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VOLUME I. fllE INDEPENDENT. sui Itliu. t, INISU J. C. GALLAHER, Editor and Proprietor. Puliliahnl Wnrklf t s'i (10 per Annuni tn \dvaN(-c, Sinn It Copte* *1 cents. TU EM \ \ B VUs AGO, [Tho follow ing is uiic of those good old |>iccu* w hich has long flouted through the liow.sjMuu r world without any one appear ing to claim it* authorship. It is much too good to bo lost ami would hour rep etition toil thousand times.] Trft wnndero4 to tho village, Tom— Tvo sat bo liufttii the tret;, Upon the achooirhonse play-ground, which sheL tured you dhd mo, Hut none weroUuru to grout mu, Tom, and few wore left fc* iuuxic, That played with us qp> u tho grouty Sumo twenty yaw# ago. * ~ TTao grass is 2art >8 ween Tern—barefooted boy*atply' 7 Were sportiugf Jnat its wedid then, wtyfc spirits Junta* gay; Dnt .Master upon tho hill which, routed o’er withsljovv. Afforded us a sliding place, Just twenty years *K% Tim old school-house is altered some, the benches are replaced By new urn s very like the same our peu knives had defaced; But the same old bricks are iu the wall—the boll swings to and fro, Its music’s just the same, dear Tom, as twenty ■ \car ago. The lsiys are playing some old game beneath the J same okl tree, I do forget the name Just now- -you’ve played the same with me; On that same spit ’twus played with knives by throwing, so and So, Thu lender had a tank to do there, twenty years Tin* river's Just an Htill,thew.U on its Hide Art* km#i*r than they were, Tom; the utreani ftp- JHHT* lt'HH wide, l)Ut the Kraptr vine HwiitK is ruined now, where once we played the bean And our Mvveetliearttf—pretty girln—-Just twenty yearn a^o. The spring that bubbled ’neath tha hill olt*Re bv the spreading beaeh 1h very low twas oiico so high that we could al most reaeh And kneeling down to get a drink,, deaf Tom, I started ho To see how much that I have changed since twenty years.ago. Near by the spring upon an elm, you know I cut your name, Your awH*theart*H Just beneath it Tom, and you did mine the same; Hme heartless wretch has peeled the hark, ’twan dying sure, but slow Just as tile one whose name you cut, died twenty years ago. Their lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears OAJne in my eyes. Aa I thought of iier I loved so well and those oarlv broken ti*s, I visited the churchyard and took some flowers to strew Upon the graves of those we loved some twenty years ago, Htmiu are in tho churchyard laid, same sleep Ik*- neath the Mia But few are left of our old class, excepting you and me. And when our time shall come, Tom, and we are *a!led to go, I hope they’ll lay us where we played Just twenty years ago. PLUCKED FROM TIIK BUKX -IXO. I mn not dying ; liinvni lias been mer eiful to me, mid I shall live to lieu bless ing to him (or no In- finally tll mo) whose curse I bml so nearly proved. Wt, Weak and prostrated iin lam, I cannot r. ~t until 1 have written down the details of my Kid story; for whilst there is a chance of their recital deterring Nil eh as would tread the paths T well nigh stumbled in, and that chance remains unheeded, I feel I have not made all the reparation which lies in my power. I must begin with the beginning of my life. My father was an officer in the lieu gal army, but he and my mother dying within a few months of each other, left mo early to tho core of guardians, who imagined that, by keeping me at a respect able la larding school from tho time I could talk plainly until the age of eighteen, they amply fulfilled the trust they had under taken. From my childhood I knew that when my eighteenth birthday arrived I should lie sent out again to India, not for the mere object of marriage, lmt because there is a shrewd condition attached to the enjoyment of the fund provided by the Bengal army for its female orphans, by which, if they are to continue to draw the allowance made for them, and which ceases upon marriage, they must take up a resi dence in the presidency upon attaining u marriageable age. I had lio provision to look to except that derived from the fund, anil my guardians hod neither the wish nor the ability to maintain mo; therefore, at tho time ap pointed, I set sail for India, alone. Having no fair friends to leave behind me, Iliad looked forward to this change in my condition as an era in the life which had been s|ient in schoolroom monotony; but the reality did not fulfil my expecta tions. Arriving in Calcutta, I found myself do- 1 pendent on the hospitality of friends, to whose care I had been confided, if not for j actual support, at least for that protection 1 without which u young woman cannot mix in the