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Supper was served, and the inmates of tiie j hovel sat down to their rude repast. “What are you doing, Theresa?” “Studying my Sabbath school lesson." “Fudge! I’ve half a mind you shaut go there any more. Precious little they care for you, and precious little they give you! Books! papers! for the starving! and we dying for food!”* “But, mother, my teacher is poor, and she has to support herself. lam ashamed to beg her any more, for she is not able to give me any thing; and she is so good and kind to me, and taught me to read; and if it hadn’t been for her, I might have been as ignorant as the poor little vagrants around us.” “ Oh, yes! they are all poor when yon ask 'em for anything ! lam acquainted with the world’s charity. I was travelling in a stage once, and a long-faced preacher begged me to reform. I told him I might starve on honesty .” “You are starving as it is. Miss Mary says God will never forsake his children; but when we reject his love we do not deserve his mercy.” “ Don’t quote Miss Mary to me—she is one of your self-righteous parson sort. It is all very well for those who have never been tempted to talk about goodness, and all such stuff.!’ And the lost one betook herself to her pota tions. The slave of habit was soon in a drunken sleep; and the poor little child, used to such scenes from their frequent occurrence, placed her tenderly in bed, almost currying her in her weak arms as she did so—smoothed her pillow gently as though she had been a true and loving mother, instead of a degraded creature lost to all feelings of humanity. Then she knelt on the cold, bare floor, raised her little hands, and prayed in the untaught language of the heart to the Father above, who careth for us all; and laying her weary limbs on her humble couch, fell into “That soft and placid sleep Which on the brow of sinless childhood lies.” CHAPTER 11. Hunger, and want, and weariness; these are a frightful three; But another curse there Is, beside, that darkens poverty: It may not have one thing to love, how small soe er it be. Howitt. Ah! to the stranger soul when first it peeps From its new tenement, and looks abroad For happiness and sympathy, how stem And desolate a track" is this wide world. siielley. It is not my purpose to dwell at length on the sad and suffering childhood of Theresa Staneey. I have no heart for the task. To portray the evil passions which desecrated the soul of her mother would be necessary, and I have no in clination to dissect a vile heart. Yet, by rapid sketches, my pen must do that from which it shrinks. A life more cheerless and desolate than that of Theresa cannot be easily imagined. With pure morals, and a high sense of houor, inher ited from her father, who came of a noble old family, and committed the folly of wedding one beneath him in the social scale, who had naught but her beauty—as it proved, “a fatal dower”— to recommend her, Theresa’s tastes and instincts were totally at variance with the scenes of pol lution which surrounded her. She had seen vice divested of all its gilded trappings, and, dis gusted with his hideous features, turned from his proffered embrace with loathing. When a • crowd of drunken revelers invaded her mother’s dwelling, as was often the case, the poor child would secrete herself, and, with trembling limbs and palpitating heart, lie concealed in some hiding-place until they left. She was now twelve years old; but her dwarf-like figure, stunted as it was by poverty and hard usage, seemed the form of a child of eight—while her face, old be fore its time, might have belonged to a woman of twenty. She liad scarcely known a child hood ; confined in a filthy alley, rivulets, flowers and green woods were undreamed of—the romps and plays of happy children were unheard of things. She had no companions, and nothing but a little pet goat to love her. Ah! the life pictures which are daily exhib ited in our crowded cities—which challenge the attention at every crossing, every corner—would if viewed aright, curdle our blood with horror. We have said that Theresa had a pet goat. The little thing liad strayed from its home, and one morning came bleating up to the child and rubbed its head against her hand. “ Poor little thing,"’ sobbed Theresa, “you are like me— you've got no friends. I will take care of you, and may be you will learn to love me.” In an old torn volume of Slmkspeare. which she had picked up in the street, the child, eager for knowledge, had devoured the play of ‘•Othello." She could not comprehend it; but it pleased lien the names clung to her memory, and so she called her little pet goat “ Roderigo.” It was a strange fancy, and a strange name for a goat; but the little" thing soon learned its title; and Theresa had but to say, “ Roderigo, Roderigo,” and her friend was at her side in a moment. For awhile the child was happy. She had something to care for, to protect —something in whose life and welfare she felt an