortunate. Someone must be got.” “Well, I’ll see what I can do for you,” said Heron Archer cheerfully. “And you shan’t lose tbe two guineas if I can help it. Is this the music?” “Yes; it’s mostly wallzes. I have play ed with there men belore. They are good fellows, and we get on very well. I know they will be sorry for me.” “There Is not much time certainly,” said Heron Archer, looking at bis watch. “Do you know wbat I’ve been thinking, Staunton? I’ll take your place myself.” “You, sir!” and the young fellow raised himself up on his elbow, and stared at his visitor as if he thought ho bad sudden ly taken leave of his senses. “Yes, I,” laughed Heron Archer amus edly. “Why not? I play fairly well, and there really seems no time to get a substi tute, even if I knew of one—which I don’t.” “Ob, sir, you cannot do sneb a thing; It Impossible!" cried the youth. “I wish 1 had let you know earlier. It is not fair to give you all this trouble; you have been always much too good to me as it Is. My life is one long debt to you.” “Nonsense, I have done little enougb,* exclaimed Heron Archer, looking sadly at tbe wasted form and delicate features be fore lilm. In bis heart he knew how little benefit could be done him; how short a span of life remained for {he troubles and perplex- i ies of earth. There was a moment's silence. Then neron Archer broke it abruptly. “Come,” he said, “I have made up my mind; I shall like tbe duty immensely. You know I like masquerading. This will be a new character to come out in. Give me tbe address.” “Yon are only Joking, sir, surely,” pleaded tbe youug man. “Suppose any one you know, happened to be at tbe ball?” “There is no chance of that. I know no one in this neighborhood; even If I were recognized I should not care. It would be one eccentricity tbe more for uiy friends to chronicle.”' Tbe invalid looked admiringly up at tbe handsome, determined face. - “Your acts of eccentricity are all noble and generous,* be murmured. “How few of your friends know you really as you are.” “It’s is Just as well they do not,' said Heron Archer, lightly. “No man bears being turned inside out, you know. There is always a little something about our selves which we like to keep dark. But we are wasting time. It gets late, and I must go borne and don my evening dress. Where do we sit—in a gallery?” “No; there is s platform, I believe.” “Whew—w! Then tbe guests have a full view of us?” Yes. Pray don’t carry out your words, Supposing anything happened that might make you regret it!” Heron Archer laughed. “Jost as if anything could,” he said lightly. “Non sense, Staunton; my mind is made up. It will be great fun, and I shall come round to morrow and bring your two guineas with me. Jf I got you a deputy oow you would be a loser by tbe transaction.” “I would rather lose it twenty times over, sir, tbau that you shquld repent your determination of to-nigbt.” “I shall not repent it,’/ laughed tbe young barrister good-humoredly. Good- by now, aod : go to bed and rest yourself. I shall ask Dr. Leigh to look in to-mor row.” .•' “•*■' • - ■ , ■, . And without waiting to hear tho grate ful thanks the'invalid would have utter ed, he hurried swiftly from the room. All throughout his drive home Heron Archer never gave a serious thought to his eccentric scheme; it was a good joke, he thought, and it would benefit his poor consumptive protege, in wheru he had felt a most unusual interest for years past. As to anything awkward or unpleasant oc- curing to himself from such an act, it'was a probability that never crossed his mind. He-was accustomed to do strange things; and veiy rarely troubled himself to give an explanation of them, (i’eople had grown accustomed to hii ways by this time, and ceased to wonder when' any thing eccentric or startling reached. 1 their [ears. . ‘ *?£ “He Is the worst man possible for the legal profession,” argued liis friends! “He never cares two straws for his own'inters ests.” ... Iia -_o. <V«. But neron Archer paid no hood, and went on still in his own way. Bo it was no wonder that friends and acquaintances gave up wondering at him and arguing with him at last, and suffered him to take It nnmolcsted. That was just whet lie wanted. It is a thing many men want, and never get. A hWf, 1 prtttilV decorated P!au[s; a ,smooth* Wl-, polished floor, looking very inviting to lovers of dancing; a general sense i of space and emptiness,’ fiud’brtflfant llgbiJs r6fleet ed back by numerous mirrors; this was; tho scone that met Heron Archer’s oyes' as he entered the Marlborough Rooms.' He had explained to tlio other musicians that young Staunton was too 111 to come, and he had been sent os deputy; and though they had regarded him with evi dent wonder, and treated him with a i cr- taiu sullen deference