world. I was proud in spirit., notwithstanding the humbleness of my position, and after awhile the knowledge galled me, and 1 ; felt that I could bear it no longer. Acting upon this impulse and the advice of mv I friends, I made the fatal mistake, which ho many of my sex have made before me, of accepting the first eligible offer which I received, which chanced to he from Laurence Edwards, tire rising partner in a large mercantile firm. I did not love him. Whatever my heart feels for him now, I must record that here. How could I Las t' loved him, ami yet have this story to relate of myself 2 He was a grave, business-like man, some 12 years older than I was, and whose disapproba tion of my levity was the occasion more than once of our engagement being nearly broken off. However, matters were made smooth again between us. I liked him as well, or better than most of the butterflies who were hoveringnboutuie; my Acquaint ances congratulated ino on the excellence of my prospects, and I endorsed their opinions by becoming his wife. Hut very shortly after my marriage I had a danger ous illness; so alarming a one indeed that the doctors recommended an immediate return home as the only means of restoring my health. My husband could not go; with me; he had but iatelv returned from l‘j3 l-f-tr of pleasure, and the other partner JL _JL JL Jl J jl- n! Ji — A JL \ Jli Ji JL 9 !of tho lionso was uway, so he was cotn jwllwl to h>t rao depart by myself. He put mo on boon! the houiewanl bound steamer, was vigilant in providing all things ueeessrtvy for my comfort (luring tho passage,and full of cautions nato my be havior on my wrival in England; but lie iliil not express mueli grief at our separa tion. That he felt it 1 now know well, but 110 was a man who could bow himself graeefully to the inevitable; lie feared to excite my alarm by appearing to think too much of my state of health, and 1 attributed his reticeuoo to want of feel ing. I returned to England then, ns 1 left it, alone, and, for the first time, thrown oil' uiy own discretion as a guide. Legally 1! vna no longer a child, to be looked after ; and directed by guardians; but in reality i 1 was just as unfit to Vic my own mistress us when I left school. Having no family of my own, except the- most distant con nections, I first visited that of uiy husband, in Scotland; bnt I W 1 nof*ttay there long. His countrified ami rtanehly l*rosbyterinn relatives scared mo with their rigid ways and doctrines, as doubtless 1 horrified j them by tho laxity of my lnnuncrs. Hav- j ing been brought up entirely at school, | and being very foolish and heedless, as bo-1 euuie uiy youth, I had no idea of accom modating myself to tho habits of those j prim Scotch people, and cried myself ill ! before I had been a week under their roof, which set them so against me that it was: a uintaal pleasure when tho day for my departure was fixed. 1 had never lived out of Loudon before, and every other I place seemed strange to me; therefore my j husband consented to my taking a house 111 the Mlliurlw, where, with my small es tablishment of maid servants, 1 expected! for some time to hear that, lie was on his way to rejoin mo. lint business interfered with his plans, and one thing after another ! combined to prevent his return until wo! bud lioon three years separated from cjieh ether;and although my own health was then jierfcetly restored, 1 was enjoying myself too mncli to have any wish to revisit ; Calcutta. M ore than that, I lmd begun to regret, j guilty creature that 1 was, that I had ever i seen the place or the man whom J called i iiiv husband. I had never known much of bitn, its may lie supposed. During our i brief married life he had been occupied j for the greater portion of each day, and ! the little I did know wits fast fading from !my memory. The heart forgets quickly j from 18 to 21, and particularly when ab i senee is added to the feeling which had | never culminated beyond gratitude. And mneh happened during those three years to wipe the remembrance of him oil' my mind. I was exceedingly thoughtless and foud of gaiety, and mv little house was soon crowded with visitors. I was pretty also—l need have no hesitation in trans cribing the fact, since paper cannot reflect 'my blushes and some among my new ae ' ipmintance were found bold enough to tell ;me so. Among these was a certain Alfred I Know-lon, a connection of my -own, who | bad introduced himself to me on that ac ! count, claiming a distant conaiuship, and ! taking advantage of that claim to establish nil intimacy between ns. He was a hund ! some young fellow, not many years older j than myself, with lots of life and