interest. “Roderigo" followed her when she went begging on the street, and many a dreamer paused to look at the poor loan child and the little goat that trrot ted after her. “ Roderigo” slept at her feet at night, for she could not bear to be parted from him for a moment. “ Tliat goat is a useless and troublesome thing, and we are starving; take it out to-day and see if you can sell it, Theresa.” The child hugged her pet closely to her bo som. “Sell Roderigo? Oh! mother, please don’t— please don't." “ Come, child, don't lie* a fool—we must have food.” Therese prayed and begged and wept, but all in vain. Her mother was deaf to her entreaties; and so the little one, sobbing as though her heart would break, tried on her sun-bonnet and started forth. Roderigo frisked after her in his happist mood. “ Oh! my Roddie, my darling, you don’t know —you don't know what is going to happen, or you wouldn’t look so glad. Oh! it breaks my heart—it does." And she went on weeping si lently, feeling more wretched, perhaps, than did the patriarch of oVA when about to offer up his child for a burnt offering—for he felt that he was obeying God and submitting to duty—while she, poor child, deemed that siie was succumbing only to heartless cruelty. “Do you waut to buy a goat, sVr ?’’ “Do you want to buy a goat, man ?” she world ask tim idly of those she met. A few laughed at her— others passed her unnoticed; and some of the more brutal sort curse her, and pushed her rudely from the side-walk. At last a purchaser was found—a little boy, the child of wealth, who fancied her pet, and ran to his mother for the money. “ Oh! please be kind to him— please be good to him,” sobbed the child. “He is like a human, and 1 love him so." “ I never was mean to anything in my life, little girl” Therese kissed her pet, perhaps prayed over him in the innocence of her heart—and not *KX 80VK3BXXK YXK&B JUf» SI&KSXB&. daring to look back, ran hastily down the street, hearing nothing, seeing nolxxly, for Roderigo was left in the hands of strangers—the only thing in the world that loved her, and all earth seemed a scene of blackness and desolation. It was the child’s first great grief! and child hood suffers acutely—ah! more deeply than grown persons are apt to imagine. When the great house, with the occupants who had robbed her of her treasure was out of sight, Therese threw herself on the grass in a paroxysm of an guish, and her heart kept saying, “ Oh! I won der if God knows they have taken Roderigo away from me: and why he didn't send me a heap of money so I might liave kept him!” That night she felt desolate—oh! so desolate; and, missing the innocent gambols of her lost pet, sobbed herself to sleep. Two years passed away, and she had other and greater trials than the loss of a pet goat. One night, several men laboring under intoxi cation, and several disreputable women, were assembled in the hut of Julia Staneey. making night hideous with their ribald jests and discor dant -laughter. Theresa, as usual, had hidden herself. “ Where Is that little beauty I saw here some days ago ?" said one of the wretches staggering against a table. “ Where do you put her, old woman ?” “ I don’t put her anywhere; she runs off and hides herself.” “ Guess 1 11 find her "—and he took up a torch and started out. Theresa, concealed in the kitchen loft, heard liis words, and her frightened heart beat so ra pidly that she could distinctly hear its pulsations. That moment of fear was an eternity. “ Dog me! if I don't see something shining in the dark —must be her eyes.” And laughing a fiendish laugh of exultation, the man said; “Come down, pretty one—l can't liave you perched up there; come down, I want to look at you.” “Go away, you naughty, bad, wicked man. “Oho, you call me wicked, do you? Well see see about that—come down, I say." Attracted by the sounds, Theresa's mother came out. “ Don't be a foolish child,” she said, in her maudlin voice. “ Nobody won't hurt you.” Thus reassured, Theresa scrambled down. and. followed bv her tormentor, entered the house. “Ain't she a pretty one, stranger? but shy, devilishly shy, and kind of wild-oat-ish from the way she glared at me—wonder if it can scratch now ” —and he attempted to take her hand. Snatching it away, she retreated to a far cor ner of the room, and cowered down looking like a hunted animal whom the blood-hounds have pursued and caught. Her form was trembling in every joint—her heart panting wildly—and her beautiful dark eyes gleaming with a strange fierce light. “Come, now, go get us some whisky, little gal—the bottle is empty.” And the man held it up to the light, shaking it to see if any was left. Afraid to disobey, Theresa snatched up the empty bottle and darted away. She had not proceeded half a square, when she heard foot steps behind her; she quickened her walk, but her tormentor —the same who had discovered her retreat, clutched her shawl, and muttered: “ I liave caught you at last.” With almost superhuman strength, she re leased herself, and