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\ YOL. XYIII. ATLANTA. GA.. TUESDAY MORNING JANUARY 25 1887 PRICE FIVE CENTS HEW YEAR’S PRESENTS FOR ALL We call attention to onr plan for distributing New Year’, present* to our friends, described on the teat column of page six of this week’s issue. We want every subscriber to share in these presents. The plan is simple. You send us a new sub- teriber. Your name la at once written on a tag and put in our New Year’s box. On February 1, the box is shaken and the tags mixed op, and committee draws ont a tag. The name on that tag gets the $100 present. The second tag the (SO—and so on till all tho presents are taken, Of course every person who sends a subscriber Will not get a present, but every one will JBATB an equal cbance. The lady who sends one subscriber may get the $100. Somebody MTRRLY will. Why not you? Bemcmber your name goes In once for every subscriber you tend,.and once for your own subscription, If yon send live subscribers at one dollar each yon get one of our superb pictures free. For five subscribers at (1.00 each, by adding $1.03, watch and chain. For ten subscribers at $1.00 each, a watch and chain freo. In each case your name goes in our New Year’s box for every name you send. N owwe urge every subscriber to be repro- aented in our New Year’s box. There is not one of the 63,000 subscribers this week who cannot get one subscriber—that ono subscriber may get you $100. The box is closed January 31st, promptly. Dur Story Corner THE CHAINGANG GU4RD. Ity Wallace P. Reed. For The Constitution. The noon-tldo suit of a hot summer day beat fiercely down upon the convicts at work in the apparently boundless cotton Sold that belonged to Colonel Jefferson Clay. It was a largo plantation, and wits almost on tlrely worked by a force of chaingnng convicts, leased to Colonel Clay by the state author!' ties. As tho snn reached the meridian its rays mine down so pitilessly, and with such scorch, ing fervor, that the four guards, who kept watch over the miserable convicts were com- polled to seek shelter under the few scattered pines which dotted llttlo knolls lu different parts of the field. Lastly reclining on the trass, the guards played with their battered old muskets, and ssept a keen lookout for tho slightcat indica tion of lagging work or insiftordinatioii on the part of the eighty prisoners who were engaged in hoeing cotton. There was llttlo dautcr.of the “ Wiping.' AhroVy hull andohalu ware al to each man and it waa difilc lit to make much headway. Tho gnarda wero always vigilant, stud when it waa necessary they had a pack of trained blood bounds in reserve for the pursuit trad capture of fugitives. Suddenly one of the guards looked at-bis watch. “Sinner time!" ho exclaimed, .. whistle to hia lips ho blew a keen blast which waa heard all over the field. - The effect was magical. Every hoe felt to the ground, and four squads of convicts were soon sitting in the shade devouring their scanty rations of corn broad, bacon and greens. Forgetting their miseries for the time, these unfortunates revelled in the enjoyment of their rude repast The clinking of their chains was interspersed with bunts of hearse laughter over an occasional joke, inch Jokes as are never heard outsldo of a chain gauges Soring tho progress of the i guards was attracted by the peculiar conduct *>f a prisoner in one of tho aqnads. Approach- ing him the guard mid in a surly tone: "See here, Joe, no shamming now; it won’t do, you know. No sickness allowed in this -eampi” The convict looked up with a start, looked Into the cruet eyes of a cruel face, and saw no mercy there. “Curse you!’’ he snarled; “1 wonder if you have a heart ‘Think I have,” replied the other noncha lantly, “but that baa nothing to do with yonr ■case, my friend. Our worthy host, Colonol Clay, is of the opinion that a convict luver S eta sick—he only ahama—and as hia inttruc- ons are to punish every case of shamming with thirty.nlne lashes, well laid on, I have mothlug to do but to obey orders. You under stand?” The convict looked up into the (her of hia $uard. The guard looked down into tlie face of the convict. Tall and erect, youthful and handsome, making allowance for tho cruel eyes ami face, the guard, despite hia rough Jeans suit, looked like a man who had seen betterdays. And his history did not run counter to bis appearance. Fire years before Dick Macon bad been one of the spoiled darlings of society. The gaming table and tho wine cup had sent him down at headlong speed to his present level; had re duced him to the necessity of accepting the po rtion of chaingang guard on Jefferson Clay’s ponvict plantation. Tbo prisoner, whose keen Week eyes were .vanning the relentless face above him. was a middle aged man whose alight frame allowed that be was ill-fitted to bear the hardships of his situation. His restless eyes, haggard fiice, trembling hands and husky voice would have at wakened pity ae well as contempt in the breast of a I molt an j observer. There waa nothing novel in the spectacle to Dick Macon, however, and bringing bis mus- fiect down with » vicious thump, tie said: “Ton’d better take care, Joe—you’ll gel a licking before night, ,if you don’t get about Jronr work quicker.” Joe bowed his head and muttered: ‘Twenty thousand dollars, and I was fool -enough to think of giving bint half, i’ll bide hat's that?" asked Diek Macon qnirkiy. “Nothing,” answered Joe. with hia bead still lent down. "Joe!” laid the guard. “Weil,'’ waa the snappish response. “I want tq know, yon rascal, what you meant bv yonr allusion to tweuty thousand slollais.’ * -Ob, it was nothing,” replied the other, “it was mere madness on my part. I meant tint I wenld give half of the twenty thousand dol lars that I have securely hidden away if I t onld once get oot of this Ma.tcd nla.-e.” “Yon lying scoundrel,” laughed the guard, '‘do yon think yea can make me tumble to thataortof racket? You never had twenty thousand dollars in yonr life.” “Liar, yoanelf!” shoo ted Joe, with a sudden flash of fire in his wolfish eyes. “What ami here tor, Dick Maeon?” “Humph !” mid Dick, “murder. I believe.” ‘■Correct,’’ returned the convict, “Murder it U. I was convicted cu chxunatantiai crkltac*, always stirring dp the other men to mnilny— it's the best thing that could havo happened.” The troety returned to the field bearing from Colonel Clay the laconic message, “It's all right,"and the work of tho day went on as usnal. When the prisoners knocked off work at sundown they were marched tq the atookode, in which they were always penned up at night, and two men were sent out with a guard to bury tho detd niau. Mo coroner's inquest wm held. It was not likely that anybody would raise a stir over so trifling su event as the shooting of nchainganir malefactor. A grave was hastily dug near the S ites where the body lay, and the carcass Was tunned into the hole and covered over with dirt. In n week tho affair was forgotten. Matters at tho eamp moved on m usual, with tho ox* ception of the Ulucss of Dick Macon. Thin young man foil ill without any warning, and after a few days resigned his posi tion, saying that he would lmvo to seek some lighter employment. The groat con vict lessee swore at Dick, but finally parted with him in a tolerably good humor. Tho thought never crossed his mind that the shoot* ing of .Toe had anything to do with the illness of the guard and his desire for a change of scene and occupation. f?o Dick Macon drew what wages were duo him. and flitted away one morning, whither no one knew or cared tokuow. height. Visitors who had not for tweuty years declared with contagious en thusiasm that Bagatelle had never appeared to better advantage. The hotel was filled with and the cottages were well patronized, women and braver men were never as sembled together to triflo away the days and engage in midnight revelry. The gayest of all the gay and high-spirited gallants *who were the acknowledged lady- killers of Bagatelle was unquestionably 31r. Richard Mucon. This young man was a riddle to the few students of human nature who occasionally made him a special study. Young, haud* tome, possessed of abundant means, and re garded with undisguised favor by more tlmn one of the reigning belles, there appearod to be eve ry reason why young Macon should Ik* a thoroughly happy man. That he was not happy, in spite of his bright sallies. ws« plain to all who cared to see. The days passed and Macon was engaged in a continuous round of pleasure. Athletic and proficient in every manly sport and pastime, from a row* ing match to a game of croquet, it was not surprising that his time should be fully occti- Nobody knew anything against Mr. Richard Macon, and yet there was a feeling of uupleas ant surprise in the gay circle at Bagatelle when it was known that the young man had won the heart and a promise of the hand of Irene Murray, the prettiest little blonde beauty tt the spriugs. Still it was difficult to give a reason for this. Miss Murray was an heiress, the only child of a widowed mother who had come to Bagatelle in reality for her health, and not to set her cap for a second husland. But Macon was a handsome, generous fellow, a little moody and queer at times, but in the main genial and clever, sml. better than all, the owner of cei tain mining stocks which paid him fabulous di\ idends. llis antecedents were not known, but he claimed kinship with highly respectable faid!lies well known to the social world, and no one questioned hfs story. It was the last night of Irene Murray's stay at Bagatelle. On the morrow she and her mother were to return home. The two lovers had much to say to each other, and they pre ferred to say it away from the glare of the ball room. and away from the sounds of flying feet and the watering place band. As they promenaded on the spacious piazza of the hotel, Irene mid as her loving eyes rest ed upon the handsome face of her escort: “Now, Bichard, dear, you wilh follow os BOOB?