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VOLUME I. THE INDEPENDENT. JATCaMY, JANUARY IT. IBT*. J. C. GALLAHEE, Editor and Proprietor. Pul.lLhot Wrrkly u V-4 OO | r Annum In iihnftce. Single C’opie* * cent*. 1 OOD PITY THE POOR. The wild, rueltini; wind* of the tempest are sweeping ... ~ The froat-ft tt*ed land like a spirit of wrath; His fierce, icy breath, w ith keen arrow* ia piercing The breasts of the irand'nir* who stand in his Tiie earth in a trance lies enshrouded in silence. The storm-king knocks loudly at window and door; The praver of the pitiful fervently risen— Chid shelter the homeless and pity the poor! Ood pitr the poor who are woarily sitting My desolate hearth-stones, cold, cheerless and From which the last ember's pale flickering him faded, like hope dying out in the raid** of despair; NVho look on the wide world and h<*o it a desert Where ripple no waters,no green branches wave, Who wee in tin tufure ms dark as the present No rest hut the deathbed, no home but the grave -God pitv the poor when the eddying snow-drifts Are whirled bv the wrath of the winter wind by, Like showers of leaves from the pallid star- lilies That float in the depths of the blue lake on high: For though they are draping the broad earth in beauty, • And veiling some flaw' in each gossamer fold, Tlmt beauty is naught to the mother whose children Are crouel-.ing around her in hunger and cold. God pity the poor, far the wealthy are often A* hard as the winter and cold as its. snow: While fortune makes sunshine and summer around them, They care not for others nor think of their woe; 'Or if from their plenty a trifle be given, flo donhtiugly, grudgingly, often "tis doled, That to the receiver their “charity” seemeth More painful than hunger, more hitter than cold God pitv the poor! for though all men are brothers Though all say “0r Father,” not mine, when thev pray, The proud ones of earth turn aside from the lowly As if they were fashioned of different clay; They see not in those who ill meekness and patience, Toil, poverty, pain, without murmur endure, 'The image of Him whose first conch was a manger. Who chose for our salves to be homeless and poor. G*wl pity the poor! give them courage and patience Their trials, temptation# and troubles to brave, And pity the wealtnv whose idol is Fortune, For gold cannot gladden the gloom of the grave; And as this brief life, whether jminfnl or pleasant, To one that is endless hut opens the door, The heart sighs while thinking on palace and hovel; God pity the wealthy as well ns the ]*or. THE MAJOR'S DAUGHTER. BY THE AUTHOR OE “E.AHT LYNNE" A prettv white country house stood in the gar •den; a smooth green lawn in front it, dotted with flowers. It was the residence of Major Piper. The August sun. traveling westward, shed its beams on this pleasant dwelling: and on an upper servant of middle age, who had come to the door, and was standing in the attitude of listening, her hand shaking her eyes as she gazed towards the road. ‘ Hero she comes,” muttered the woman at | length, dropping her hand. “And may the Lord woften the tidings to her!” A luggage-laden fly was turning in at the gate, J •one young lady seated inside it—a graceful, bright j girl of 17, with a sweet countenance, luminous brow'll eyes and chestnut hair. Before the fly had j well stopped she flung the door open, sprung j out, and took lwith hands of the woman lovingly ; in hers. “O Day, Day! how glad I am to sec yon!” “Bless your dear face, Miss Laura ! “And where’s papa?—and'why did he not come to meet me at the station as usual?” asked the j Young lady, who was Major Piper’s only child. Mrs. Piper had died three years before. “Well he—he was busy, Miss Laura.” replied; the servant, with uneasy evasiveness “And now . he has just stepped out: but he won’t be long. ’ You come up to your room, dear.” Another servant had appeared to help the dri ver with the lioxea. Laura ran up the stairs, and j was about to enter her own room when Day in- 1 terposed. “Not there, Miss Laura. Your room, this time, j is to be higher up." “Why, Day ! \Yhat’s that for?” “I’ll show it to yon," said Day evasively; and j made a kind of run for the upper stairs. Just then the chamber door was opened, and a French j nurse and two children appeared at it, one of i them inarms. Laura started in blank amazement, and hastened after Day to know the meaning of j it all. j Ah, it was a pitiful tale the faithful woman had j to tell! She had been Laura's nurse, and she felt j it keenly. Major Piper, going over to Boulogne-1 snr-Mer to while away the time, which hung somewhat heavily on his hands in the absence, of j liis child at school—he had sold out of Her Maj- I ostv’s service gome years before—fell in there j with a Mrs. Fitztophet, a fascinating widow. The Major was simple-hearted, simple-minded;; rather weak, in fact, easily swayed, and unsuapi- j cions as the dav. Hhe was clever,crafty designing, j and the poor Major fell into her toils and was sc- j cured. The marriage took place, and the Major had just brought her home. This was the news, that Day had to breuk to Laura; the Major had ; gone out purposely and deputed Day to do it. Mrs. Fitztophet had seven children, but the j Major had thought she had but two: the other j live, away at nurse or school, turned up after the j marriage. Home of them hud come home with j the bride, and they had taken Laura's own chain- j her for a nursery. The Major liad also believed Mrs. Fitztophet to he a woman of substance, for she lived expensively; hut, on her marriage with j liim, her income lapsed to her children. All she then had was less than a hundred a year, and ! what sum the trustees might choose to allow her j children who were not at school. The Major did j not deceive her. He told her candidly that all j his income (about six hundred a vear) was de- j rived from his foriror wife, and it would of j course descend to his daughter. Of course, as- ; seated the amiable widow: but she had taken care I to get all particulars out of the unsuspicious Major; and she knew that the money was at his | disposal trt bequeath to whom he would; for his i wife, fully confiding in him, believing that their ! daughter and her interests were secure in his : hands, had made no will. It was this news - ; the fact of the second marriage and of the second ! family—that Day had to break to her young lady. The shock to Laura was dreadful. Her first thought, arising out of her mind’s general bewil derment, was of her mother. Dead though she was, it seemed like an outrage upon her that an other should be brought home to fill her place, t Laara had keen affections; she was refined and j sensitive, and during these first moments she tlvotight that she would rather have died than heard it. Hhe did not betray this to Day; she stood quiet, calm, silent—those who feel the deepest show it least. But for her utt ;r!y