sprang aside with the agility of a cat. The man, who was top-heavy with liquor, fell sprawling on the side-walk, uud tak ing advantage of this, she flew down the street. In a moment he was on his feet again, and she heard his heavy tramp-tram behind her. Fear lent her wings, and she darted down an alley, hiding underneath a wagon until he passed, still muttering curses to himself. When she entered the shop, it was filled with a drunken crowd of both colors; but fear made her desperate, and §he approached the counter. “ What do you want here ?” She told him in a few words. The shop-keeper answered gruffly: “Your mother hasn't paid for the Last she got—you can't get any here.” She was glad at his refusal, and turned away quickly, although she expected brutal words, perhaps blows, when she went back empty handed. When she returned, a few had dispersed, and the rest had fallen under tables and chairs in drunken unconsciousness, so she escaped for the night. Theresa lay awake—she could not sleep. Child though she was, the insult to which she had been exposed, made her miserable. Her innate pu rity, which nothing could crush, shrank from such disgusting scenes, with au inexpressible, unuterable loathing. "What shall I do—oh! God, what shall I do?” and the poor hands were wrung in agony. There came to her this sen tence, learned in Sabbath school: “In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct thy paths.” The same scenes were repeated; for she had no hiding place now, and retreat was impossible. Whither to turn she knew not. She knew but one whom she could claim as a friend, and that one was almost a stranger. Mrs. Vinton, a wealth}' and eccentric old lady, whose residence she knew not, except having a vague idea that she lived somewhere in the city, had spoken to her kindly from her carriage window, and given her alms! She thought of her—but where to find her? “ Mother, I cannot stand the life you lead. I cannot bear this treatment —my childhood is no longer a protection—my innocence no longer a‘ shield.” “Very well: we shall see.” Theresa stood in the back yard; a might}- pur pose was revolving in her brain; her thoughts ran thus: " “ Mrs. Vinton is wealthy and childless; they tell me she is a Christian. If I were to go to her and ask her to take me in, I wonder if she would have pity on me, and protect me. “And so you scorn me and my life, haughty miss—take "that!” and a shower of blows de scended on Theresa’s bare shoulders. Lest some one should think this picture over drawn and too highly colored, we again repeat that what we have narrated is for the most part literally ti ne, except that we have omitted, from motives of delicacy, some of the darkest features. “Don’t strike me anymore, mother; if you do, I will leave you—and forever.” “Threatening me! Things have come to a pretty pass; take that for your insolence.” Five minutes more, and a figure, bonnetless, shoeless and thinly dad, was flying across the street, facing the drifting snow. Hours passed; and Julia Staneey, half re pentant—not from love, but because in Theresa she would lose her chief support—kept walking to the door, and listening for a light footfall which had crossed that threshold for the last time. She moved uneasily about, and constantly repeated to herself: “Silly little fool—what can she do? who will take in a vagrant? She will come back again.” But her hopes and her calculations were vain. Theresa, who had fled from persecution of the most revolting character, came back nevermore! [TO BE CONTINUED.] Among tlie “agreeable surprises” which have lieen promised to the readers of this paper by “ bringing to light” in our columns the “ latent talent ” of the South, few will be more agreeable : than tliat which we offer to-day in the person of our fair correspondent. Maud Moretox. We believe that this lady, who is a native of our own State, makes her debut as a writer with the i story, “ Grace Atherton." of which we give the first chapters below. We welcome her to the honors and pleasures of authorship. May she experience as lightly as possible its pains and cares! She wields a practised pen. and we sus pect that she lies written much more than she has published. It is hoped that the portfolio from which Grace Atherton has escaped is not finally closed to us. [Written for the Southern Field and Fireside.] GRACE ATHERTON; OK, THE CHILI) OF THE WRECK CHAPTER I. But now the moments tiring The time of parting, with redoubled wing; The whv —the where—what boots it now to tell t Since all must end in that wild word—farewell! The golden*light of a summer sunset was i streaming through the half-opened casement of ! a quaintly furnished, old-fashioned apartment, j and fell with a soft and mellow glow upon a group gathered near the centre of the room. An artist would have won for himself immortal re nown, could he have seized, and transferred to canvass, the breathing poetry of this living picture. The perfect stillness of the scene, the loveliness of the