*’ *Tn ten days st farthest, my darling,” an swered Richard. “I am waiting for a business letter which m*j call me to New York, but and owing to that fort I saved my ueck, And was Bcntnp for life. But with that murder was connected a robbery. When old Header- ron was killed he had on his person money and valuable jewels amounting to a small for tune.” Tho guard looked at the other convicts. They were a little distance ofl’, quarrelling over their rations. ‘Go on,” said he. “Did you ever hear that the plunder was found?” asked Joe, with a cunning leer. “Don’t know that I ever did,” said Dick, but still it may havo been found.” “Mot by a sight!” answered Joe with great energy. “Tho booty is safe enough, and I could lav my hand ou it iu forty-eight hours if I could just get out of this cursed comp.” “What will you give for freedom?” asked Dick with a provoking grin. “Half!" cried the prisouer. “Ten thousand dollars to the man who releases me from this infernal place, and puts me beyond pursuit! and he looked eagerly into tho guard's iuscru table fare. Dick Macon whistled a lively tune, turned ns if to walk off, and then wheeled abruptly about. ‘Take a couple of buckets, you lszy slouch he shouted to the convict. “ 1 must have some frcsli water here, and wo must go to tho spring to get it. I say, Bill,” he called to one of tho other guards, “just tnlng your gang over here, and watch my pets while I go for some water.” Bill did as directed, and Joe, laden with two empty buckets, limped along in the direction of the spring, closely followed by Dick Macon, with his musket thrown carelessly over his arm. The spring was about three hand red yard from the other convicts, and their guards, aud wns concealed from their view by intervening trees. Tho gusrd and tho convict remained at tbo spring sometime, so long, in fact, that their tnirsty comrades left behiud began to cast wistful glances in their direction. The loud report of a musket in the neigh borhood of the spring, plunged the chaingang and the guards into the greatest excitement What waa the matter? Had Dick Macon fired upon Joe in tho act of escaping? Had Joe wrested the musket from l)jck and shot him? These were tbo questions asked among the convicts. Tho allair was cxplaiued in a moment. Diek Macon made his appearance, running at full speed. He was almost breathless when he came into the gang of prisoners. “I had to kill him!” lie gasped. “I was sorry enough to have to do it, but ho turned on mo all of a sudden with a big stone in his hand, aud if I had been a second later ho would have killed rae!” Some of the prisoners, murmured at this statement, but the ominous “click” of the muskets quieted them, and after a brief corn sultation a trusty was dispatched to tho house to inform Colonel Clay of the occurrence. The wealthy convict lessee fwere roundly at first, bnt*aftcr a little reflection lie said: “By jovc! I’m glad tho fellow’s gone. He j know that it has always J>ecn in our foully ? i III! nrei * it— r , T “I have handled this necklace too often to bo mistaken. Why, here is the private mark, placed there by my fother ono day in my presence. I well recollect that he said at the time that the mark might some day aid in identiiying the. necklace if it should ever be lost. It is tho same, and now, Richard Macon, bow came you by this precious heirloom?” Your question is an insult,” was the hot answer. “Give me the nccklnce.” “Never! This matter must be explained, must know i f yonr hands are staiued with my father's blood.” “Confound It!” said Richard, “I never even heard that Mr. Murray w as murdered. Your talk is tho maddest mystery in tho world to mo.” “My father’s name wns Henderson,” said the girl sternly. “Ho was murdered aud robbed even in that case my stay will be short, ami you will sec me before you have begun to miss “Richard,” said the fair girl with a tiugo of melancholy iu her tone, “there Is only one thing reeded to mnko me perfectly happy.” “Ha! ha!” laughed Richard, “yon would have tho old lady viow me with more favorable eyes.” ‘That is just it,” was the earnest answer. ‘Mamma is all I havo left,and I do so desire to plcutc her: and yet her prejudices are so un reasonable.” “Of course, I think so, as they are leveled at me,” raid Richard; “but never mind, dear, her prejudices will vanish when she sees how de voted I am to yon, aud how we Ibvo each other.” “I hope so,” Irene replied, seriously and with a tremor of her rofc*bud mouth. “Of course they will,” answered the lover, cheerily; “no prejudice will !