sparkle ! about him; and when at last he ventured i to tell me that lie loved me ns lie lmd nev i er loved woman before, he made mo bo- I li.'vo lie was very much in earnest ; and, to i my mi l rv, I went still further, and be ll ieveil not only that I returned his love, I but was very much in earnest also. Per haps some may w onder that I can write so ; quietly on such a theme; but I have unob : jeet in doing so. My purpose in telling this tide is to show tho means by which I was rescued from the wrong I contempla ted; but I will not sully ii - pages by dc ; tailing how the sin was so nearly brought about. When it was that I first fancied I loved Alfred Knowles I cannot say; but the idea grew by little and little, until I was strongly imbued with it, and when the cri sis of my fate arrived I felt as though I were entangled in a web from which there was no possibility of escape. It was not many days after the completion of the third anniversary of my arrival in England that he implored me to break through the shackles of a marriage which had been unhallowed by affection, and to link my lot with his, and I consented. \\ ithont taking time to weigh the consequences of the step I was about to take, without hav ing seriously ascertained w hether my lover was really worth the loss of position, and mime, and honor to me, I had promised to give up everything for him; persuaded, almost against my better judgment, by the professed ardor of his attachment and the fervor of his entreaties I How well do I remember tho night up on which I had agreed to fly with him 1 how well recall each trival incident of that miserable time I It was a w arm evening in July; even at nine o'clock it was still light, and I thought the daakness ;would never fall to cover my disgrace. I sat in mv drawing room, striving to occupy my self and to make the hours pass as they did on ordinary occasions, but. without ef fect. My nerves were so painfully acute that the least sound made itself apparent ami distracted my attention. As the time i advanced I could hear the servants chatter- j ing to each other as they put up the, shut- j tors and bolted the doors, and shuddered j us I thought how freely they would han dle my name upon the coming morrow. Ten o’clock! How slowly the hours 1 dragged themselves away ! Would they never go to bed 2 As I anxiously awaited the moment when I should have the house ! to niyslef, and dared not hasten their move ments by a word which might excite sus picion, all the events of my past life crowded into my mind, and while I could have counted the loud pulsations of my heart, it seemed as though I lingered there for no other purpose but to gaze up on the panoramic pictures which memory presented to me. With my elbow leaning on the table and my eyes staring into va cancy,! must have looked more vanquished than triumphant—more like a defaulter who hears the approaching step of the of ficer of justice than a woman whose cov eted happiness is just within her grasp! Why did the remembrance of my husband, of the man of whom I had thought so lit tle, come to torment me in that hour of nervous expectation, and make me turn so hot each time I thought of him that there did not seem enough air in the room for me to breathe V I did not love him, neither did I fear him; but I knew him for a man of unblimeshed honor, and I could not contemplate the blow I was about to inflict upon his name without ac knowledging that ho deserves something better at my hands. He had taken me a dowerless orphan, for his wife; he had, loaded me since with every benefit that QUITMAN, GA., SATURDAY, DECEMBER 0, IS7*L j money could procure; I could recall the af fectionate gravity with which he would re proach my girlish levity; tho cheerful readiness with which lie acceded to every i innocent wish that I expressed. Why why, in the name of Uod, did nil tins, which 1 had so long forgotten, come back Ito iuc now ? Wliul w mid lie say ? What would he think? How would lie look when he heard the dreadful news that I had dishonored him and left my home 1 with a Htilingm ? I dared not consider; 1 covered mv face tightly with my hands, and rocked myself baekwurk and forward in my pain. And yet how could I disappoint Alfred, jor give him up who loved me so? “Oh! | w hy," 1 inwardly moaned, “why did my \ husband send me home to England, or w hy ! did he not come also to protect mo from harm V 1 have lived alone, without a friend to warn mo of lay danger, and now it is too lute—it is too late 1" So in my ex tremity 1 sighed, anil wo I thdbifht. The servants now appearing to ask if I required anything further at their hands, 1 dismissed them impatiently, and