landscape without, with all its attraction of foliage and flower, glowing sky and distant hills, formed a picture of beauty rarely surpassed, while the look of intense but sup pressed feeling which marked each countenance, betrayed, at a glance, that some deep, unusual emotion was agitating the hearts of the clustered household. Trunks and packages of various sizes and forms were piled around, and hats and cloaks, thrown in careless confusion, bespoke of travel, parting and heartache. Upon a couch near an open window, where the sweet summer air whis pered of peace and rest, reclined a female, her face hidden on the shoulders of one who, kneeling by her side, was holding in his strong and manly embrace, her fragile and wasted form. His bowed head, his rigid attitude, his fixed look of calm determination, told of the struggle within, and of a conflict which must end in pain. Near by, a partaker of this silent, but elo quent suffering, sat a still young and very lovely woman, her arms clasping the form of a boy who scarce had numbered four summers, and upon whose upturned face and brow flashed the bright tears that fell from her eyes. His childish won der seemed unable to comprehend the scene, or to realise the bitter parting, so close at hand. In the centre of tlie room, near a large chair, leaned a little girl, in all the unconscious grace of care less childhood, her mild and thoughtful eye fol lowing the rapid steps of a dignified looking man, who paced tlie room with restless and agi tated strides, and ever and anon stopped and stroked back the floating hair tliat shaded her gentle face. The quiet, subdued look of tlie girl, her features of delicate symmetry, and the ex pression of intelligence and feeling that lit up her dark gray eye. would have arrested the at tention of the most careless beholder. Intre pidity and fortitude were marked tn'ht- face; the will to do, the soul to endure, spoke from her quiet eye, while grace and refinement touched eveiy line "and movement as her childish figure. The large Newfoundland, in whose shaggy locks rested her hand, by his drooping head and de jected air, appeared to partake of the general depression, and his earnest eye, as it roved from one group to another, seemed to catch n pre sentiment of ill, and to send forth a silent sym pathy. Presently a low moan broke the oppressive stillness, and a sharp cry. as of acute, physical pain, burst from tlie lips of tlie reclining invalid. “If it lie possible, 0. my Father, let this cup pass,” rose on the air, and startled into life tlie surrounding group. “ Mother, we must part: it is inevitable.'! exclaimed the young man, un winding his arm and gently laying her back on tlie pillow. Approaching the child, he drew him to the couch— “ Mother. I leave him with you; may his filial obedience compensate for all the trouble I have caused you, and may his future life lie as pure and unspotted as was mine at his age. I have erred, and greatly, and could suf fering and remorse atone, my faults and errors would long since have been expiated. Igoto a new home, and in a new world, with fresh in centives to life and virtue. I will yet redeem the past, and achieve for myself a name which will bring no tinge to your cheek or mine. In the filial obedience of my son, may you forget the shortcomings and delinquencies of your men. Bless me, oli, my mother, bless and forgive. In a few years I may return to my native land, to 1 iny childhood's home, a wiser and a better man.” He kneeled as he spoke, and drawing the boy 1 towards him, lie bent his head in deep reverence 1 to receive her blessing. 1 “ May the God of Israel bless and keep you from all evil, and bring you again to your moth er's arms.” came in low tones from her lips, and ’ raising herself with sudden effort, she clasped f his neck and wept aloud. Meantime the boy, now fairly comprehending that lie was to lie left, struggled from his father s clasp, and rushing back to liis mother, clung to 1 her with a desperation tliat seemed to defy the harsh separation. She pressed his head to her ' bosom, and with a strong effort at self-control, 1 she endeavored to quiet his agitation and soothe ’ liis now painfully excited feelings. Her own heart was too full for words, and the blinding tears fell in torrents upon liis young head: but true to her woman's nature, she forgot her own sufferings, and bent herself to allay those of her • husband and child. 