as one plainly supe rior to themselves, lie yet in no '.vav as sumed any airs ol superiority, or for one moment allowed them to perceivo he was in any way different to what he represen ted himself. The people began to arrive at last in great numbers, neron Archer sat there at the piano, and watched them with a certain amused indifference. '. Presently one of the masters of ceremonies advanced and ordered the band toplay a waltz, and wbllohls Angers-struck the notes and- his powerful rhythmic touch brought out the fill i.sweet melody, the pianist’s eyes roved cur. lossly from group to group of tlio mov ing, floating figures, and ho was conscious that life still held fur him a new sensa tion. Danes after dance followed now. He ron Archer looked less at tha dancers and mors at his music, though his thoughts were far enough away from either, apd bis fingers only did their work with, me cbanical precision. It must have been nourly 11 o'clock when lie suddenly stood up to reach a set ot Lancers lying onH chair on the platform. As he turned back to his scat, his oyes fell upon a group just forming into tho figure at bis eud of tbe room. He started as if a pistol-shot had struck him. There, lu the full brilliance of the lights—there, facing him a lew yards distance, stood the object of his search Ins thoughts, liis dreams these two weeks past! She was talking to her partner, and iter face was flushed and slightly turned away from the platform. With a strong effort Heron Archer recovered himself, and then, as he once more took his seat, the full sense of wbat bis eccentric action migbt cost him burst upon his mind. Sup pose she saw him, recognized him; what would she thiuk? He could have groan ed aloud as he thought ottlds, as he saw the barrier he bad raised between them, and knew that now, though they were so near, he dared not give one sign of recog nition or seek her side, despite the fren zied longing. HU one hope now was that she might not recognize him, yet that was a chance he hardly dared count on. Tbe platform was raised some feet from the hall,. aud he was tbe most prominent one of tbe players. Tbo set in which the girl was dancing was close to the platform, andshe herself stood directly facing him. At any moment she might raise her eyes—see him—and then? He dared not dwell on the humiliation such a recognition would bring. He odly praxes!* she might not think of looking at the platform. He tried to avert his eyes, but every moment they stole a glaf.ce at that couple. 1 How he euvied tbe man who danced with her! How he cursed the fate that held him here, chained to a hateful penance, while any of the careless rapid throng below were free to win hersrniies and seek her hand in the dance! The signal was given, the music struck up. Mechanically he flayed the selection from Carmen before litis, and uselessly lie strove to keep his face turned away from that one set in tbe room below. Bntinvam. Despite his efforts, lus resolves, his eyes wonld turn to that ‘radiant, graceful figure, with her crown of sunny hair and snowy floating robes. Sbe was standing still while the sides were going through their evolutions. Her eyes roved carelessly around—before—then np. Heron Archer should have turned away, but he was not able to do so. Like some spell, those eyes met and held his own, and across the distance that sepa rated them flashed one lightning glance of mntual recognition. That she remem bered him he could doubt no longer, for a burning wave ol color swept up to her brow, and tile startled glance told its own tale. His heart boat high despite the pain and hnmillatlon that oppressed him. At least she had not forgotten him. That thought .was sweet beyond all others, though he gave her no sign, and kept bis bead turn ed resolutely away for tbe rest of the dance. When it was over, the various couples began to promenade around the room. Heron Archer followed that slight figure with anxious, wfitchful eyes. She did not make the circle of the room, hut passed out with her partner through a door lead ing to the refresbment-rooin. With beat ing heart and eager gaze lie watched for her reappearance. How he envied tbe man by her side, how he wondered what he wa3 saying to her, or she to him ! Then .igaiD came lire summons to play, and aa the plaintive waltz afr rose and fell, he saw her again floating around the room to the melody his fingers gave forth. The situation was torturing lu tbe ex treme, and as tbe boors went by and be saw her courted, besieged, surroondod, sod met no farther glance from her svertea eyes, and conld guess nothing of tbe shame burning in her young passion ate heart, be felt that his self-imposed task grew each moment more hateful and Irksome, that It was almost beyond his strength to