listened ; wearily for the momentwhen silence should j reign over tho little household, mnl its | mistress be free to forsake it. When it ur- I rived I went to uiy bedroom. There stood : till 1 boxes, addressed and corded, to account i for the presence of which J laid been com ! polled to fabricate the falsehood of my lio j ing about to pay a visit, in the country the | following day, trusting that when the ser ! vants found I was gone they would for ward them to their destination. In tlie meanwhile I had only a small i travelling bag to carry in my hand, and tlie few articles which 1 required were soon ! placed ill it. 1 stripped oil' the jewelry ; which I wore and locked it in my jewel ease, putting the key in a place of safety. ; I emptied the contents of my purse upon j the dressing table, for I had no intention ' of taking anything with mo flint 1 could possibly do without. Then I robed myself, iu my walking apparel, and 1 was ready— ; ready for what ? Eleven o’clock, the hour for meeting, was close at. hand, yeti lingered; loath,!; am glad to think, to break through the tics which bound me yet a little longer to 1 the society of the good and the pure, lint j 1 had made up my mind; I laid given my promise. What was there to detain me? I was leaving the room, when .1 caught sight of a print which adorned its walls-- the representation of an infant, with clasped hands, kneeling upon its little bed. Tho sight stunned me; the remembrance of my orphaned childhood, my neglccti and youth, my unloved maturity, rushed into my head, and for a moment I wept bit terly. "All ! : ’ I exclaimed amidst mv tears; “lia<l I had a baby of my own this had never been; or Inal I had a mother to teach mo how to pray, heaven might mer cifully have guarded me this night against myself!” ' But I felt, that 1 had gono too far, and that tho time for thinking-thus had passed over my head. Drying my eyes, I quietly ! nnfastened the bedroom door, and, with a j lighted candle in my hand, crept stealthily i down the staircase, fearful lest the servants ! should be attracted by tlie sounds of my footsteps and fancy that I needed tlieir as sistance. But w hen I reached the hall I found the task before me, of obtaining a quiet, egress, more ditlleult than I bad anticipated. The ponderous bolts and bars ami chains were rusty; some I could seal move, and of j others I did not understand the mechan ism. As I was lingering them with trepi dation, lest I should be overheard, the footsteps ut a man sounded upon the pave-1 merit outside, ami fancying it. must be that of the olio I was about to join, 1 applied j myself with fresh energy to the task,and Imd ; just accomplished it, when a thundering’ double knock upon the door itself, and. close against my head, nearly threw me j off my balance with alarm. Wlio could it be ? Not Alfred surely— with a noise that reverberate, through the | little tenement ! Iu my surprise and con fusion I suddenly threw open tlie unfus- j trued door, and saw before me tho figure | of him whom I hud imagined to be thou sands of miles away -of my husband, Lau-. renee Edwards 1 Tho shock was so great and unexpected that I staggered backwards and leaned j against tlie wail. The candle w hich I had | brought down with me was still flaring in j its candlestick upon the hall table, and its feeble, uncertain light threw a sickly glare , upon my husband’s face, as doubtless it | did upon my own. Ho, apparently us as tonished as myself to have the halt door! opened to him at eleven o’clock at night j by his wife, clad in walking attire, regard ed me for a few ;seconds iu total silence. I was tho first to recover myself. “brood heavens,Laureuco!” I exclaimed, • ‘how you frightened me t I never dreamed of seeing you ! Why did you not apprise mo of your intended return ?” “Because I had a fancy for taking you by surprise," ho replied, gravely, “and I seemed to have succeeded perfectly. Where, are you going?” “Going 1”I faltered. “Going! Where should Ibe going at this time of night V” ; “No, to be sure. You have just conic 1 in, of course. Well, get out of this, draught, Marion, while I settio my busi-; ness with the cabman.” He reopened the door as lie spoke, find I j perceived that a cab with his portmanteau ‘ stood outside, and guessed that ho had j been looking for the number of the house j for some minutes before ho startled me j with liis knock. I obeyed him, and walked mechanically > into tiie sitting room, where the servants, j roused by this time, had appeared with j lights. My head was so confused that I; could hardly think, but above the knowl- j edge that all my plans had been upset by j my husband’s reappearance, and the fear us to how much he might or might not | guess concerning them, rose the idea of a ! great deliverance. 