1 The little Grace who had stood a silent, but t not heedless observer of this touching spectacle, 1 moved with quick steps to her mother’s side, • while tlie old gentleman, unable to bear longer 1 the painful scene, turned and hastily left the room. 1 But the parting hour came at length. The last fond kiss was pressed on loving lips; the i last sad ferewoll burst from loving hearts, and 5 John Atherton, witli his wife and young daugh ter, bade adieu to all the cherished associations • of his life. To the parents, whose kind counsels 1 and whose tender care had guarded his youth; f to the home which had protected his childhood, 1 and been a refuge to bis maturer years, and to t the young son for whom lie meant, in new scenes, 7 to toil, to struggle, and to conquer. His own hopes were high and bright, and his sanguine ] nature dreamed not of a clond to darken the " horizon of liis future life. The new world be >• fore him lured him on, with many a brilliant e promise. Hope whispered into his eager ear 1 many a flattering tale. Glowing visions of a fortune achieved, a name redeemed, a happy and prosperous career of usefulness won, and a speedy return to the loved ones of home, rose before his mind’s eye, with all the vividness of reality, and gave to his spirits a bouyancy and ! clieerfulness to which he had long been a stran ger. Alas! for human hopes and expectations; al ready was a shadow falling upon that devoted household, which only the light of Eternity could dispel. CHAPTER n. “ To what gulfs A single deviation from the track Os human duties leads." John Atherton was the only surviving son of parents who, having lost in early infancy several children, centered in him their proudest hopes, their fondest desie&o. Naturally ardent and im petuous. with an acute intellect, an affectionate heart, and indomitable will, and a high spirit that spurned control,- but yielded to persuasion, he was alternately the tyrant and the subject, the tempest and the sunshine of his home. The gentle influence of his mother, and the calm dignity of his father, restrained and modified the many exuberances of his character, and at twenty-one they fondly deemed him all that their most cherished wishes bad dared to hope. A restless temperament, and an earnest longing after change, could scarcely remain satisfied with the quiet life of n country home—its simple pleasures and unambitious duties, wearied and disgusted him. Ilia strong will and steady pur pose conquered at last the reluctance of his pa rents to part with him, and he left them to seek in more exciting scenes and a larger field, that variety and novelty his nature demanded. His social disposition, liis lively mind, and his quick and ready appreciation of wit and humor, soon won for him many friends and admirers, and placed him in that dazzling, but most dangerous position—the courted, the followed, the applaud ed favorite of the club and the ball-room. Years passed, and brought with them many changes. John Atherton had drank deep draughts of the world's pleasures—had won applause of liis fellow men, in the graver pur suits of life, had labored, and successfully, to obtain a position, and was pronounced by all a happy and prosperous man. He had experienced, too. all tlie blessedness of home, the charms of the domestic fireside, with its tender ties of hus band and father. But the restless spirit within still craved excitement, and called loudly and imperatively for change. In an evil hour, he met companions who had occasionally shared with him, in his early .vears of city life, the in toxicating pleasures of the revel and the gaming table; and yielding to their importunities, he eagerly sought a revival of pleasures and sensa tions so ensnaring, so ruinous in their indulgence. He played, and becoming excited and elated with a temporary success, in a moment of madness he insanely staked liis all upon the turn of a die, and lost. Oh! who can picture the despair that crushed out all hopes from his heart, the re morse which fastened its fangs upon his guilty conscience, as lie reviewed the errors of his course, and looked forward to the darkened fu ture. His name tarnished, his prospects blighted, his family reduced from affluence to want, and this the result, in an unguarded hour, of a weak compliance, with the promptings of an undiscip lined mind. The old sjory followed—relentless creditors, the pressure of want, the haunting remorse of a quickened conscience, weary nights and hopeless days, giving poignancy to feelings naturally ar dent and sensitive, and harshness to a temper, impatient and uncontrolled. The meek nature of his wife, who uttered no reproaches, and the unconscious merriment of his children, gave ad ded stings to his aroused feelings, and rendered him a miserable, almost desperate man. His father wrote and urged his return home, tliat they might, together, make some arrange ments to retrieve liis broken fortunes, and soothe the writhings of his wounded spirit. America the land of promise to the many weary and hopeless, who struggle for existence in the old world, held out a cheering prospect, and pre sented to his eager nature limitless resources. The future again brightened into happiness, and hope gave energy and elasticity to his mind and spirits. With a siucere contrition for his past errors, his enthusiastic, self-reliant nature again dreamed of fortune, reputation and a home, the smile of friends and the calm of self-approval To his glowing imagination, already his out stretched hand had grasped the coveted posses sions, and he bade