carry it through. But everything mast have an end, and at last the Sna! waltz was on the desk. How gladly be played it; wbat a welcome relief to feel each bar, each passage brought him nearer to the conclusion of bis unpalatable duty. Then, out crashed “God save tbe Queen,” and he was free to go, free to go home and chew the cud of sweet and bit ter fancies, and wish, with vain, fierce wishes, that be bad never placed himself In so (kite a position. The money was in his hand, and with young Staunton’s roll ol mnsle under bit arm, he humed out of the building. At the entrance a crowd of cabs and carriages were still waiting. He paused s nionmnL A vague hope that he might see her once more ere she left was In bisunad. lie. saw ageDtleoutn'caila cab, and then go beck to tbe postiewfor two ladles, one elderly, and shawled aud cloaked with great care, the other—yea, it was—tbe mysterious “she” who bad so changed the even tenor of hla life. A mast of fleecy white lace was round her bead and shoulders, her tiny gloved band rested lightly on her companion’s arm. Heron Archer 1 drew his hat low over his brows,and strained his ears to cards tbe directions given to the cabman* .“. street, Maids Yale.” ;Theh a silvery voice said, “Good-bye, It has been a most delightful evening. So many thanks for tbe tickets,” and tbe cab )reM.fl£« toYloiiL. a li-mrl ij That was all. Yet no, not qulteall, for lying on tbe pavement, close to Heron Archer’s feet, fay a little bouquet of Aided primroses. They must have fallen from her dress aa she stepped into tbo cab. He snatched them up as a miser might have snatched at gold. They were more pre cious than gold to him. He thrust them into his breast, aud tbeu, dizzy with con tused hopes and thoughts and plans, be sprang into a hansom close by and was driven rapidly home through the pale sweet dawn of the spring day. CHAPTER III. ROW TUJC HOMANC'E ENDED. It would be impossible to describe tbe amount of self-tormenting which Heron Archer vigorously inflicted upon himself for the next few days. But be. was too generous to let his i Invalid protege know what bia eccoutric ' acticn had Cost him, apd to made light of his evening’s adreu- tiire as he brought Wto the sum tor .which he had paid so dearly. Yet the quick eye of tire faithful youth soon discovered there was.. Mmetblng amiss with Ills. benefactor. Amidst his own palp and weariuess be saw that there was gloom aud shadow on the noble face he loved, and it distressed him. Heron Archer was wont to be as calm and cheer ful is only frank, honest and untroubled natures can be, and he was not hypocrite enough to hide his uneasiness successful dpjmT vlj n. j i.-.ja ‘I knew you would repent It; I felt cer tain,of it.’ said the invalid, looking eadiy up at his friend’s face, for friend indeed bad Heron Archer been to him in'the truest sense of that much misused word. 'Yon saw some one who knew you; It has troubled you; am I not right?’, Heron Archer looked away front the eager questioning faco. ‘Yes,’ he sal^'at last, *1 did see some one; but It is no mat ter; there Is no harm done that need vex you.’ ‘What troubles you is my trouble also,', answered the young man sadly. *1 lime no other friend in the world save ycurw’f, and it would be strange indeed if my heart were not grateful for all i lie benefits you have bestowed on me.’ Heron Archer silenced him with ^n' im patient gesture. He bated thanks dr out spoken gratitude, and would have always avoided them had it been possible. That evening the longing that bad been in his heart through all these weary days since he had known where sbe lived—tbe longing to go himself to the street and trust to chance for another glimpse of her —came over him so strongly that be at last resolved to' yield to 'it. Ho took the train to Edgware Road, and from there walked over to Maids Vale. He knew! nothing of the neighborhood, but dint of searching and inquiries he found the street ho wished at last; then so strange a reluctance came over him to traverse it that ho was very nearly turning back without even setting foot wrthln it. While he still stood, looking with long ing eyes down the street, yet not daring to venture through it, the door of one of the villas near was opened; a slight young figure came down the steps, and in an other second he Was face to face with tbe .object of Ills thoughts. He started and colored furiously. The girl gave him one rapid glance and then passed ou. It was a moment into which the emotions and experience of years seemed crowded. After a short indecision Heron Archer grew desperate. She was still in view, hurrying along up the road he had just traversed, aud forthwith be started off lu pursuit. A few momeuts brought him to her side. She moved close to the wall, as if