>c proof against such love as mine!” The two continued their promonade, but finally paused where the light from tho ball room windows fell upon them. “I have a little present for you,”said Richard Macon with a strange, intense ring in his voice. “It is an heirloom in our family, and has been for a couple of centuries, I suppose; I havo always kept it concealed from profane eves, with the intention of giving it to ray promised wife.” The girl's face grew radiant as sho raised her eyes with an expectant look. Clumsily and with singular awkwardness for one so graceful and self-poascascd, Richard drew from his breast pocket a jowol case. Si lently opening it he exposed to tho astonished vision of the beautiful girl a quaint and rare necklace of glittering diamonds In just such an antique setting os would have delighted a Flor entine jeweler in the middle ages. “Ricbaid!” the cry escaped Irene's lips in on agonized tone, as she grasped the nocklace and held it to tho light. “Isn't it pretty?” said Richard with an in jured look. “Oh, mcrciftil heavens!” exclaimed Irene, “can't be mistaken? No, it is too evident—how did you come by this necklace, Richard? Did you say it was an heirloom in yonr family?” “What a racket!” said Richard, turning pale and sneaking very rapidly. “Yes, it is an an cient heirloom In our family—mv great-great- grandmother used to wear it; it has never liecn out of tho family siurc it was purchased by an ancestor of mine, in Baris, I think.” 4 Irene gave another searching glance at tho necklace, and then clutched it tightly iu her band. “Richard Moron,” she said in calm, clear tones, “this was never an heirloom in* yonr family.” “What can you mean—you arc beside your* self!” gasped Richard. “I mean,” returned Irene, with a piercing glance, “that this necklace is one of the arti cles my poor mu nlcrcd father had with him when ne was killed and robbed in Georgia four years ago.” ‘TshavfF.rricd Richard, “It may resomblo it, but of courso it cannot be tho same. Don’t in a lonely place among the mountains of Geor gia. He had with him a largo turn of money and this jewelry. A poor devil was tried for tbo murder, found guilty and sent to the chain- ! ang for life. The money and jewels were not ound on hint, and he always protested his in nocence—perhaps he told the truth.'’ “You said yonr father’s name was Hender son?” Yci. After his death a wealthy bachelor brother of my mother died and left her a large fortune ou condition that she should resume the family name of Murray, and tho condition waa exacted of myself. Wo accepted tho terms, but when a foul murder is to be avenged, Ircue Murray remembers that she is Irene Hendcjson.” Richard Macon looked dumb-founded. “1 swear ,” he began. “1 will not hear you!” exclaimed Irene, her eyes flashing fire. “You began with a llo— you called the necklace nu heirloom—yon will lie on to the cud of the chapter if I permit it! If you have any statement to make explaining how the necklace came into your possession, >u may proceed.” For a moment Richard Macon looked like some w ild animal at bay. Then, recollecting himself, he made a profound bow, uudjiairi: “J shall leave you now, Irene,—you are in no mood to listen to reason. 111 tho morning you will laugh at your conduct of tonight, and will beg my pardon. 1 shall leave you here. Au revoir!” and with a mocking smile he kissed bit haud and walked rapidly away, leaving Irene standing like a statue, with the necklace clutched tightly in her hand. ^ When morning came, just a* the gray light was chasing the darkness away, a pistol- shot rang through the hotel. There was a rushing to and fro, and finally a crowd of servants and boaidert stood iu Richard Macon's room, gaz ing upon the dead laxly of the sufcble as It lay stretched upon the bed, with a pistol firmly gras|»ed in the right hand. Richard Mtcon had taken bis own life. It was not the fear of the law that impelled him to tbia rash step—be felt able to hold hit own against the world. But lie knew'that no de ceit, however artful, would dear him in tbe eyes of Irene Murray, aud death was a thou sand times preferable to life with tbe ever present sense of her loathing and confident suspicion of his guilt. The miserable man left a sealed letter for Irene Murray. Iu it was a trae recital of the fads of the case. The proposition of the con vict Joe was stated, and the writer told how he yielded to temp tation—how he induced the prisoner, by promising him freedom, to disdos-tho hiding place of Henderson's money and jewel 1, and bow. when he had ascertained what he wanted, he had treacherously and coolly shot the convict down like a dog. ami afterwards made use of the scoundrel's hidden plunder. The letter was written with devilish coolness, but at the close the writer expressed his un dying affection for Irene, and l<egged her to forgive his madness, folly and guilt. The butterflies of the social world at Btga- telle could not fathom the mystery of Macon’s suicide. They did not know the contents of bis letter to Irene, and it was not until Irene was happily mart led. a couple of years later, that anyone knew it. Rhe told her husband all about it one day, and he, for an answer, m- rely folded her In his arm? and klped her, A NEW YEAR'S STORY By James Franklin Fitts. . When the irrepressiblo American bored down a thousand foot into the heart of Pennsylvania aud extracted fabulous quautitics of oil, and when the ladles became content with atcel stripes for corsets Instead of whalebone, then oncof the greatest and most adventurous of the industries of New Kngland received Its death blow. Onr story relates to the tlmo when there was bustle and business in au ancient and historic seaport, whore now