1 felt as though I had ; been standing on the brink of a precipice j and someone had suddenly drawn me ] backwards; as if I had been bent upon suicide and the angel of God had stood in in the path with a flaming sword and: forced me to turn another way. In an other minute Laurence joined me. 1 had i hastily removed iy bonnet and shawl and , thrown them in a corner. He eatno up to my side and tenderly embraced me. ‘< ‘Xs my wife glad to have me home again ?" he said kindly: “or is she sor ry ?” “Glad,” I replied in a low voice, and I did not lie. I was glad- that he had come to save me. Now that the least cheek had been given to my impulse, I felt how unworthy it laid been of me, and how I had magnified its attractions. T did not i feel any the bettir for this Conviction; on the contrary, 1 knew that it withdrew* the only excuse I could h ve claimed for my intended treachery, i*fu, as it struck me my head sank lower cud lower, until l felt abased to tlie eery earth. My husband did not appear to not!‘c my sonao of hu miliation; he conversed cheerfully w ith me during the meal which I caused to be pre pared for him, on the rcusou of his.sudden return to England; told mo that he had often delayed it until the business should bo better able to spare him, but finding tlmt, each year increased instead of dimin ishing its demands, had determined to put it oil no longer. He questioned me on my own plans, and trusted that his advent would make no difference to them, while 1 sal before him like a eul iprit, each kind word he uttered sinking like a knife into my heart. Ah !if lie uttly knew, if he only could have rend my thoughts, how would behave felt towards me V When I had somewhat acenstoumd myself to liis presence 1 took conrago to raise my con science-stricken head mid examine his ap pearance. Ido not Pappose ho was much altered from what he had been w hen wo parted, blit. 1 had thought of him so little that he looked almost like a stranger to mo. I saw before me a tall, dark man, rendered still darker from being exceed ingly sunburnt, w hose blue eyes contrasted strangely with his black hair and beard. I was fair and small myself. He struck lue as being very manly and good looking, and I wondered that I never perceived it before. As lie caught me iu the midst of my scrutiny ho smiled, but sadly. “I suppose you have nearly forgottou what lam like, Marion? Well, you have had lime enough to do so. Ido not see much alteration iu you, my dear;you seem quite unchanged to me. I trust your Heart is ns much so as your face ?” I. felt myself blush as he addressed me, but I gave him no other answer. “Como, is the house locked up again ?” he said in anotCer minute. "If so, I think we had better go to bed, for if you arc not very tired I am 1” This was the moment which I had been dreading ever since his arrival, when lie must see my corded boxes, and require some explanation of their being there. With all my wickedness 1 had not been in the habit of telling falsehoods, and the idea was dreadful to me; yet 1 was desper ate, and I knew that I must lie or be dis covered. “Halloa 1” he exclaimed, as his eye fell upon them. “What are these? Your boxes, Marion ? Were you going away anywhere ?” “Yes,” I replied, I hardly knew liow. “I was going away for a little while, but it is of no consequence.” “Dover,” said my husband; reading the address. “Yarn wanted a breath of sea uir, did you? Well, 1 don’t wonder at it this stiffing weather. Wo can go together my deal’, cun wo not ? It will do us both good. ” "Oh, no 1 Pray do not thiuk of it. I would rather stay hero now that you are come—l have no wish for a change,” fell rapidly from my mouth, as I j dreaded his insisting upon putting his I proposal into execution. I could not have ! gone there with him. I would have died sooner. I should have feared that the j very stones would have cried out anil re vealed my baso intentions to him -those intentions from the thought of which 1 | had already commenced to shrink with J horror. “It shall bo just as you please, Marion,” : was his quiet answer. “My only object I in coming homo is to give yon pleasure.” J It w ill bo readily conjectured that 1 did i not sleep much that night. \\ hat my j ■ lover would think of my defection, and how I should communicate my further ( wishes to him w lmt my husband would Hay if he over guessed the truth, or part of the truth, and how I could live so as to best conceal it from him—troubled me too much to permit me to sleep. How I longed that night to die before the morn