pale face and quivering lips,Day might have supposed her young lady to he indifferent. “You need not wait ( Day,” she said in a low tone. “I will be down presently.” .Left alone, the door wilted, the unhappy girl gave the reins to her bitter mortification and grief. It seemed to her that she could have home any evil better than this. Ardently at-1 tached to* her father, as was he to her. it seemed that he had thrown her off utterly. Every now and then she fancied it could not be true; that I she must awake and find it a dream. “How shall I bear it?” she wondered withal catching sob. “I must bear it. I shall have to j be patient and bumble; and I know I cannot al ways be so unless God helps me. Perhaps He will.” Suddenly there came into her mind a 1 verse that she had heard read in the lesson on j one of the Saints’ Days. “Mv son, if thou come to serve the Lord, pre pare thv soul tor temptation. Set thine heart aright * and constantly endure, and make not , hade in time of trouble*” Laura came out of her room presently, a cool j muslin dress on, her face calm, her pretty chest-1 But hair smyotb and bright. She met them in j THE INDEPENDENT. 1 the hall. Her father~a rather tall, spare man of I light complexion and irresolute countenance- ; j kissed her in silence. Mis. Piper had black hair ( | and eyes, a high color and hu imposing manner. | “Tins is your now mamma, Laura, * spoke the ' Major. “Jind your sister—Cecily." j Laura found herself clasped to the hoasom of ; her new mamma, and felt some lonnd kisses on her face. Extricating herself gently she turned to J the young lady—a dark and rather pretty girl; about her own age and showy ns her mother. “1 see we shall he the best of friends, my sweet j I.aura," spoke Mrs. Piper. Whatever surprises may have come upon Major Piper after his marriage, ho took them good na- I turedly. His new wife was all-in-all to him just now, and he really seemed to l>e looking at things through rose colored glasses. “I took the steps ch • lv f< r your benefit,Lao a. my dear otie,” spoke hu, the only time he said a word to her on the subject, “hi another year or so, when grown up, you would have felt so greatly the*need of a mother.” Laura caught up her breath with a sobbing sigh, and it was her only answer. The child had so looked forward to the time when she should be at home for good with her dear father, when they should be all the world to one another 1 The well furnished drawing room of a house iu one of the London squares was ablaze w ith pas and fire. Mrs. Piper sat hark in a chair, holding a small Da ml screen lufore her face: Major Piper dozed on the other side of the hearth. Cecily ' and Kate Fitztopbet; twohandsome, high colored i and very sbowv girls, were reading. Laura I looked like a delicate lily beside them, her sweet ; face lovely, her eyes soli and winning. Seven years had gone by. They lived in this London house now. and Laura had to make her self useful in it. The two Miss Fitatophets could j dress, and dance, and go abroad at will; Laura I must beoccupflhlfor the general benefit. The Fit/. | tophet sons, three of them, were out in the world; j the two youngest eliildr n, T >oll and Boblx were at , borne, and Laura taugln mem. Now and again ! Laura would lookback at her girlhood's foudh 1 cherished hopes of life; when she saw how they had been fulfilled she had dire need of that pa tience that she had set herself out to exercise. The Major seemed not to observe the disparity of treatment; his daughter made almost ft servant, his stepdaughters flourishing in Society's air; at any rate he did not hinder it. He was only a reed in his wife's hands. “Dear me, 1 think 1 was dropping asleep!” he exclaimed, start'ng u of his nap. “How quiet you are ! Laura, go and sing a song." Slie put down the strip of cambric she was | hemming, went to the piano and began a French | song that the Major was very fond of. There ! was one thing Mr*. Piper could not take from Laura-—her education. Before the pong was over j the door opened and a servant ushered in a i Kilfit. “Mr. Orame." Mr. Grame came in-a good looking man of 80, I with a sensible face, broad brow of intellect ami i gentlemanly bearing. Home 12 months before, when Master Bobby was attacked with scar latina, Mr. Grame, recently established in prac- i tieein the vicinity, was called in to attend him. ! Bobby cume out of the disorder triumphantly; I Dolly also; and Mr. Grame had been intimate with j the family since. Mrs. Piper liked him extreme- j lv, and she believed lie was looking after f'eeily. 1 ltegarding him as a rising man, she considered j that GeciJy might do worse. Cecily for some long j while past had been encouraging the attentions of a middle aged knight, w ith whom they were also intimate. But Sir Knight did not come forward with a proposal. She grew impatient, ' ami turned her thoughts on Mr. Grame, winch j deciding that a young doctor in the hand was' worth more than a knight iu the bush. But alio i had not secured the doctor yet. "You are quite a s hanger,” said Mrs. Piper,! rising and welcoming him with warmth. “1 don't j think you have been here these two <lavs.” “1 do not think 1 have,” he replied, with a pleasant laugh. “I have been much occupied.” “Profitably occupied, 1 trust—taking fees from new patients,” she said, half hopefully, half jest ingly, ns lie shook hands with the rest and ap proached Laura last. Amid the bustle that arose on his entrance Laura’s voice had died away to silence. Her hands trembled; the rose flush of love suffused her fact*; a thrill of the sweetest rapture stirred her heart. For it was Laura who induced the young and octor's visits, not Cecily. They were all ; in all to each other, and many a stolen love pas sage had passed between them. Mr. Granic knew nothing of Cecily's aspirations. He be- ; lieved everybody must see where his hopes were given, and he would have asked formally for Lhui u long ago had his income justified it. “Very profitably," he replied, touching Laura’s ! hand. She hail not turned round. There was a , beaming look of hope in his eyes as they rested 1 on hers, Laura went hack to her seat and took op her work. “You are busy, as usual!” cried Mr. Grame, as ho stood by her: “That strip looks like u sur geon's bandage.” “It is a frill for Bobby,” she arid, with one of her sweet smiles. At that moment tea came in, causing another stir. Mr. Grame contrived that it should cover a few whispered words. “Can you be down stairs when I leave, Laura, at half-]last nine? I want to speak to von” Hhe answered him with a look. Mrs. Piper chanced to see it and her voice rang out harshly, “Laura! do you not see that the tea waits? Go and make it.” Hhe was in the room below to time, a small study dedicated to the children's lessons. When Mr. Grame entered Laura had Bobby's slate in 1 her hand correcting his exercise. “I have got the place, Laura,” he