may be seen rottlug wharves aud tumble-down warehouses; when adozon sea-going vessels were in tho harbor where one Is now seen: when the staunch whaleshlps went out on their long voyages, and caino back laden with the wealth that made tho prospority of the pott; when sailors aud sailors’ families made up a large share of the population and tho old town really seemed to belong loss to tho land than to the sea, All this has clumgcd; and tho iucldonts wo relate could hardly occur there now. But hu man lives and human hopes and fear, happi nePs and misery, are much the same' every where. Well back from the harbor, tho wharves and the busy part of the town, in that ontskirt of It that was built on the rising ground that over looked the town, bay and ocean, Captain Ben- son-Jitd his cottage. He was at home very little of t$e time; but when he was he loved a placo like this, commanding a wide view of the ocean-rin., where he could sit at the window by the hour and with his good glass discover tho first indication of sails approaching tho coast. H6 was a veteran whaler, and had for fullyjfifty vend pursued the business on all seas. For the last two years ho bad commanded the whale- •hip Chevalier. On his last voyuge out ho had sain ip his wife, “It’ll be the last,Nancy. Let me go ones more to the South Pacific and fill the old ship with oil, and then I’ll stay here and pass the ast of my days with you and Tbankfol. Jack Sturdy, my mate, will then bo master- lie’s a fine follow, Thaukfol; I must bring him here to see you.” Thin the old captain looked from his wife to his daughter and added tho droll remark, “For my piut, I’m beginning to think it’s time I was bettif acquainted with you two.” He went to sea again, but never returned. ■ A ?ar later tho eyea of the wife and daughter laddened by tbo sight of the Chevalier Into tho bay. Bat instead of him they watched for, the mate came up, slowly rowfully, to tell them that tho captain had tlkd of foyer in Callao, and was buried there. John Sturdy was now captain, and was busy enough ovethauling tho ship, picking his crow “ ' " Jus first voyage In their inief had utjiucwn.it sub sided, Captain Sturdy still climbed the hilt to the cottage at least three times a week. Presently the gossips of tbo neighborhood began to hint that Thaukfol Benson could toll why he camo so often; and not mors (hair three mouths hsd passed since ho first came when Mis. Benson silenced tham all with the plain* statement: “There needn’t be any mystery about it:* Thank fill and Captain Hturdjr are engaged, and will be married as soon sk a proper respect for tbo momory of her fother will allow. It’ll probably be at the end of the Chevalier's next voyage.” John Sturdy ws* an experienced seaman of .15—fifteen years older than tbankfol—to whom his ship bad been his world, and to whom ideas of love and marriage had amieared idle myths. HcmrtThankftil Benson foifthe first time when she fainted in his arms upon his distressing er rand to tho cottage. She had grown upon his fancy with OTiiy visit, andbis heart was quick ly offered. With her it was a case of first love. He wasnll that her girlish imagination required. And when he took the girl by ths hand and asked the widow for her consent she smiled and sighed all at once. ' 0, it’s well enough, Thankful,” she said, ‘if you must marry a sailor, but 1 was in hopes you wouldn’t let yonr affections go seaforlng.” “It’s flic way of our family, you kuow, mother,” and toe daughter smiled and lookod up to her sailor trnstfolly. “Indeed it Is, and a sorry and heart-breaking way it has been for tbe women. Notonly In our family, hut in ail the seamen's families is it true. For thirty years I’ve known this port, and of all its sailors that have died in that time not one ont of four has died in Ms bed. But the Lord wills it, and may you be happy. 1 “When I knew'I was to be master of the Chevalier,” said John Study, “I did not think I should quit her for ten years at least. I'm a sailor, and love tbe sea, with all its perils; but now, if Tbankfol asks me to qnitit for her, l‘m ready.” “Indeed, then, 1 do ask you.” “But only at the end of this voyage. My word has been given to the owners, aud I cannot break it. The time will be short; let us live In hope of it.” “Ab,this one last voyage!” sighed Mr*. Ben son ruefully. “Pray God it uisy fore better than that other last voyage.” The Chevolier sailed* in March. The parting was a hard one: quite as hard to the man as to the maid. It need not be told why it was hard for her to give her young love’s dream to the cruel chances of theses; of him it most be said that, aa love came late, it came strong as well. “Don’t go, Jack.” she pleaded amid her sobs. “I know it’s selfish, but I can’t help it. Don’t leave me. 1 shall never see yon again if you do.” Her distress, her unbounded love appealed to him powerfully. His resolution was severely shaken. Nothing but tbe sailor's ingrained honor and habitual self-discipline held him back as be said: “For heaven's sake, Tbankfol, don’t tempt me awav from duty! I leave