adieu to his native land, a saddened, but a hopeful, confident, strong-hearted man. CHAPTER 111. “ There was heard a song, on the chiming sea. A mingled breathing of grief and of glee; Man's voice, unbroken by sighs, was there. Filling with triumph the sunny air, Os fresh green laurels, and of pastures new. It sang, while the bark through the surges flew." *• We will rear new homes, under trees that glow. As if gems were the fruitage of every bough; O'er our white walls we will train the vine, And sit in ita shadow at day’s decline: And watch our herds, us they roam at will. Through the green savannas," all bright and still" A gallant ship was riding quietly at anchor, on the bosom of the heaving, restless waters; and her busy crew were in all the excitement and tumult of active preparation for a long voy age. Passengers were hurrying to and fro; offi cers were shouting aloud their orders; sailors were seen at every point, moving with quick ness, and laboring with order and dispatch; the | merry laugh and the hearty tono were passed around, and life and animation pervaded every j thing on board and on shore. Groups of per ! sons were arriving and departing; luggage, in large quantities, was being conveyed on board; parting words were passed from pallid lips; tears, starting from saddened eyes, and the fare well grasp of friendly hands, gave notice that soon this busy scene of human life would pass out on the dreary waste of the waters. Among the passengers who composed the company on board, were John Atherton, his wife and young daughter. The scene before them was a novel one to little Grace, and her attention roved from one object to another, with a surprised delight—-now fixed on the animated throng of restless human beings, who arrived and departed on their various missions; and now on tlie sparkling, heaving waters around them; now startled by a loud, unfamiliar tone; and again, smiling at the sound of the jovial laugh or light reply of the careless hearted sail ors. All was novelty and bustle; and with the tear-drop scarce dried upon her cheek, her lip brightened into smiles, and her soft eye danced with pleasurable excitement. The timidity with which she had first placed her foot on board had subsided into a quiet, confident feeling of see*' rity and safety, as she gazed around upo* tlle assured and careless l>earing of the m®* rienced voyagers, and placed her ham 1 m her father’s, with a calm sense of pVteenon and trust Her mother’s heart still /«wned f~® boy left behind, and her strearung eye anti quiv ering lip showed that her were far away from the passing scene. -Her nature, less san guine than her busbar* saw not the glowing tints of the picture; and her woman’s timid eye rested on the shadow, and overlooked the sun shine. A dreary foreboding of ill, which she could neither overcome or resist, robbed her of her usual serenity: and the nervous quivering of her features, and sadness of her voice, be trayed the under current of feeling that was agi tating and tearing her heart-strings. The min gled memories of the pest rose up before Iter, and shrouded the future in funeral gloom, while the present was replete with a bitterness all its oton. The last kiss of her boy still lingered on her cheek, the last clasp of his arms still pressed her bosom, and the sound of his childish sobs seemed faintly to fall upon her throbbing ear. Should she ever again press his young head to her bating lieart, or soothe into quietude his youthful griefs, were questions that pressed home to her saddened spirit with cruel pertinacity. Ah! well for thee, fond heart, that no human hand can rend asunder the veil of futurity—no human eye pierce the impenetrable mists of com ing time. A wise Providence has kindly spared us that keenest of tortures, a vision of the fu ture, without the influence of a breath upon its destiny—the helpless, hopeless contemplation of immediate ill—and mercifully provided “strength for the day of evil.” Ah! what but that "strength” can check the murmuring, inward atheism, can dry the rebellious tear-drop, and quiet into “per fect peace” the agonizing throb of the worn and heavy heart ? A light breeze sprang up, the white sails tilled, and soon the “Sea-bird” moved before the gale, like a thing of life, upon the boundless waters. The crowd upon the shore dispersed into groups and departed to their various homes, leaving the loitering few who, having friends on board, watched with a straining eye until the ship, ap pearing like a speck upon the horizon, was lost to sight in the increasing distance. On board, the passengers soon settled themselves into a quiet feeling of home, and a common sense of mutual dependence and companionship drew them together in sociab and congenial groups. Assembled in that temporary home were persons of various pursuits and character, presenting a , miniature type of the vast and varied world be yond. The wealthy merchant just returning to the new world, laden with the inventions and luxuries