for liiw to pass; perhaps she guessed to whom those eager, hurrying feet belonged.. V J ., Heron Archer hes|aled, passed,-looked back. Then, with the conraje of despair, he raised his hat and spoke abruptly: “Pardon me, I pray, but I have sought you so long. I—I have so much to ex plain. Do give mo the favor of a few words with you.” She drew barself up with sudden state- !y hauteur. “Sir !”,sbe said quickly, “you havo spoken more than a few words already. There can be nothing to explain which concerns me. Allow we to pass.” , “I cannot. I will not. You must bear mol” he cried passionately, forgetting all prudence aud reason in the fear that she migbt leave; him now. “You think me other than I am. It was all a mistake, I cau explain it—only listen.” Sbe grew very pate. “1 have made ajnistake,” shejsaid scorn fully. “I took you for a gentleman— once, if I had need of proof to convince me of hry error your conduct to-night has given it to me. Once more, will you allow me to pavs, or must I return home for protection ?” Tbe bronzed aud manly face before her grew pale as death—bis eyes looked at her with unspeakable reproach, but to such words there could be but one an swer. He took off his bst and stepped aside, such shame and agony and humili ation in bis heart aa would have toucheu her now with an infinite compassiod could sbe have read Ks meaning and its cause. But she passed on without a look or word, yet in her own mind sbe seemed suddenly to feel what a poor and pitiful thing her pride was. Heron Archer went home, his heart full of bitterness, yet aching with a fierce, un satisfied longing that had never been his lot before. “It’s no nse. I can never set things straight in her eyes,” be thought to him self. “I must try and forget her.” How bard he tried, and bow equally futile his efforts were, be alone knew. For love was never yet conquered by try ing, if indeed it is love worth calling by tbe name. He worked bard, and began to find his talents recognized, and to take a more imminent position in his profession than tad yet been bis lot. Yet even now the nun’s innate conscientiousness and impa tience of the petty hypocrisies and simu lations of all business lite began to threat en his promised success. One evening, at a dinner patty given by an eminent member of the legal profes sion, be nude a speech that so overthrew all conventional rules arid doctrines of legal life as to array his colleagues In In dignant opposition against his boldly haz arded views. “Allow solicitors to plead In eourt ?” exclaimed an eminent Q. 0. "Why, tenets of our profession. You surely don’t mean wbat you say 7” “indeed, I do,” was tbe calm rejoinder. “There is a prejudice against the idea, I know, but the. generality of the people who ere not barristers, think and agree that It is most desirable. Solicitors know: their own Cases much better than we do, and tbelr information on legal points and dechnicallties is quite as correct. It Is my opinion that ere long tbe present course of things Will bo quite changed.” “You are a traitor to your order!’, smiled tbe great nun good buinorediy. He still thought it a joke. No mem ber of tbe legal profession in his sane mind (except »solicitor) would have put forward such a startling opinion. 1 “You are cutting your own throat by advocating sirch heresy, Archer,” said one of liis companions, also a barrister. “Where would we be if your view of tlio case was taken and acted upon ? Things are bad enough as it is, but we should be reduced to bread add cheese at tbat rate.” ! ,i« .**.?? ■ “ ') No bad fare'whim we purchase it wVli clean bands afid clear consciences,” re marked the young man, “It might snit you; besides, you ltavn other means. You are not solely depend cat on what you make. But aa tor mo no, thank you. Social martyrdom Is not lu my line. Human nature is all more or less selfish. I lay no claim to exemption from that one great fault. As ft* yon, Don Quixote and Ills windmills are noth ing to the way in which you persistently fight against prejudice and impossibility. Heron Archer laughed. “Vou are wrong,” he said; “I do not fight against Impossibilities. I am wiser than that. But my warfare is very near ly as useless as if I did. There is nothing so stubborn as established rules, so im practicable as prejudice.” J ‘■n* t ’> ‘ “Why not leave them alone and take life as It is?” , asked bis friemU “You would be much more comfortable, and so would we. It is much pleasanter to walk •long the path of custom blindfolded than to have tbe bandage snatched from your eyea and be tolil, ‘See, your path is full of holes aud pitfalls, aud your way lies beside a bundled precipices, and all be hind you is misery and all belore you danger.’ , That Is the, sort of thing to Uo, Archer.!’ : “Well, I-would rather suffer any hard ship tbau know I wai doing harm tooth ers, or pursue blindfold a path that was strewn with victims to the Juggernaut of false custom,” answered Heron Archer. “I like to have my eyes unhandnged, to see my way clear .before we; to know where each foots'.ep leads, and you what each motion tends." “What a restless, unhappy being you must be then,” laughed tins oilier. “I would not change consciences with you for something, old boyl But, now, a truce to these grave subjects. I have something to tell you. Do you remem ber oue day, some mouths ago now, when you rushed under a horse’s hoofs to save a ad who was selling primroses?” " “Yes," exclaimed Heron Archer, eager ly, .as" be set down tbe glass be Bad boon In tha act of raising to his lips. “Well, then, I daresay you havo not forgotten the lady who was in the han som?” • ' “Whqt of her?” asked the young man with well-assumed indifference, though his heart throbbed wildly at the mere mention of the idol ol his dream. "It’s a curious thing,” said the other, who was no less a personage than the re nowned Puffins. “But to begin at the be ginning, I was asked out a few nights ago to an ‘At home’ given by Mrs. Trafford. Well, her rooms were crowded as usual, and among the guests was a young lady who sang divinely. I begged the favor of ab introduction. We bowed—looked at each other, afid behold, it was the heroine of the hansom ! Eh—did yon speak!” Heron Archer’s face was averted, his glass was lifted to his lips, but Mr. Puffins certaiuly thought he had caught an ex clamation not quite saintly from his friend’s lips. However, ho proceeded: “She was as charming as her singing. We became great friends. I recalled to her uriud tbe incident of the primroses. She remembered it quite well, and seemed embarrassed at the mention of the occurrence, so i changed the subject. I was introeuced to her father—queer, old chap—always going to law about some thing or other: I received an invitation to their house, and am goiug there to morrow. What do you say to that?” What Heron Archer thought of It was more to tbe purpose, but be did not ao» knowledge that, and changed the subiect with what speed he could. Certainly Fate was again t him, for here was this empty-headed prattler suddenly put for ward into tho very place he so coveted, and that without an effort or desire to force circumstances to bis will, while for himself there was uo hope of auch good fortune. As soon as dinner was over he took hid leave, regardless ol the fact tiiat by so doing he was universally voted more un social aud eccentric than ever. All that evening he passed his time In solitary musing and bitter regrets, Inveighing against his luck in a manner the reverse of philosophical E»riy next morning, as lie was busily engaged with his papers, a knock came at his office door, and in answer to his permission, in rushed Puffins. “Look here; never say I don’t do you a good turn,” exclaimed that voluble pleader. “I got this letter this morning, and I thought of you immediately. See, I’ve brought it at once.” “Is it another case ?” questioned Archer coolly. “Case ? Well, 1 don’t know about that. It depends on yourself I should say,” an swered little Puffins, lsngbing over his joke. “Bead it tor yourself.” Heron Archer took the pretty little fem inine note held out to him and began reading it with careless Indifference. At the first line, however, be started and flushed nervously up to tbe very roots of tbe hair. Puffins watched him with no small amusement. HU keen eyes had detected something the nlgbt belore; bU suspicions became certainty now as be observed tbe young barrister’s evident ag itation. This was what Heron Archer read: “,Dear Mr. Puffins.—As we intend hav ing a carpet-dance to-night after tbe mu sic, I write to ask you it you will kindly bring a friend with you. We are short of gentlemen. “Wflfc kindest regards, very truly yours, “Dora. Morison.” Heron Archer laid down tbe letter and looked up at his friend’s face.* “Well,” be said with assumed careless ness. “Well?” mimicked Puffins, “And U that all your gratitude? Aren’t you pleased at tbe chance of seeing your ‘hand some heroine’ again 7 Don’t you care to come ?” “I should like to very much,” answered •fl - note sent him anonymously, end posted In tbe S. E. district of London. It was there that Heron Archer’s rest lessness first bad taken him, for bis mind was too unsettled and perplexed to allow of bis sitting in bn chambers. “Would slie be offended ?”