began— speaking of a post at one of the hospitals that he had been trying for. “Put that slate down, my darling." “Bobby is so careless!” she cried, her face flushing crimson, her fingers trembling—for she had a suspicion of what lie might be going to say. * “I know he is. I want to take you out of this I house of worry, where you have more to do than vou ought. The salary is a hundred a year, Laura, and 1 am making by my practice about two hundred and fifty; that’s three hundred and fifty in all. Shall you be afraid to try it ?” Hhe made no answer: only looked down arid played with her watch chain, the dimples show ing themselves about her mouth. “Only three hundred and fifty ns yet,” he re peated* “Not much of a sum, I know, but 1 hope it will get larger with every year. Shall we risk it together, Laura ? shall you be afraid to come to me V” “I shall think it riches,” she whispered. Mr. Grame came in the morning to lay his pro posals before Major Piper. The Major accepted them. As to the smallness of the income, he ob served that was tlieir affair, and, no doubt, it would increase. Laura was called into the room, and the Major, whose feelings had always been easily moved, hurst into tears as he gave them liis blessing. “Laura will bring no money with her at pres ent, Mr. Grame." “I did not ask the question, sir,” replied the doctor, with a smile. “At my death, why, of course -of course— things w ill - be—will be arranged,” added the Major, with considerable hesitation. “Luma will inherit a fair income then*” “I shall have six hundred a year,” whispered Laura in the few moments she and her lover were alone together after the interview. “Six hundred a year !” echoed Mr. Grame, in utter surprise; for he had never heard or known that Laura had any fortune at all. In fact, he had been led, rather, to infertile contrary. Mrs. Piper had occasionally alluded to the ‘•indepen dent income of her dear girls—so different from poor Laura.” “It is mv own money,” continued unconscious Laura to Mr. Grame, “it came tome from my mother. Papa enjoys it during his life.” Hhe spoke in accordance with her assured be lief. But, now, what was the real state of the ease? The half of Laura’s money wan already de mised to Mrs. Piper. Mrs. Piper had not thought it policy to try for the whole of it at once; hut she intended to do that later. The Italians have a proverb, “Miele in bocca, guar(l/i la harm;" but Mrs. Piper had decidedly not honey in her mouth, when she heard of the new engagement, though she meant to save the purse. To find that Laura was the object of the young doctor's v isits to the house—Laura, and not Cecily!—took her entirely by surprise, and the surprise was not a pleasant one. It inflicted mortification on herself and Cecily; it might in volve goodness alone knew what complication in regard to money matters; for Major Piper was getting, as she broadly put it, more soft than ever, and might perhaps be drawn into making them some allowance. Ho Mrs. Piper, taking the rule and the. reins into her own hands as though she were the head and maste rof the house, and 1 went in wholesale for the “rights of women,” j quietly issued her edict for the cancelling of the engagement, and forbid it to be. Hhe told Laura that the absurd thing was at an end utterly; she conveyed the same intimation to William Grame j by letter, and forbade hun the house. Mrs. Piper was not one of those people who can ! be rebelled against. Her will was law. The Ma- 1 QUITMAN, GA., SATURDAY, JANUARY 17, 1874. lor bowed down to it, and in his miserable vacil lation confirmed what she said. He told tho en gaged lovers that he had consented too hastily; that, upon reflection, lie found that their mar riage would he n mistake, and that le rescinded the consent. Laura would not many in disobe dience, and—there it was. For some weeks the house wan in this unhappy state. Laura treated as though she were sumo sinful culprit, put upon, harshly sphUen to, worked harder than ever; Mrs. Piper resolute; the Major torn and tormented with conflict. He did not dare to oppose liis wife, but lie could not hear to set' Laura's unhappiness and her wan face. Mr. Grame came to the rescue. He ob tained a private interview with Luma ami beg ged her to emancipate herself from the misery and become his wife in spite of them. “It will he no sin, Laura; and. as I look upon it, no disobedience,” lie urged. “Your father welcomed the marriage for you; he gave us liis blessing; and the opposition to it doe* not pro ceed from him but from his wife. You owe no duty to her." It was a sore temptation. The prospect of go ing to happiness out of that house of servitude and sorrow. But Laura had never been unduti ful yet—and she loved her father. “Let me talk to him once more, William." slio said. “I cannot nmrrv in opposition to him.” It chanced that that self-same night an oppor tunity whs aftuiiLd, Mvs. Piper and her daugh ter went to some evening gathering, and the Major was unable to attend them, lie sat. in stead, over liis bedroom lire, his feet oil the fen der, his head in Home flannel garment of his wife's, and swallowing down quarts of gruel for lie had taken cold. Laura quietly told hint what Mr. Orame was urging, suppressing her emotion as she best could. The poor, work Ma jor, loving this child of liis beyond all earthly things, held her hand as he listened. "What have 1 done, papa, that this blight should he thrown upon my life?" she asked, with a rising sob. “If it were your will that wo should not marry, I would not say a word; 1 would bow to it; but it is not. Oh! how different all would have been for me had mamma lived !” His hand shook as Impressed hers. This semi reproach was, of all things, most grievous to the Major. It came home to him; he felt its truth. “1 shall he 2. next year, papa. lam getting older dav by day. One only happiness has fallen into my later life -the love of William Grame and the expectancy of being his wife. Oh, do not, do not take it from me F’ "Hush, child! if you begin to sob I shall sob, too; and 1 him so shaky and ill this evening. Look hero ! You and lie must do it of yourselves as he suggests. Got married without mo, you know." “And von you will sanction it, dear papa?” she cried, her eves moist with tears, her voice eager with thankfulness. “Av, 1 11 sanction it, child, and give von both my blessing from my heart; and 1 hope lie'll take care of you. But you must never betray this, Laura; it must lie between you and nit and him." And one morning in the early spring Laura Pii>er wont out of the house ns though about to lake a walk, and at the church door met Mr. Grame, who was accompanied by his brother and his sister. Madam rose up in indignation when the news was carried home- Laura Piper had become Laum Grame; Major Finer shut himself up and trembled uncommonly. For appearance sake lie railed a little at bis daughter, but his