you only because 1 must, but tbe time will be short. All our arrangements are for a short voyage; expect me back by tbe next New Year. I shall hasten everything for your sake.” She went to a sleepless bed that night. In the morning her fother'* gins* showed her the ( hevsiier for out at sea. For many days sho went about heavy hearted. Her mother watched and pitied her and her own heart bled afresh. But youth is the Mason of hope and love is its twin, and, as the months of that spring and summer went by, tbe girl felt more and more as though she were only endnrlng a brief proba tion to lifelong happiness. News had reached her of the Chevalier and her beloved. First came a letter from Ulo.fulluf love aud promise; then an Incoming whaler reported speaking tbe Chevalier in the for South Atlantic, and that all on board were well, and then a letter from lima. All was well, time was flying, the promised time for the reunion was ap- I reaching. There is rarely, yet sometimes, a New Eng land autumn when tbe mellow Indian summer is prolonged from November for into December, and the year fodea away In days of veiled sun shine; when nature seems in a dream and win- Ur U hfeld back by some strange spell. U was so this year. Down to the first day of January there was ueither snow nor frost; a silvery mist sat upon the sea; the days were like May daya, but with a softened, tempered sun; tho nights were balmy and glorious. As Tlmukful aud her mother sat outside the cottage they could s<M the lights from the town and tho bay. The sounds of laughter and talking came up to them: everything seemod under a spoil. So It waa on that New Year’s Eve. They sit bore late talking of the dead—of the nbicnt — hardly daring to talk of tho future. The night was bright and starlight; everything was visi ble, yet indistinct. At that placo and timo no body had been abroad for an hour. All wore at homo keeping Now Year’s Eve. Just thou Thankful directed her mother's attention to a figure advancing slowly up tlio slope toward the cottage. “Where?" asked Mrs. Benson. “I dou’t soo it.” “Why, there.'” said Thankful, with out stretched finger. “It's a man. He's coming this way. He—he looks like Jack.” Sho started up and advanced tonioet him. 31 rs. Benson strained her eyes, but could pm nothing like a human figure. Sho saw Thank ful advance a few paces, stretch out her arms as If to embrace some one, and then full House less to the ground. When Mis. Benson carried her In and revived her, she started up and cried for Jack. “My dear child, be calm!” said the mother. “IIo is not here. He has not boon here.” “Yes. yes! he was! I saw him; I almost touched him. Ho came clono up to me, aud thon ho disappeared, and I could not esc him.” The mother looked at her with griof and awe. “Dear Thankful,” she said with deep solem nly an< ty. “U* strong: cast your burdeu on tho Lord, 11I bear your erief as I havo borne mine. You have not seeu John Sturdy; you have seen his double. You will uevor seo him again.” For the next year their lives went ou with that sense of chastened sorrow that possesses thoso whose only hope la this world is reft away. 3Iotlior and daughter drew closo togeth er In their companionship of hereavemont. Lifo for them was all In the past; their presontcom fort was merely that or ministering angels to the sick aqd afflicted, aud thus to “ —- learn the luxury ol doing good.” Tho only nows that had been received from the Chevalier was darkly confirmatory of the vision that Thankful bad seen. One of the boats had Itecn found floating in tho*South Pacific empty and earless. A ship wrapped in fire from stem to stern had been sighted afar off in thoso watero, where help could not bo extendod or inquiry made. They lived ou during that year, and sorrow grew old ami.was still ns dark os ever. Their neighbors condoled with them, and hopod that the timo would come when grief would ho calmed, aud that life might yet havo somo pleasure for there afflicted ones. Would that timo overcome to Thankful.' Not, surely, at such a time ns tills, when the New Year waa again at hand. It could bring no hopo nor promise to hor; but the time, as long as she should live, must bo in'her mind associated wltn bis last word * to her, “Expect mo back by i next N<\v \V c; I >hull luudru everything for ybur SLaflf a \i*y nr.?ctcrtt New rognTEvo from thomr. The harbor was locked in ice; a snow covered the ground; tiio air was stinging with frcst. A dear sound of bells from tho town, as tho Ne w Year was gleefully ruug lu. canm up to them as they sat by their fire. No speech had pawed between them for an hour. As the l.ir-.t i*oal of tho tails died away, 31 rs. Benson Mid: < j “it Is all hard to bear, Thunk ful. Wo must tear to bear.” The girl started up with clasped hands, and passionately exclaimed: “But never mo him again, though I may live I for fifty years! I can’t endure tho thought. He came to mo onto after death, why not ugaln?” Tho door noiselessly nucloscd and admitted a moving figure. It advanced toward them; ■ they looked at tho face, spell bound, it was rpale, wau, wasted, Imt jL boro tho likeness of John Sturdy. No womanly fright, 110 terror of the supor- natural possessed Thankful at that moment. 