. he thought. Sbe must bear hU explanation now—aud then 1 Well, then bo dared not pursue the sub ject any farther. Fato must settle it for him In the time to come; At 8 sharp, even as he bad said, Puffins drove up to bis friend’s chambers iu .» hansom. Heron Archer bad been ready since 7, but naturally he did not Inform tin lively barrister of that fact. Ha was strangely nervous and agitated, though he strove to bide it by an unusual •mount of coolness aqjj indifference; and when be reached the house, and was ush ered into tbe drawing-room, and beard bh name announced in conjunction with that of l’affina, hejabeoluteiy trembled at lib own temerity. A moment, aud a fair white-robed fig ure stood bsfore him, and bia low bow aad appealing look were met by a half- timid apologetic glance that filled his hsart with wonder. He heard Pnfliua’ in troduction, aud waa conscious .of being extolled as “a sluniog light in my own profession” by ihatweU-tntonding individ ual, but her amile and glanee.were too two much for bia dazzled aensas. Tbe wlrole room seemed to swiiu around him, •od he could find uo words in which, to agswer her greetiug. . .».,«■> >in With ready tact tbe youug hostess draw tbe talkative Puffins away, and introduced hint to a lady hy whose si da waa a vacant chair. Then, to Heron Archer’s amaze ment, she came to him again a deepening flush on her cheeks, a limid, ahy anxiety In the eyes that bad looked so proud and cold at their last meeting. ; 4 .,j, ; ,j Proud.and cold?—ah, surely not!— there was no suoh took within them now. “I hare an old acquaintance of youreto introduce you to, Mr. Archer,” she said bashfully; “will vou come with rue?” Like one in it dream he followed. In deed, it seemed to him that this must all be a dream—that on some cold desolate to-morrow be would awake and find him self hack in his chambers onee more, feel in his now throbbing neart tbe old fierce gnawing pain of tbat sudden and hopeless love of his. She paused beside the piano, and there sat young Staunton, a radiant contented look on his face, lucb as had not rested there for many a long day! ■ “There'is no need to introduce you; I see,” she said smiling, and Heron Archer, in whom no single grain of false shame ever found resting place, shook bands warmly with the young musician, under standing that at least this was no dream. IBs eyes turned appealingly to her. “You understand—now," he said in low, earnest tones. She flashed at him ah exquisite look that more than repaid him for all he had endured, for the sake of which he felt lie could have endured a hundredfold mom suffering. '“How did is come about?”he asked James Staunton later on, when she had left them, and waa gliding to aud tro among her guests. “She heard of me—how I do not know,” he said iu a iow voice that fail in like an accompaniment to the melody be was playing. “Then she came to roe one day, and ask .d mo to play to her, aud was so full ol piaise, and so sweet and gracious —oh, I cannot tell you all—sbe is an an gel!” i . “Sbe is!” agreed Heron Archer enthusi astically. : “And she said I ought to have better en gagements and not play dance music, and she is going to speak to all her friends, and to-night she gives this party that -JL may play as I can play, as I have never had the chance of playing yet. And only yesterday it ali came out about you. I told her of that engagement at the Marl borough Rooms aud how I should have lost it bat for your kindness, aud bow tbat, gentleman as you were, you took my place, and sat with the band, and brought me the money next day; and, sir, when I told lier tins, her eyes were full of tears, sho grew strangely agitated, and sbe asked yonr name, aud where you lived, and all about you, and told me how once you had done her a great service. And I saw by her manner to-night tbat she was glad to meet you again. And if, indeed, I have been ot any use in tbe matter, or—” “Use! Ob, Jim, you have done me the most inestimable service 1 have ever re ceived from any human bring!’’ No wonder Jim Staunton looked up in amazement at Ui?se impulsive words.- But at he saw the light in the young man’s eyes, tbe glory and gladness in his face, he seemed to read a meaning beyond what the words told him, and bis grmtefnl heart rejoiced that, for all the benefits he had received at Heron Archer’s bands, be had boon able to make one return at mil * * •• • AS or HE B CHASE. A Wall Street Miner WtaWuted to Beaeeve Say SmU-Tbreatteiag loiters te He Betlreod Hta*—cap- tarit by Defective* N*w York, November 13.