wife did not suspect that private treason of his, then or later. Bho did not forgive Laura; her bitterness against her was intense. Tho marriage she never would forgive ns long ns time should lust: and the domestic affairs Were all at sixes and sevens without Laura to control them, and Doll and Bobby ran wild. Never an hour of a day passed that she was not dinning Laura's iniquity into the Major's ears. Yielding, weak, vacillat ing, Major Piper began to veer round to her opinions. He avowed that Laura was ungrateful and wicked ; ami ho mentally told himself that it was nnpurdnuahl v crafty of her to get over him that night w hen he was suffering, and cause him to say what lie did say. In the reaction of feeling he went wholly over to Mrs. Piper, and wrote a stern epistle to Laura and Mr. Gvnmo, easting them off forever, even forbidding them to dare to address him did thev by accidental chance meet out of doors. And liis last filial act was to be be- guiled into accompanying liis wife to 11 new so licitor, one Mr. Pve, and gave instructions for a ! fresh w ill, h aving her all he possessed. ; Ah! what injustice takes place in the world. ! But for heaven above to fly to for appeal and 1 comfort I do not know what some of us would do l when it falls upon us. I Five years rolled away. For the first three of those years Mr. Grrune and liis wife lmd been 1 completely happy, both in themselves and in their I circumstances. Children were horn to them; j his practice increased, and lie hoped ho might in I time he renowned as one of London’s eminent i surgeons. Major and Mrs. Piper had entirely thing them off. If ly some accidental chance, s j the Major had expressed it in liis letter, they met in the street, they passed as strangers. That I was Laura’s sole cause of grief. It was terrible to I her to he held at variance bv her father, j At the beginning of the /mirth vear a great ! misfortune fell on Mr. Grame. lie was seized ! with rheumatic fever. It was not all a common 1 case, but dangerous, prolonged and difficult. | After months and months of acute suffering he rose from his bed partially helpless, quite unable Ito pursue liis profession. When he could begin ! to take it up again, even in a small degree, the j second year from the time of his seizure was i passing. i And now had they been supported? Looking J back Laura could scarcely tell, save that it had been by herself. Her own exertions had supplied j their daily wants. When any extra and pressing { need occurred that, she was unable to meet, some thing out of the house had been parted with. ' The furniture had not been superfluous in quan tity or quality at first ; it whs very scanty now. 1 Lessons in music, in French, in (hawing, she I gave in anything, in short, that she could find j pupils for- and bv that means she wbtained suf- I iicicut money to keep the wolf from the door, j They had retained their home. To give that up j would be the worst of all. Mr. Grame had been known there before, and when lie could resume , practice people might come hack again. But it i had been altogether a struggle and trial, the full 1 depth of which none but themselves had known ; ! none ever would know. Even now, though Mr. ! Grame was, so to soy, recovered and waiting for patients, the battle with poverty raged fiercely, j and Laura believed that in the end the house j must he given up. Or, rather, that it would give them up. • • One great comfort had aftken for her. In the darkest trials there generally steals in some gleam iof sunshine. When Mr. Grame was at the worst, I and Laura nearly beside herself with tin.' weight , that lay upon her—tile daily teaching, the care of 1 her husband, the care other children, tin* inso lence of the one young servant maid, whom alone j she could keep, and scarcely dared do that she received a visit, from the old servant. Dav. Day 1 had left Major Fiper’s service soon after liis new wife entered it, but she had nfever lost sight of | the family, and she now came to Mrs. Grame in I her affliction. “I have come to stay with you, Miss Laura,” she said, coolly taking off her bon ; net and cloak, “I shall not go away again till I j sec you through your trouble.” And Day was i there still, the prop and stay of everything, a won ! derful help and comfort to Laura, and mortally , offended if the subject of wages was hinted at. But to get a practice after once losing it is a ; work of time. Laura taupht and strove and econ omized ; but debt was gaining upon them, i They sat one morning at breakfast together, they and their two elder children. The baby a year old—w as somewhere with Day, They were ; I eating dry toast and had weak tea ; the little ones something that was called “sop” bread soflked in hot water and some milk and sugar ad ded to it. Laura’s tears were dropping. When; I the heart and spirit have long been depressed a slight accession of trouble will cause the grief to overflow. On the table lay an open letter from j the landlord’s agent, stating that unless the rent j was paid within a week lie should be compelled to j take steps to enforce. They both knew what j j that meant. i “Don’t distress yourself Laura,” said Mr. Grame. j ! “That will do no good. Eat your breakfast.” I “I can’t eat. It may be the end of everything.” i she went on. “Practice is beginning to corno | back now, and if you have to go to some obscure j ; place vou will never get one up again.” | He knew it was as she said. Almost life and j j death, as it seemed to him, hung on his being j j able to retain this house. ! “William, I don’t believe Sir Edward would ! I press you for the rent if he knew the circumstan- I ; ces of the the ease. I believe he would give you 1 ; time. Agents use always difficult to deal with, j I exacting the uttermost farthing.” “The agent has not been inconsiderate, Laura. 1 ;He has let the rent run longer than could have j I been expected. But Ido believe that to remain 1 on here, is my only chance of getting up in the j world again.” “And how could wo get more furniture if wo | t lost this ?” she asked, in a voice of pain. Willi/.*, i Imy little doar, there is no more sop; you have* 1 j had your shar<*. ;> j Mr. Gnune handed hiH last hit of toast to the J boy a bright little fellow, with loug fair curls, j Ho had no more appetite than his wife this morn ing. "Me, too; me toast* too," struck in the little one, and Laura gave over to him tho piece sin* was trying to eat. At nine o'clock she wont out to give music los sons at a school, tho musical teaching of which she had obtained. When returning home at twelve she, in passing hastily round tho sharp comer of a street, ran against her father. This was the first time they had met thus closely. Each stopped involuntarily; and their hands, perhaps involuntarily also, went out to each oth er. “Papa 1" “Laura 1” “It seems n though wo lmd mot on purpose l" thought Laura, in a glow of hope. For, on and off, throughout the morning - nay, throughout j many a morning and day paast -had tho idea ; W i floating in her mind that, if she could dare J to see her father, ho, perhaps, might aid them in their dire strait. I “Youare much changed, Laura!" “Yes, I know tt, papa. Trouble lias changed me. For there two years past 1 have had noth ing else hut trouble. "it was an unfortunate marriage, that of vours. If yon had but been coutout to be said, Laura!,’ “Papa—-you know -yon sanctioned it." “Hush, child. 