of the old, the costly fabrics of which were in themselves a fortune—the restless inva lid, after a fruitless search in distant lands tor life’s priceless blessing, health, seeking home to die, with calmness on his brow and resignation at liis heart; the ripe scholar, the finished gen tleman. the hardy adventurer, the enterprising seeker of fame and of fortune, weak women and young children, were mingled together in one common home. The Athertons soon made many friends among the passengers on board, and the' days glided by with a calm, monotonous pleasure. Little Grace became a universal favorite. Her gentle thought fulness of others, her unselfish and winning tem per—her singularly unspoiled nature, togetlrer with her exceeding loveliness of countenance and manner, won for her a place in the regards of all Among the passengers, attracted by the gentle bearing and refined manners of Grace, was a young student, on his way home after an absence of five years at one of the German uni versities. Ralph Travers was the only son of a wealthy, influential merchant, In the city of New Yojk. who regarding a thorough and finished education as the best inheritance for his son had sent him at the early age of fifteen to Germany, to secure for him tliat mental discipline, and those enlarged opportunities for improvement, surpassed by no other country. Ralph was of a gay, frank, social nature, and soon became a great favorite with all on board. An only sis ter, some years his senior, was the object on whom was centered his warm and ardent affec tions, and lie amused and Interested Grace by his descriptions of her person and character, and of their simple home life. He would sit for hours, recounting his lioyish frolics; his youth fill scrapes, and hair-breadth escapes; in reading to her scraps of poetry, or sketches of humor ous adventure, the ready smile chasing the tear, as descriptions of the ludicrous and humorous prevailed over the simple pathos of some touch ing story. The moonlit deck was often the scene of their happiest moments, as he caroled forth gay snatches of song, or sitting idly they would watch together the bright tracks left be hind by the vessel, in her course over the bound ing waters. With the social nature of youth, they soon became great friends, and with the confiding spirit of frank childhood, she reposed in him hei- little experience of life—her loves, her joys and her sorrows. The' weather had been beautiful; the clear heavens above, the light breeze, and favoring gales, promised to w'aft them soon, in safety, “to that haven where they would be.” All seemed auspicious, above and around, and light hearts beat gaily, and hopeful faces beamed brightly, as the passengers talked of home, now so nearly reached. Grace Atherton listened with glowing cheek, and lighted eye, to descrip tions of the new world in which she was so soon to find a home. They had now' been out about ten days, and conjecture almost became certainty as to the time of their arrival in pert. The day had been unusually sultry, and. as night drew on, the close, still atmosphere was oppressive and sti fling. and gave every indication of an approach ing storm. A vague, uneasy feeling appeared to pervade the assembled passengers, and the quick, clear, loud tones of the Captain, as he rang out his hurried orders, served to confirm their fears. A sudden gust of wind, a blinding flash of lightning, startling claps of thunder' peal after peal, reverberating through the heav ens, was followed in an instant by a perfect del uge of rain. The great w r aves lifted themselves on high, and the vessel rolled and pitched help lessly on the waters. The roaring of the \«®u and the white angry foam, nfthing wiIAJ by, was indeed appalling. The storm aw*® with such violence, that- before the now f “oroughly alarmed crew were fully aroused to . their dan ger, one of the masts cracked with a loud, crashing noise, and fell hea-'y. upon tke dock. All was now terror and .-mfosmn. The lights were almost instantly extinguished, and lout! lamentations, and suppressed shriek* of women and children, gave horror to the scene.— Suddenly the c F of “a leak, a leak, all hands on deck ” rose above the tumult, and paralyzed, w'ith fear, tie stoutest heart. The sailors moved to their d/ty with mechanical order and alacrity, and toiVft with steady, unremitting effort. The feniflJ* passengers were huddled together in con s„ Jd groups in the cabin, while the children, yho had long since been laid to sleep in their ■ berths, moved uneasily in their slumbers, par tially aroused by the noise and tumult around. The passengers rushed upon deck, and each man worked at the pumps, as if on every moment was suspended a life—relieving the now nearly exhausted crew, and cheering each other with hopes they scarcely Xelt. With all their efforts the water gained upon them, and gloomy de spondency and despairing apprehension hung over their spirits like a portentous cloud. [to be continued.] .. . . . ’ i 3