ing'! What a debased and guilty creature I seemed to myself ! How incapable of making the happiness of either of the men with whom I had to do 1 And yet I had time to wonder at the fact that my in trigue with Alfred Knowles appeared al ready to have become a thing of the past; that whatever became of me, that would never happen now; that the merciful liin- 1 dranee 1 had received bad been sufficient [ to open my eyes and to cause mo to see myself anil my design in their trim colors. The next day I felt that I owed it to | him to send him immediate intelligence of j what had occurred and how I intended to act for the future. I scarcely know what I wrote. I believe I said simply that my husband lmd returned, and that I consul- j erod it an especial interposition of Pruvi- j deuce to save us from a crime for which! W’o should never have forgiven ourselves | or each other, and that if he loved ino as j ho said he did I prayed him to leave me | to myself and that performance of duty by j which alone I hoped to deaden tho stings of conscience which assailed mo. But ho would not do as I dosirod him; ho was selfish and profligate; and instead of considering that we had experienced a great escape, he looked upon me as on one who had cheated him and foresworn her-j self. Ho did worse. He sent mo letters | so openly that I lived in a state of ooutin- j mil dread lest my husband should ask to j I see their contents or from whom they | ; came; and, disregarding the privacy of; ■ my home, ho came there to upbraid and j j revile mo for my cowardice, even threat- j I cuing mo with exposure if 1 did not keep j i my word. __ j I But I was firm. Thank God, I was firm. ! : Better still, the change in Alfred Knowles’ j behavior to me made the flimsy thing: which I had called my love for him, and : which Inal had no surer foundation tlnui flattered vanity, molt away into thin air, . and leave nothing but thankfulness for my j release. All this time my husband did not relax ! iu any of his attentions to me. He was ; uniformerly kind and tender; lie almost J i anticipated my wishes; and what touched : me more than anything, he appeared fully , to trust an—l, who had proved myself so : ; utterly unworthy of liis confidence. | | Throughout the period of Alfred Knowles’ j bitter reproaches to me and entreaties to !me that I would change my purpose, my I husband never seemed suspicious of my : ! cousin or myself; on the contrary, ho often j left us together to fight out our battles, 1 : and was only (or the contrast made me j j think so) the more tender afterwards than ! before. I thought that I hail never known Laurence as I knew him then; 1 often said ;to myself, that had I only known him, I I must have loved him too much to eoutem ! plate liis dishonor. But the idea would make mo shrink from his caresses, feeling j myself so unworthy of them, till he was pained to imagine what could have so dis tressed me. One evening wo were at the theatre to gether—for he was careful to take mo to every place of amusement—w hen 1 ob served Alfred Knowles in a box opposite to the one wo occupied. He was accom panied by several other gentlemen, and a very beautiful but careworn woman, hand somely dressed, was loaning over tho front of the box. “Do not notieo your cousin to-night, dear Marion,” said my husband in a whis per. “1 will give you my reason pres ently.” 1 obeyed him, os indeed I had no wish to do otherwise; but 1 stole several furtive glances opposite in tho course of tho even ing. I observed that, bountiful as tlm woman was, none of the men appeared to pay her much attention; that they talked to each other without intermission, al though she put up her hand several times, us though to entreat their silence; that nt the close of the play they left her to oloak herself, and that she followed them out of the box, without being offerod tho arm of any ono. i guessed who film might be, but I left my husband to tell mo when ho thought fit. As we were driving homo ho said: “I wonder Knowles likes to show him self iu public with a person of that charac ter. Of course, Marion, you do not know who she is ?” 