1 was very foolish, I fear,and I 1 repented of it afterwards. Why did you tako advantage of my error?" “Yoqjiave changed too, papa, she said, quit* ting the unsatisfactory subject for his after con duct in regard to it hud vexed her cruelly at the time and vexed her still. “You do not look well." "1 am getting old, you see, child. I shall be 6(1 this year. Age tells upon most of us.” Slu; might well say he was changed! Tho orco tall, upright form was now drooping and painfully thin, seeming to have no more strength left iu it than a thread-paper. "It all lies in my legs." remarked the Major* "Thev'll hardly carry me; they give way under me sometimes. 1 had an attack of gout. Laura, some months ago, and it seemed to settle in my legs. But for this stick, 1 could not get along.” Ho pointed to a stout stick in his left hand. Tlie other hand still held Laura’s, in his glance as In* regarded her, there was a clinging tender ness, sufficient to prove that she was very dear to him still. "Grame lins boon ill; has lie not ?” “Very ill, papa; nt one time I thought ill unto death. Until recently he has not been able to ex ercise liis profession for nearly two years. And the post he held at the hospital had to he given up. The bine eyes of Major Piper, weak and watery eyes now, were gazing at Laura. “How have you lived ?" he asked. i "1 have given lessons,” she faintly answered, the reminiscence of their struggles bringing a sickness to her spirit. “D has hut just kept uh from starving, papa. I have three children.' “Poor Laura! poor Luura!” he murmured, in pitiful sympathy. "The worst struggle of all is setting in now. William is resuming liis practice. He has quite recovered, though not very strong,” site passion ately added, “good nourishment,ease of mind. Our great fear now is that wo shall not he able to maintain a position to remain in our homo, in fact; and that is necessary if William is ever to rise again." “There's trouble everywhere, I think," cried the Major dreamily. "I I was thinking that you might help us, papa, she went on, with a catching up of the m ath. “1 was thinking of it before 1 met you. A good deal of rent is owing; aiul wo are t.> he turned out in the Afreets if we cannot pay it this week. Could we find part of it, say £3O or iMO, they would, 1 am nearly sure, wait for the rest; thev have already been considerate. And William feels convinced that in another year or so, if we can hut tide tint over, wo shall be, with God's help, straight again.” “I have nothing for myself,” spoke the Major, in a flurry, as In* dropped her hand. “We don’t mind privation, pupa; we can put up with that cheerfully, if wo may hut stay in our liQine. It is the only chance left.” “Privation !” repeated the Major, whoso ideas were rather foggy On the subject. “Vou don’t look as though you lived plentifully, Laura. Have you hud any nreahfiist this morning ?” “Wo lmd tea and dry toast; we cannot alwnys afford lmtter. But all this is nothing, if wo can but live in hopes that filings will brighten. Oh, papa, if you would but help us with the rent I” “1 have not a pound at mv command; I have hardly a shilling,” lie replied, in a shaky voice, as lie laid liis hand upon her arm to enforce the truth of the words. “There are so many out goings at home, child; so many! I don’t know how she makes both ends meet" alluding to Mrs. Piper. “Yon cannot tell what our struggle lias been, papa,” said Laura, imploringly. “Oh, if you could lnt do a little for me in this groat, mod ! ) nm your only child, papa, and you used to love me very dearly. What shall 1 do, 1 and my little children, when we are turned from ourliomo?” “But 1 can't; I can’t, Laura. I would if I could. My dear, I’d like to pay everything you owe, and set William on his legs again; but I can’t do it. 1 have no more power to help you Laura, than has that ragged bov, playing marbles in the streets.’ Him sighed deeply; she saw how it was; that lie hud really not the ability to aid her; and the one fluttering, doubtful hope was gone. Hhe had no one else to apply to now. The whole world lay around her, hut*she stood in it friendless and helpless. “I heard, papa, that I was never to have any thing more from yon again,” she resumed, wil ling to know the worst m all ways. “Is it true ?” “Iswhat true?” repeated Major Piper. “That you have made a fresh will and left my name out of it.” The Major's countenance took ft most uncom fortable aspect. Jlis brow went into wrinkles; lie seemed not to know where to put his gaze. But of answer he made none. That one act of liis, the willing away Laura’s money,often pricked his conscience—be never thought on it without shame. Laura waited for him to speak tho ru mor that it was so had reached her ears a long while ago. “You see, Laura, when you went away and got married Mrs. Piper said you did not deserve to inherit money; and f I thought so too.” “The money was my own mother’s, papa.” “Ay. yes. Well, gooil-hye, Laura. The world’s full of perplexities.” Clasping her hand he walked away swiftly as his weak legs would carry him, a great pain at liis heart. Laura dragged herself wearily home. She knew the worst now. Her money had gone from her. That same night, when she and her husband were sitting together alone, she told him what hod occurred. There was no hone, of help from her father. Mr. Grame, said he and never him self thought of any help from that quarter. When a man was under the hands of such ft woman as Mrs. Piper he had neither will nor property of 1 liis own. I “But, to covet my money! to cause it to pass j toiler when papa shall bo gone! Js it right, 1 William?” j “It is wrong in the sight of heaven and man,” , emphatically pronounced Mr. Grame. “And, mark me, Laura, it will do neither her nor hers good, whoever lives to see it. 111-gotten money never brings a blessing with it. Do not lot it 1 vex you, my dear. Things will come round.” ! Mr. Grame seemed to take the matter coolly and to he making light of untoward prospects generally—of the needed rent, of the prolonged struggle's, of the lack of patients, of everything. Laura left him whistling a popular tune. But later, when she re-entered the room unexpect edly, she found him buried in gloom. He did not hear her come in, and she saw him as he was -the brow heavy with trouble, the relaxed hands hanging down, the lines of the face worn with perplexity; all