—On Octo ber >7th an anonym out letter was sent to the editor of the IPaZ/ Street 2fews, ask ing that the incloeure be sent to Jay Gould, tbe well-known financier. The let ter addressed to Jsy Gould waa also anon ymous, and read as follows: Windsor Hotel. Q‘ J- l.t—Jan Gmild— Sta: It is nay painful duty to inform you that within six days from tbe date of this letter your body will have returned to the dust from whence U eame. 1, therefore, entreat you to-make your peace with God, and prepare for tbe fate which awaits you. W 1.1. (a ... <vL., -.J ... -r I Ere the evening was over Heron A relief bad hfiaril from her lips of the regret she had ror her miqjudgment. Ere tbe even ing was over he had let her see, too, In some degree, the tenacity and devotion cf tbat swift and sudden passion which had leaped up like flame in his heart on that spring morning when they had first met. And afterward? Well, afterward tho romance ended, as all such romances should eud; and In the next spring Heron Archer led to the altar the girl he had wooed and won for his own. There was oue odd thing abont the wedding, people said; and that was, that on tbe bride’s dress and in her snowy bouquet, as well as along the path and aisles she trod, were scattered bunches of primroses. Only two people knew wliat It meant, but they were the two for whom that marriage rite united hearts as well as hands, and before whom the future lay, a land of aweet and glorious promise, that they should henceforth tread together I— All The Year Bonnet. • This Is hi no wise an act of mine to take your life, but I ain Inspired aud requested by tbe All-Llviug Uod to do to as a public neoessttv, and for tbs*benefit of the com munity at large. You must undoubtedly be aware ihat yoa have been a rogue of tbo first water all poor life; tbat through your artful cunning and deceit you have robbed thousands of people of their birth right. You have had no mercy. You hare robbed rich and poor, father and fatherless, widow and orphan, lndixrimfe- uately of tbe last dollar, and through your villainy have brought rnln aud de struction On thousands of families. All this you have dooo under the cloak by circulating false teports, bribing newspa pers, making false statements, commit ting perjury, am. by artful cunning and deception In fact, you have robbed noth great aud small, and now the Lord aay» you innst pay for all; tbat your death is; a public necessity, In order to save thousands of .others from pain and de struction. Yonr death will be an easy oae, tor I propose shooting you tbroagb tbe heart if possible, and if my first shot is net instant death, I will give you a coup tie grace with a second shot, so that your death shall be quick and easy: Don’t bold out any hope that this is a threatening letter,.or for stock jobbing purposes, for I do not own a single share ot stock of any kind. Neither am I interested In any. This is simply the will of God, aud He has chosen me to carry this oat. Ho has applied to me iu a dream and requested me to slay you as a JUblie necessity, and in so doing Uod tSs assured me that it is by Divine Prov- ldenco I am chosen to do this act, and that by doing so l shal! become a pub lic benefactor,, and I bave sworn and taken a solemn oath before the AU-living God that T will put von to death. Tin- tended to bave a shotgun last Fridag (yesterday) when I saw you with Dillon and Sage. I had iny pistol ready and cocked, bat a voles from lire Lord sound- ei m my ear, saying “Hold on, give him time to. repent.” Now make vour peace with God and prepare for the fate tbat awaits you, and may tbe Lord have inerep ou your soul, i am only au agent of i.be Lord. Tbs Lord appeared to me again, last uight, aud said: “Jay Gould must surely die,” and when I reasoned \Wlh the Lord iu my dream, I told Him ujy -life would also be required, and 11 wopld be hanged. The Lord as sured tne that no harm would become of rue; that the rope was not made, neither Was the hemp grown to make the rope to lipng me with, and He would deliver me hat of.tbe hands ol my enemies. This is hy express will and commaud of God that I am chosen to' put you to death, and I have sworn before the All Living God, the Great Jehovah aud Redeemer of the world, and taken a solemn oath and kissed the Holy Bible that I will carry it out within six "days from this date, if op portunity occurs. Therefore, l>e prepared to meet your fate at "auy momeut, and may God have mercy on your soul. I re main, sir, An Ole Victim. N. B.—Should I not bave au opportu nity within six days, I will surely do so the first opportunity that occurs. Gould gave the letter to his broker, Washington E. Connor, and directed that every effort be made to find the writer and punish him. Connor gave the letter tq Inspector Byrne, of the detective force, and they began devising means to capture tbe rogue. Personals were inserted iu the newspapers, which drew from tbe un known writer a number'of oth»r letters in which lie by turns threatened Gould ar.d implored him to help him win back some hundreds of thousands which he claimed he bad lost in speculations. He aent Gould a key by which personals could bs published, using cipher words In place of names of stocks, and by which Gould