1 acknowledged my ignoronee. “Poor creature 1” lie replied, “what she is is best not told; lmt she was the wife of one of the peers of the realm, and the wo man most to be envied, perhaps, in Eng land. She made ono false step, and for the sake of a man who forsook her a month afterwards —and there she is, very beautiful still, as you see, but devoid of all claim to our respect or courtesy. It’s a dreadful thought isn’t it, little woman ?” A dreadful thought—ah ! was it not ? Ho would have clasped me to him, but 1 shrank back into the further end of the carriage seat, and trembled to think that in will, if not in deed, 1 laid been as lost as the woman he had spoken of. Had be u ves I Thank Heaven, I need not alter that sentence; the will had now as com pletely vanished as tho probability of tho deed. My health now began to to fail so con siderable that my husband took mo away to the seaside. Laurence thought it was the close Lon don air; the doctor recommended tonics and a change. I know the real reason well, and thought the only change which could heal me was death. I was begin ning to love my husband; the more .1 was convinced of this the more wretched I felt. J could not live under the burden of de ceit which my whole life was to me, lmt neither had I tho courage to confess to Laurence that I had so wronged his trust. YVliat, then, was left me but to die ? I was so strongly impressed with this conviction that I actually brought my self down to the doors of death. Laurence took me aw ay to a quiet little watering place and had the best advice, but it was of no avail. I grew weaker and weaker. His tenderness to mo never failed. Often would he entreat me to tell him if I had any thing on iny mind, to he assured of bis full forgiveness before f spoke, to believe that he would not fail to lovo me through everything. But still 1 could not speak. It was all very well for him, ignorant of tho true cause of my melancholy, to entreat me to reveal it; but were I to take him at his word I was convinced that the effect would bo far different to what lie supposed. He could not love me with that knowledge on his mind; lie would east me out from the light of his presence forever. And so 1 lay and looked at him, and longed to disburden my soul, nml yet dared not to do so, until weeks had resolved themselves into months, and I really through that I was dying. One evening, when I felt weaker than usual, and he hud been more than usually kind to me, 1 burst into tears and hid my face in the sofa cushion. He came to me at once—my husband, whom I had learnt to love so much—and took my head and laid it on his breast, and tenderly reproached me for my weakness. “No, lio ! not there 1” I exclaimed, tear ing myself, in the pain of self-conviction, from the position he had caused me to as sume; “not there, Laurence. I am not worthy!” “Not worthy, my dear wife?” ho said gravely. “If you are not, who is ?” Then his apparent perfect trust in my goodness broke down the barrii rs of shame which had hitherto prevented me from telling him the truth, and' I thought that sooner than livo any longer and endure the bitter reproach of his unsuspecting praises I would he thrust forth by his hand from tho roof which I had so nearly deserted. “Stop 1 stop 1” I exclaimed wildly. Laurence, hear mo speak. Then I told my wretched story, rapidly, and mingled with tears, but with my face still buried in tho sofa cushions. I told him all—from the first to the last. I did not rest until I had made a clean breast of it. When I had finished (the miserable recital did not take long) I lay still, scarcely breathing, till I should hear his exclamations of horror and surprise. I lay still,determined to accept with pa tience anything liis outnigi and feelings might choose to inflict on me. But all that issued from his lips was— “ Well, dear wife ?” I looked up timidly, and met liis blue eves gazing at me with the utmost tender ness, though there was sadnes mingled j with their love. _ j “Laurence 1” I gasped, “strike me 1 kill j me 1 but don’t look at me like that! 1; have told you all, as there is a God in, heaven 1 And now you know why I am not worthy of your love.” “And wlmt if I knew it before, Marion ?” he asked gently. 1 raised myself in amazement and stared ! at him. Yes lit was truth ! 1 read it in • liis candid eyes; he hail known it and—he , 1 had loved me through it all 1 j I had no words wherewith to thank him, j I no courage to inako protestations for the ; ! future; I could only kneel there sobbing, and trust to my generous hearted Lau rence to accept my tears and the clasping I pressure of my hands for all that they ! meant. ' “I knew it before I left India, dearest j wife; it was the knowledge of your danger which brought me home so unexpectedly. By accident you enclosed one of your let ters to Alfred Knowles in the envelope you sent to me. Once alive to the fear of loosing you. I resolved at any cost to reas ; slime the office of protector to you, which II shall tiever relinquish.” • “It was uot your fault, dearest,” l,ntur iliel'ed; “the fault has all been mine. Would the misery had been so also 2” “I deserved my share of it,” he an swered. “I had many doubts about letting you, so young mid inexperienced, return to England afone; bnt tho hiqH-of speedily anm.