suggestive of despair. “Oh, William, don’t !” she cried in alarm. “Don't you lose hope I That would be the worst of all.” “1 was only thinking,” said Mr. Grame. “Things will come round,” she added, repeat ing the words he had used not long before—“l i know they will, if we do but trust in God.” The great difficulty was, of course, the rent. Mr. Grame had no more means of getting it up then, or the half, or quarter of it, than a pump has of yielding wine. But that difficulty was tided over. Stimulated perhaps by a remark Laura had made, lie plucked up race and courage and went, a petitioning beggar, to the head land lord, Sir Edward Stuart, an old gentleman who was not wont to he troubled with business mat ters, and who granted him an interview with difficulty. Mr. Grame, sitting opposite to Sir Edward in the handsome room, warm with its glowing fire, redolent of case and comfort, laid his case before; him. He spoke of his once rising practice and hopeful prospects; of his long and damaging ill ness, that hud blighted them; of how they had. through his wife’s exertions, struggled on and maintained their homo; he told of tho few patients beginning by degree* to come hack to him, and of now lie did hope and believe that ho should be able to redeem all yet, if he might but retain that home, where ho was known; if they went forth front it he had no possible means of procur ing another. He said all this, and lie asked if that one sole stumbling block, tho back run*, might go on for another year. Sir Edward, a little gentleman in a gray wig, felt quite uncomfortable. The words of tlio pe titioner were so earnest, his voice and even liis manner so full of ill-suppressed emotion, his tale so pitiful; and Sir Edward was not accustomed to bo brought into personal contact with those histories of distress. “1 might lose the rent that is owing, after all, sir, you see,” he observed. “And another year’s added on to it." “X trust in Heaven you would not!” spoke Mr. Grame, with a kind of shiver, as lie mentally realized the possibility. “1 could hut come and ask you, Kir Edward. It is my only chance.” "Well, you may take it," said Sir Edward, after a pause. ’ "1 don’t like to be the means of turn ing people from their houses, sir, though they are mine. lam getting old, you perceive, and I’d not like to have to think of it on ny deathbed." Mr. Grame went home with a heart ah light as a feather. And there he found a note inviting him to meet the great Mr. Paget in consultation on the morrow. For a moment his face lost all its care. “Laura, I think I shall really get on now.” It wns summer weather. Gaiety reigned at Major piper's. MissFitztophot was at Inst going to make a grand match —a yellow gentleman from India, who was fifteenth cousin to a lord and had a mine of guineas as yellow as himself. Pre parations for (he marriage were in progress, and the Major was not looked after quite as closely as usual. Major Piper lmd said to liis daughter, during the morning's accidental meeting, that his legs sometimes gave way under him. Whether tin* interview with her unnerved what little strength the legs possessed, certain it was, that he fell on the steps of his house and injured himself rather severely. For some weeks he was a prisoner in his room; and during that confinement other symptoms manifested themselves that served to show hiH life would not he a prolonged one. He had AtnpUfleiHuru to reflect on many uncomfort able things connected with tho past, and a vivid remorse for his unkind treatment of his (laugh ter not in. Above all, that one unjust and cruel act, the willing away her own money from her, tormented his mind perpetually. “What a line spring day it is!" cried his wife to him one day that she came up, and found him seated at the open window, for siie made a point of being kind and civil to him. “Ay,” hu replied, "It is the last spring I shall see.” “Nonsense,” said Mrs. Piper. She knew, per haps, better than lie that lie could not live to see another; but it lay not in her policy to let him know it. “Don’t you trouble yourself’ with that idea, Major.” “It doesn’t trouble me. At least it would not if I had always done what I ought to do. lam thinking of poor Laura.” Mrs. riper, putting on a shawl at the moment, let it slip from her shoulders, and turned to face him, waiting for more. “Tin* money is Laiu a’s,” lie went on-—hilt in hiH better health, and without this fear of death upon him, he lmd never dared to sav it. “In justice she ought to have it when I am gone. Or—well say the lndf of it.” “1 do think you are demented!” exclaimed Mrs. r>W'r> after a stare and a pause. “Laura’s money ! That ungrateful, brazen girl, who could throw yon off and run away from her home! The money is yours, Major Piper; always has been yours, and it will be mine after you.” "It was Laura’s mother's, you know—my first wife’s.” “1 nm your wife now, Major, and have been for many a year. It is your duty to provide for me.” “And they are so badly off," went on the Major, thinking of Laura’# troubles. “He hns been ill and him lost his practice. They have to eat dry bread.” “Wherehave you learnt all this? What has put it into your head?” “I met Laura the last day T was out, and she told me. Hhe asked me how her money was left; 1 was never more ashamed than when I answered her.” “Oh, indeed !” Raid Mrs. Piper. “Well, she will not get the chance of worrying you again, so don’t let it disturb you." Him spoke with the calm equanimity of a wo man who knows she holds the game in her own hands. For was not the Major’s last will and testament, bequeathing all to herself, in her safe and proper keeping ? Tin* Major turned his eyes to the window again, and looked out on the gov ernesses and nurses walking in the square with their charges, feeling how supremely helpless be was in liis wife’s hands; that what ho had done in liis weak folly could not be undone. And he asked himself how he should dare to face heaveh wi lll that w irked act amid liis catalogue of sins. But from that time Mbs. Piper held a tighter rein over her husband than over. Khe watched him closely: she kept him, so to say, under lock and key. There was not the least chance that he would attempt to alter his will, but she took care that he should not get the possibility of doing it. It was during this period of watching, which continued through the spring, that the match was made up between Cecily Fitzophot and the yellow man, and the preparations for the wedding wore in full flow when the hot days of the sum mer came in. Major Piper was better then ;lx could walk with tho help of somebody’s arm and liis stick, and by the orders of his doctor ho sat for two or three hours daily under the trees in the square. He had said no more about Laura, and Mrs. Piper assumed that the folly had passed off. and that his mind was at rest again. Htill slu looked after him effectually; ana