emld give blm information cin which* he could speculate safely. Following this key, the inspector and Mr. Connor kept up corre- spoudencs with the blackmailer until to day. Meanwhile, It waa disoovered that, all letters sent by the blackmailer pSssdi I through station E, Thirtv-fourth street Heron Archer slowly;” bat—” “Now don’t pull any of your conscien tious scruples in by the forelock,” langb- ed Puffins. “It’s all right. You're mu tually interested in each other—renewal of acquaintance; topics of conversation, primroses and hansonv horaes, services rendered, gratitude, etc., eta. There’s the case plainly stated. Tbe concludingpoints I leave to you. Good morning; 8 sharp; I shall be here.” Then he was gone, noisy aud voluble to tbe last. But Heron Archer did little Archer, you must be mad ? Such a thing work that day, only young Staunton was is unheard efl It goea against all tbe ! astonished by the receipt of a five-pound auwUm ramtse. It will soon be time to commence fer tilizlng your lands, and we would suggest as tbe best fertilizer that which yon can make at homo. We have a valuable re • clpe and tbe ingredients to make the best fertilizers on record, aud If you will call on ns we will furnish It to you free of charge. Our store is opposite the suction bouse and Dollar Store. We retail goods as well as wholesale them, and both the wholesale and retail departments are in tbe same building and not separate as they need to be. Call on us the first time you come to Macon. » Lamar, Rankin A Lamar. Impovtaat t* MIMsrs, Washington, November 16.—First Assistant Postmaster-General Hatton has decided that publishers of matter admit ted to tbe mails as second-class may print upon the side of postal cards Intend ed for communications, bills, receipts and orders for subscription to tbelr publica tion or publications, as provided In sec tion 133 postal laws and regulations, and may also print tbe address of auch pub lisher upon the addrem side cf tbe said, and enclose the same ia their second-class matter. Tbe Poetmaator-General has decided tbat upon all papers sent as merchandise there may be printed any matter not having the character of actual or personal correspondence, aod that with such mer- chandiae and nmrehandiae of other mate rial such printed matter may be enclosed or appended. and Eighth avenue, amf a plan formed to capture L'im. Tbo postmaster^ and the postmaster general wore Consult ed, aud fifty carriers in citizens’ dress were placed at the dispotal or Inspector Byrne to-day. Tbe carriers assembled at elation E, at au early hour this morn ing, aud were me; there by an equal number of detectives. Soon afterward each of the fifty letter boxes in the district were watclied by a detective and carrier. Whenever a per son dropped a letter into the box, tbe de tective kept watch on the person until the carrier had gone to the box, opened It, and read the address on the envelope. It was agreed that if tbe earner toned a let ter addressed to Gonid, the carrier was to raise his hat, aud tbe detective was then to arrest tbe parson who had deposited tbe letter. The secret was closely kept. At 3 p. m. a tall, well dressed man of sixty years dropped a letter, addressed to Jay Gould, into the box at Thirty-fourth street and Seventh aveL jc. He was ar rested at once and taken to the police headquarters, where he admitted his guilt. He gave his address ss Colonel J. Howard Welles, 365 Fifth svenae. He- would not give auy further information •bout himself, aud it waa ascertained af terwards that the address in Fifth avenue was not bis preMDi place of residence, though he had at one time boarded there. He was so much distressed by the a nest that he was closely watched to-night, for fear he would commit tuicide. It was sain, to-night, tbat Gould would prosecute Welles. Vlrflsls Methodist Ccmfereaee. Charlottesville, November 16.— The ninety-ninth session of the Methodist annual conference convened at nine a. m. here to-day. Bishop McTreire presided. About ISO preachers and delegates were present at tbe roll call, with about 100 or mote to arrive. No business of public importance came before the conference. Tbe report of tbe presiding elders and of committees occupiedjmost of the day. Tbe opening sermon was preached by Rev. Dr. Wm. E. Edwards, of Lynchburg, at ■even and a half o’clock this evening, after which sacramental services warp conducted by Dr. John E. Edwards, of Richmond. Business of usual Interest will come up during the sitting of Um conference. Naha hherusau Mahea a Ipmb. Cincinnati, November Iff.—gem. John Sharmau appeared on'change to-day, and made a brwf address, in wTricfrfi alluded to the dark days of the peak wffnm he bad spoken to Ulr»c|nqati and he congratulated them that OWSe eittte