1Bad to liavo seen his face again in answer to her appeal, her loving, yearning heart hun gered for something more than his shadow. Bhe started toward him; she opened wido hor arms to him. “O, John,” she said, “don’t do as you did before! You said you would come back at this time.” Her loving arms enfolded him. Thank God, it was not a shadow, It was John Sturdy, weak, sick, feeble, but it was he. * They hod tbe happiest kind of a New Year, after all. When the first greetings were over, and 3frs. Benson had refreshed him with tea and he and Tbankfol sat side by side, hand In band, Inexpressibly glad, for want of words, then he told the story of his adventures and escapes, by sea and land, out of all of which bo had been saved to them. Home day he will tell it in print. It Is too long to toll here. ■ When he had finished, 3frx. Benson asked: “Where were you a year ago tonight, John? Tbankfol thought she saw you.” He looked inquiringly at his betrothed. .She told him all. “That was tbe night,” he sa‘d, “when the officers and crew of the poor burning Chevalier took to tbe boats in a heavy sea. One bout was swamped before my eves and nil In it were drowned, ours rolled and pitched so heavily in the chopping waves that 1 expected we, too, should peifsli. It was Just there, while f hopelessly directing the men at the oars, that a vision came before my eyes of the harbor here —of the town and this cottage. I saw you both, and Thankful held out her arm* to me. From that instant I knew wo should be re united. Yes, I knew It, and I cheriihed the belief and bugged It to my heart in a>l the dutigerH and labors that havo beast me since. A MAD VILLAIN. 6t. Lons, January 21.—William Dill, me chanic, 45 years old, living at l!LM Angclrodt street, walked into the house where his wife, Frcdericka, was at work and snatching a butcher knife from her hand plunged it into her breast, killing her almost instantly. He then stripped the body and dragged it into an adjoiaiag room, placed it on a bed and return ing to the kitchen he burned the woman’s clothes and scrap d the blood from the floor as well as he could with a knife. Shortly afterwards his children returning from school, found him su iting by the bed on which tbe Ixxly of hi* wife lay. with the batcher knife with which be bid killed her in his hand. He ordered them to leave, and they, seeing their mother dead and blood on tbe floor, were terribly frightened and gave an alarm. I Neighbors rushed In, and as they did so Dill drew the knife across his throat and save red his windpipe. This not killing him, he at tempted to hang himself, hut the police arriv ing, he was prevented from accomplishing that snd was taken to a dispensary, mod tbeuco to Ithe city hospital, where he now lies iu a pre carious condition, hot be may not die. He icould not talk on account of his windpf no be ing severed, snd, although bo could write, he refused to as^gn any causo for bis act. It Is thought bo was Insane, and that he intended to cut bis wife’a body into pieces and bum them, bnt before ho eoald do that he was dis covered, and the u ho tried to kill Missel^ A GREAT TRAGEDY, Murd«r or th. moih TtLT.Ur TweJtj.oo. Tcara Ato-Th« VMompoMd Bnialn. of km In- ple round XJniUr Their Dwtlllrf-0«» or tk, r. rp.tn.ion or Uw DMd Hunx. Marion, Ind., January 23.—Tho moat oon» tlonal crimo in tho history of this port of tbo state, and, indeed, ono of the moot cold blooded and revolting affair, in tho history of crime, is recoiled by the death of Mrs. 8umh Hubbard at the female reformatory at Indianapolis last week. Tbo dato of tho crimo referred to was iu tho autumn of 1655, and the scene a one story log house four miles west of Wabash, on tho Wa- bash river, In Wabash county. In this house, on a farm owned by James Lewis, lived is family by tho name of French, consisting of French, his wife and their live children. One day there came along a middle aged man and woman, who gave their names as Thomas anil 8arah Hubbard. They were Scotch poo- pie by extraction, he having been born in this country and hie wife in Canids. As to thelx occupation and destination accounts at thin day are conflicting, but tbo best recollection holds that they were peddlers. In the sparsely settled condition of the country at that time, there were few hotel tkcllltles, but every bouse was opened to ths benighted tmvolor. Such was the welcome extended the Hub bards by the French family tliat they re mained sevoral weeks. In making a tour of biscststeone day. James Lewis found Hub bard snd bln wife In full possession of the home formerly occupied by Froneh snd his family. The bitter bad dimppetred. Tbe oc cupants tol.l Lewis that his former tenants had concluded to go west, and had left the night before, having previously sold to thorn (the Hubbards) their Interest in the crops on the form. This seemed somewhat strange, but as the horses and wagon of French were