he could no more have held communication with a lawyer, paid one a visit, or summoned one to the house, than he could have gone to the moon. To Bobby, a rest-loss young gentleman of 18 now was deputed the task of assisting the Major to the square. Mrs. Piper's ordeis were stringent. “Mind, Bobby, yon are to stay with your papa ; you arc not to let him bo for one minute out of your sight. Yon can play about and shout as much as yon please, but, you must keep your pupa within view always." There was no fear that tho Major could run away. His legs could not carry him a yard alone, though lie willed it ever so ; but it was well to he oil the safe side. For a day or two Bobby obeyed orders. But to stay still in one confined spot, watching an inva lid old gentleman who never spoke, was bovond tho philosophy of a boy of 81, and Mrs. finer ought to have known that. By degrees Bobby took to leave the Major when he had seated him, and come back when it was time to convoy him home. The intervening period was passed in ea red ing about the streets with all the gamins he could pick up. There the poor solitary Major would sit in his corner of the bench, silent and absorbed; his mind ever dwelling upon the work that ought to be done, and that he was debarred from ac complishing. The imago of his last wife came back to him like a haunting spirit, and her per fect trust in him that he would do right by their child; and Major Finer would wake up from his misery and groan aloud. “If I could but unmake that wicked will?" he would erv with a shiver, lifting his imploring, eyes to heaven. “If I coil’d but <•(>, Burkins ! he might manage it. If I could but get him up here When I'm out on this bench !’’ There iH a good saying, “Man’s extremity is God’s opportunity.” While the Major was sink ing under the weight of remorse and incompo teney, feeling that a chance to right Laura and to undo his own act of wrong existed not on earth, that very chance occurred to him.- One sultry af ternoon, just as Bobby had left him and was gone off on liis own devices, a neighbor, passing through the square, saw the Major and crossed over to him. They were not intimate, but had sometimes stayed to chut when meeting in the street. This gentleman, a Mr. Mann, spoke feelingly, hh he sat | down by the Major, of the change' he observed in him aiul of his inability to get about. “Av, that’s the worst of it, Mann -tho not be ing able to get about,” interrupted the invalid, with a wailing vehemence that astonished Mr. Mann. “1 would give half I'm worth to he at Lincoln’s Inn at this moment ; and I I cannot get there,” “Can Igo for you ?—is it anything Inm do for you?" asked Mr. Mann eagerly in his pity. “I—l think you might.” hesitated the Major, a hope breaking upon him like a ray of light. “It would be such a service to me.” “I will go with pleasure; go at once," said the gentleman, rising. “I)o you know Parkyns, the lawyer ?---yes, ev ery one knows him. Tell him that 1 have great n 'cd to see him; to see him in private,you under stand; and ask uiin to come to-morrow here/ I sit out here on this bench from two o’clock till five o’clock every afternoon. If he can’t come to-morrow, let it be the next (lay. And, Mann, j you won’t talk about it," added the Major, lifting 1 his hand aiul lm wes imploringly. “And tell*' bim not to ? talk." I “Trust mo, my good friend," was fclio answer, given with anrossure of the poor, weak hand. I will do your bidding fnithfully.” The result was that on the following afturndoti' ' Mr. Parkyns, a tall stout man, who walked with i his head thrown b c a >peare,(liu t .ie square. Ho had been tho Major s lawyer always, but the last will had beonmadg by a friend of Mrs. Pi pers, Mr. Bye. After talking together, Mr. Bar- Kviih took his departure. In the course of an other afternoon or two he came again, accom panied by two young men, one of whom cKrriwT a parchment deed, and the other had a pen and ink in hiH pocket. The Major signed tills deed, and the two clerks signed it and in a few minutes tho Major wart alone again and hiH mind at rest. When Bobby came hack at five, all Unshed and panting, the Major gave him sixpence. ; Within a month. Major Piper was taken ill again; ill unto death. It was frightfully incon venient of him; for it was the very identical week that Cecilv’s marriage with the yellow man was coming oft For the Major to go middle then, was, to say the least, of it, unreasonable. But death, unfortunately, is araonablo to neither reason nor convenience. The medical men, two of them hastily summoned, confirmed what was apparent to all—Major Piper could not live the night through. “I must see my daughter; send for my daugh ter,” was the burthen of his cry. And Mrs. Piper could not, in the face and hearing of those re nowned medical gentlemen, refuse. Neither did she much euro to refuse; he was losing speech mid consciousness rapidly, and the w ill, hlio knew, was snl'e. Laura came,accompanied by Mr. Grame. Her presence seemed to revive her father. He clasped her to him ns ho took leave of her; lit held Mr. Grame’s hand within his feeble fingers. Both of them thin, and worn, and full of care. Patients were coming back to Mr. Grame, it was true; hut the struggle was a frightful one vet; and of the rent neither of them dared to think. •‘You will attend my funeral," murmured the living man, loqkiug at each of them anxiously, “l have not been to hither of you what 1 might have boon, hut you’ll forgive that, and follow me to the grave.” And they both promised. “And when I made the will my wife holds-—1 “There, there!” interposed Mrs. Piper, “do not trouble about these tilings now. ’’ “Tt loaves all from you, that will, Laura “You must keep your mind tranquil,’’ broke in Mrs. Piper again, with more peremptory decision of tone than we are wont to use to the dying. “Sav no more.” “Well, you’ll come and hear tho will read aftei tho funeral," sighed the Major, yielding the point. “And you, too," lie added to the doc tor*. “Yes, yes, of course they will come, Major,” once more interrupted Mrs. Piper. “It is all right." “Parkyns has the will, you know. Somebody must sejul to him.” “His nV. mind is wandering,” lam on ted Mrs. Biper in a whisper,fully assuming that in the weak ness of coming death, he was confounding his old lawyer with anew one. “It is Mr. Pye who holds tin- will. That is, the duplicate." Mr. and Mrs. Grame went homo at tlie dawn of morning. Al! was over then. Mrs. Piper in tending to he magnanimous, confirmed the imita tion to the funeral, and whispered to Laura that she might order mourning to tho amount of £lO. “It is a cruel shame about that will,” spoke Mr. Orame, pacing liis carpet in an outburst of in dignation. “Laura, my dear, I feel it for your sake.” “And a little money would so have helped ur!" she said, with dry eyes and quivering lips* “I don’t see how we are to kefep on any longer.’ 