-a.ug a fortune, which you should enjoy with me, proved too strong a temptation, ami for it I risked my domestic happiness. Thank God that I have only risked it 1” My heart echoed liis thankigivuig. “And n< w,Marion,now that it is all nv', yon are sure that you are mine only ?” ho continued wistfully. I hioked straight into liis eyes—those dear eyes which through oil my deception, and doubt, and iudifereuco liml never al tered their kind protecting garni; and though mine were* almost too dim with tears to see, wo understood each other and were satisfied. BUSINESS CARDS JAS. H. HUNTER ATTOKYIt AT t. AW, QUITMAN, JIHOOKS COUNTY, GEORGIA. Willprnetico in tho Counties of file Southern Circuit, Echols and Clinch of tho Brunswick, and Mitchell of the Albany. ad'Cllice at tho Court I louse, -a June2Btf W. D. BKNNETT. H. T. KINUHUKRIIY BENNETT & KINGSBERRY, Atlonieys nt l^riNY' QUI TM A X, Brooks Comity, - Georgia. jaaeSs-tf EDWARD R. HARDEN, Attorney tit Law* (l U 1 T 31 A N , BROOKS COUNTY, - - GEORGIA. Late ail Associate Justice Hnpremo Court U. S. for Utah and Nebraska Territories; now' Judge Comity Court, Brooks County, (ia. may24-12iiio JUS. N. S N GW, DENTIST, Quitman, ----- Georgia, Office Up Stairs, Finch’s Corner. ang2B-4in DR. E. A. JELKS, I’UACTISLNU PHYSICIAN, Quitman, tia. OFFICE—Brick building adjoining the storo ot Messrs. Briggs, Jelks A,-Co., JSurevcii struct. Diay-iO tf ... nil BALTIMORE CAHD. C 1.0 TIIITV <a . C. M. BROWN, of Florida, •—WITH— WE I DLER & KUO., 271 W. Baltimore St., Baltimore, Md. &i VAXXMt ADVERTISEMENTS . DR. D. COX, LIVE STOCK, SLAUGHTERED MEATS, —ANI>— 1* I£ O 1> u Cl I S COMMISSION MERCHANT *—AND— PURCHASING AGENT, 6M VA AhV.-l //) QKQUOIA, —-on* fStook LotHi WILLIAM AND WEST BROAD STEETS. IN BASEMENT OF CITY MARKET. CONSIGNMENTS OV BEEF CATTLE, MILCH COWS, SHEEP, HOGS, (1 A M E , DRESSED MEATS, Ac., Ac., —A I.SO POULTRY, EGOS, VEGETABLES, FRUITS, MELONS, ! SUGAR, SYRUP, HONEY, HIDES, TALLOW, Ac. respectfully solicited. aiiglS-tf MARSHALL HOUSE, SAVANNAH, GEORGIA ! A. B. LUCE, Proprietor, BOARD, OO Pei- Day. I auglO-H NUMBER 31. SA VAXXAH ADVERTISEMENTS. J.N. LIGHTTOOT. COTTON FACTOR —AHD COMMISSION MERCHANT, 100 Huy St.,Saiannuli, Ga. Agent for the sale of NERRYMAN'S AMAtOSIATKI) liOJfEfk Liborol cash advances made on oottaignmefrt* for aalo iu HuvAimah, or on shipmentM to reliable correspondents in Liverpool, New York or Phila- _ ocU-itii JAS. R. SHELDON, COTTON FACTOR —AND— Wcn’l Commission Merchant No. 102 Bay Street, Savuuuuh, - - - - Georgia. Liberal Advances made on Consignments. IIAddIMI, IKON TlKNand ROVKFuminhed. Correspondence and Consignment* Solicit**!. r HO MPT RETURNS (i UA R ANTE ED. aopO-flm IN3IAN, SWANN & UoU COTTON FACTORS —AND— CO VI iIIISSION MERCIIA X TS, 96 Bay Bt.,6avannah, Ga., and Cotton Exchange, 101 Pearl St., New York, Will make liberal ca.Hh advances on cotton ship ments to cither our Savannah or New York house. Will buv and Hell futures on liberal terms. ocU-.hn INMAN, SWANK A- CO. M. FITZGERALD, (ESTA DUSIIEI) 1850. ) Manufacturer and Wholesalo and Iletail Sealer in C A NDIES, CORDIALS, STRUPS, Fancy Confectionary, &e. Iwo Bryan St., Between Barnard and Jefferson Streets, Savannah, Ga. ang2-tf TO TIIE PUBLIC! SALOMON COHEN Corner Bay and Jefferson Sts., Sri Fri YAM 11, GEORGIA, OFFERS TO THE PUBLIC THE LAROEST and best stock of Two ond Four Seated Buggies, liockuwuys, Carriages, Express and Plantation Wagon*, AT PRICES TO SUIT THE TIMES. —AT.HO— ALL KINDS HARNESS AND WHIPS- Terms moderate. Enquiries promptly at tended to. Agent for tlie Studebakor Plantation Wagon, Thu same have taken the premium at the Fair at Savannah, (Ja. ootMn BIiKSNAN’S EUROPEAN HOUSE, Nos. 156, 153,160 and 162, Bryan St., SAVANNAH, GA. rilllH PROPRIETOR HAVING COMPLETE!! 1 the necessary additions and luiproYeiuoutev cun now offer to his guests all the comforts to he ob tained a T OTHER HOTEL# AT LESS THAN HALF TIIE EXPENSE. A Restaurant on the EUROPEAN PLAN lias been added, where guests can, At All lloui'M, Order whatever can bo obtained in the market. Rooms, with liuoril, $1 50 per da y. Determined to bo OUT DONE BY NONE all I can ask is a TJtIAL, confident that complete satisfaction will be given. .H t-l-tf JOHN BIIEBNAN, Ptoprleto MARKET SQUARE HODSE j VALENTINE BASLER, (Successor to his brother Antony Basler) THE WELL KNOWN TJ-1N PIN ALLEY, At the Old Stand, 174 Bryan St., OPPOSITE THE MARKET, Continues to keep on hand the beat of Brandies, Whiskies, Wines, Ales, | AND ALL OTHER LIQUORS, ' My Foreign Liquors are all of my own Impor tation. 1 ugO-tf