not In sight the story was not tt the timo discredited. At a later visit soon after tbo attention and suspi cion of Lewis wen aroused by tho smell of de caying animal mattes that pervaded the bond ing. On tbe unoccupied floor also be detected marks of blood and tho floor bad tho appear ance of having recently been raruoved and re placed. C’ 1 Thoroughly convinced, but without giving- expression toils conviction., Lowis wont to WalMfli and laid tbo case before Moses Scott, .bcrilV of tViibaili county. A Bliertff’s posse pin. d Hubburd and hfs wife under arrest, snd tho floor Was taken up. Tho first thing that met tbe bon-iflril gnze, of the sheriff and ids assistants wns an infant’s hand protruding thimtph the looso caitb, and upon digging down tho putrid remains of Frond, and Ills family— seven -ashed and mutilated bodlos — Wtre hrongbt’to light. TV marks on tl.n hod’..: indiiate.l that t!. Moody work hint lain ..dinJsllfcjnjtlCHultuc luatrui..mt of csrcntlon was r.svcr to he found. Further search being made, tho bulMnirlod carraiscs or French’s hones wore found in thu woods adjacent, and Ids wagon wa, found In tbe Wabash river, it having been tnkon to pieces and sunk in the deepest part of tlio i.trcsm. The caso against tho Hubbards, though purely circumstantial, appeared con clusive, and they were placed in Jail to await trial. The story of the wholesale olanghtor of tho French family spread fiir and wide, and cre ated tho most Intanso excitement, latt no at tempt to visit mob vongoanco on tlio guilty pair was over made. Tbo Hubbards stoutly proleslsd their Innucenco, and nuvorLy wunl or sign manifested any cvtdonco of guilt, ex cept once, as stated by Brett. Ho assorted that once, listening on tho outsldo of tlio prison, he heard Hubhenl berating his u lfo for being the came of their unhappy condition, lly this conversation, tlco, it appeared that Hubbard's beart failed him when It came tn killing tho baby In tbe French family. Tbe i lillrl crowed as hu lifted bis hand, snd ho turned away sick at heart. His wife then dashed tho Infant's brtlna out against tbe wall, Tho law’s delay of today was not known in that period of pioneer justice, snd Hubbard was tried,convicted and hanged during tho winter following the autumn In which tlio French Ikmlly were mnrdercd. Ho went to the scaf fold and died protesting to tho last bis lnno- ccnic of tbe crime forwblcb ho perished. The attorneys of Mrs. llnbbsrd moved Cars — change of Venn* and tbe ease wu sent to this, county for trial. Alexander lluchanin wan then sheriff of (front county, and It was Dons bis ntollectlons largely that this narrative was gathered. Sarah Hnlibard’e case was called for trial at the January term of court. 1850. Judge John M. WarJlsce presided, and Mas Blake was state’s attorney. Thu caso was hotly contested and tbo court room was crowded from open to flnisli. Tho verdict was “guilty of mur der in tho lint degree," and the penalty a cosed was Imprisonment for life in the Jef fersonville penitentiary. .Sheriff Buchanan c<remitted lire. Hubbard to the JeffersonvUlo prison on tbe 10th of April, 1651). Sho was tbsn forty-nine years old. Sho spent llfteen years in tbe Prison Sooth snd was then removed to the female reformatory at Indianapolis at Its completion. She wa, in her eightieth year at tho time of hor death, and was tbe oldest prisoaar In the state as to age and time of service. Never throughout her entire prison life did ■he despair of bor ultimate reiirlovsl, snd up to a few weeks before her death eha talked ex pectantly of her hoped-for freedom. She never complained of her prison Ufa and always relied on Clod’s mercy for berjustidcstlon. Sho protested ap to tbe time of her death her Innocence of the crime for which the suf fered, | Lik MEN WITH Hit LATH OF FIBE. I7PJ Not Imps from the Foul Hide of the Styx, bnt Beal Unman Delngs. From the Philadelphia Record. We bad occasion in a recent number to refer to a remarkable cue In which the breath of au Individual,; or rather the eractaUoni from Me stomach, took fire when brought In contact with a lighted match. Thu ease, which wu reportoi iu the Medical Record, hu called forth communi cations Rom physician, by which It would appear, that Uic phenomenon Is not inch a rare one u >u at lint supposed. In one esse of dlmrdcrat. digestion the patient emitted lnDammabhi ga* from the month, which, npou nualyslt wu found to be hugely comi-raxl of mirth gu. In another case thegas waai iTh i rcted hydrogen. Arose la reported In tho Medical Journal, in which, while blowing out a ■natch, the patlent'a breath caught Are with a md-e like the report of a pistol, which wa. loud enough to awaken his with. Ona evening while u conlirm, id dyspeptic wu lighting hia pipe, aacrw iatTm of gas ftum his stomach occurred, and the l*’.::cd gas burned his mustache and ltpr. In Iwaid's book on Indigestion, the iniysh. or the r«tl In one of these - — ‘ “ hydrogen. 3157; CL Oxygen, S.7« nitrogen, 4tAS;» a me*. The origin of the* ■>■-.■■ tan the undigested fool, which in these cr goes dCCOgtpdiUfofli.