1 “But for the funeral, minu, Laura, you should not touch a coin of that woman’s offered money.” “No. But I could not get mourning without it." The funeral took place: and all those invited by the deceased gentleman in bis last hours attended it, together with sundry other friends and con nections. Mrs. Piper, secure in her position, eoiild afford to be seemly. Hlie liad gone to the funeral herself, and she sat in the drawing room, amid her friends and ghosts anil children, after wards. Have that she wore a widow’s cap she ww just the same decisive, resolute Mrs. Piper as of yore. Her children were all in the deepest of mourning- Bobby especially. Apart from bis sable clothes Bobby had two black eves, the re sult of an antagonistic encounter with some of bis young friends, the gamins. The yellow gen tleman had also been bidden, and sat by thesidi of Miss Cecily; but fertile untoward calamity that had intervened they would ere this have been man and wife. Mr. Grame and Laura were pres ent, sitting near the two doctors. The cyenumv of reading the will was about to ho gone through. Pye, the lawyer, stood at his table us large as life, or, at any rate, ns large as a little weasel in spectacles can look. He Was’, no doubt, a worthy man in private life, audit was not bis fault that he bore a strong resemblance to that insignificant animal. "I hold the duplicate of this will," announced little Mr. Pye gratuitously, ns lie received the will from tlx* hand of the widow, and proceeded to open it. At that moment a tremendous knock, loud and long, was heard at the front door, a tremendous ring accompanying it, quite startling the com pany out or all propriety. As one of them re marked, it was scarcely decent to come in that self-asserting way to a house from which its mas ter liad just, been carried. A moment of sus pense, and then Mr. Parkyns walked into the room lig and burly. Mrs. Piper ki l ted her brows at tho intrusion,but civilly inquired what lie wanted. The lawyer answered just as civilly that lie had come to bring and to read Major Piper’s will which he produced from his pocket. Home colloquy ensued between the widow and the twolawywrs. Each of the gentlemen asserted that lx- produced the lust will and testament of the deceased, and for a few moments they were at cross purposes. Upon referring to tho re spective documents it was found that while Mr. Bye s was dated some live years before, that showy by Mr. Parkyns was made very recently. “I don’t understand it at all,” gasped Mrs. Piper, a dreadful fear darting across her that she had been iu some way overreached. “Major Piper has not executed any recent will, or ict tempted to execute one. Ho had not the oppor tunity of doing it.” “He made tlx* opportunity, madam,” said Mr. Parkyns. And he proceeded to explain with can dor in what manner H was done. Hitting out in the square there, brooding remorsefully on the injustice lie had been guilty of to his only child, the Major had sent for him, Parkyns. He had come down in answer to the summons; bad taken instructions for the will, and had it made and brought it down for the Major to sign, together with two of his dorks to witness the signature. “All outside there on the bench under the trees in the square,” related Mr. Parkyns, “and the poor Major said that lie could then die in peace.” Amid the various phases of consternation and the dee]) silence that fi ll upon the room, Mr. Parkyns proceeded to read tlie will. It was very short. The house of furniture and any money that might be lying at the banker’s were be queathed to his wife. Geeilia Finer; but tlie £(i(M) a year tliat had been liis first wire's he left to liis dearly beloved daughter, Laura Grame. Mr. Grame was left sob: executor. Ho justice was done at lust, and Laura had her own. As the full meaning of what this will implied— desolation stole over the perceptions of the family, their emotion rose. Mrs. Piper shrieked and went into a semi-faint The young ladies shinkol and sobbed. Mr. Pye shrank up to nothing in bis discomfiture. 'The yellow man stared. Lawyer Parkyns turned to Mr. Gratae and was beginning to talk to him in an under tone, when the room was interrupted by sounds of woe. Mrs. Piper had suddenly darted from her chair, pounced upon the unhappy Bobby, and began shaking him to a muininv. “It’s all your fault, you wicked, ungrateful monkey!" she raved, boxing this ear and that “Why (lidyou leave him to himself on that bench, to do what, lie liked?"-Slap! slap! slap! “< )lvo-o-o-oh !” howled Bobby. “ ’Twasn’t me. Who was a-going to stop still in that confounded square forever? Oh-o-o-o-oh I" “Our pains and sorrows are over, William,” whispered Laura, witli a sobbing sigh. “We c&t pay the rent now, and the children will havo enough to eat.” “My dear wife, yes. You told mo to trust in G-mI ” BEDELL & CO., I. iqnor Dealers; TOBACCO AGENTS, 140 BROAD STREET, COLUMBUS, GA. NUMBER 37. MISCKL lA XICO ITS A I) YKH TIHEMENTH. J). \Y. PRICE, MERCHANT TAILOR, QUITMAN, GA., Would inform the citizonfl of Quitman and sur rounding country, that ho ha* Ju it opened a FIRST CLASS mmm and tailoring ESTABLISHMENT IN QUITMAN, AND II.VS ON HAND A FINE LOT Off ) CLOTHS AND CASSIMEEEB, SUITABLE FOR MAKIN3 DRESS AND BUSINESS SUITS; He has also on Hand a Select Stock of READY MADE CLOTHING. CUTTING, CLEANING —AND— IS E PAIRING DONE ON SHORT NOTICE. JKsc I’KICES MODERATE. "XBa PAINE & HALL, Having recently received a large . and well assorted stock of General Merchandise, Consisting of DltY GOODS, BEADY Jtt AIM CTJDTHING. HATS, CM, BOOTS, SHOES, Etc., ALSO A large and well selected stock of Family and Fancy Groceries. Owing to the great financial pressure, we have determined to sell goods at PRICES TO SUIT THE TIMES. Exfrtbu dUiftVy bargains can now be obtained Foil CASH. We will take any kind of produce in exchange for goods, or in payment of accounts. We will also take certificates of deposit on the Savannah Banking and Trust Company. t All of our customers are risf.ncs-tly* requested to come forward at once and make Settlements of their accounts. oct2s-3m BUSINESS CARDS. .J AS. 11. HUNTER, ATTO nX E Y AT t, AW, 4UITMAN, BROOKS COUNTY , GEORGIA . Will practice in tho Counties of the Southern Circuit. Echols and Clinch of the Brunswick, and Mitchell of the Albany. iTOiCtfat tfye .Court House, ’b# june2B-tf .1. a x.'s xo w, DENTWiff Quitman, ----- Georgia, Office Up Stairs, Finch’s Corner. aug23-4m W. IJ. BENNETT. 8. T. KINGBBEKUV BENNETT & KINGSBERRY, Attorneys at Law q UITMA N, Brook*. Comity, - Georgia. jiuio2B-fr EDWARD 1 HARDEN, Attorney £it Law, q ti 1 t m a ?r, BROOKS COUNTY, - - CRORGLA. Late an Associate Justice Court IT, H. fqr Utah and Nebraska Territories; now Judg* County Court, Brooks County, tot. mav24-12mo DR. E. A. JELKS, PRACTISING PHYSICIAN, (m a. OFFICE—Brick building adjoining *>. flora of Mourns. Briggs, Jolts t Cos., Scvev.i. 9lfCd*/ maylOtf