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234 “ I have come, sir,” said I to our host, as soon as the first salutations were over. “ according | to ray promise, to lay before you the proof? of my innocence.” “They are not needed, Mr. Hopeton, was the reply. “I have found that your accuser is a lying scoundrel. This I have heard from more sources than one.” . , “Nevertheless. Mr. Bently, I do not wish that all my trouble—or rather my friend's trou ble, for he* arranged everything before I arrived at Galveston —should go for nothing. Besides, Ido not want you to merely think 1 am inno cent ; vou must know it.” “ / have come, sir,” said Fitzwarren, to show you that the man for whom I pledged myself, is above the breath of suspicion. As lor myselt. I care not, only to prove that I am no liar—that I redeem my pledges. Think what else of me j you like. Indeed you can hardly judge too j harshly of a ” “Let us have tins matter settled,” said I. in terrupting Fitzwarren hastily. “I had much rather, gentlemen,' said our host,” you would let it all pass.” But we would not hear to this. “ Well,” said Mr. Bently, finally, “if you in sist, let us go into the library.” We went and showed Mr. Bently the doeu- | ments we had brought, with the nature of j which the reader is already acquainted. “ I am perfectly satisfied." said he, when he had looked over them, “ and since it is over, I believe 1 am glad you forced me to an examina- j tion. But let me once more offer an apology for the unjust suspicions I entertained concerning you, and my thoughtlessness in not giving you , a hearing. Perhaps I was wrong, but neither of you is competent to judge me—none but the father of a daughter can be.” “ That," said I, “ is a consideration which had uot before crossed mv mind.” “Go with me into the drawing-room," said j onr host, leading the way out of the library. We found Mrs. Bently and Helen. The form er saluted us in an exceedingly friendly manner: the latter coldly and politely. llow changed she was since the first time I saw her! She was pale and her eyes were constantly gazing on va cancy. “ Mrs. Bentlv and Helen,” commenced Mr. Bently, “you both recollect that Mr. Lorraine— I ought rather to say, the villain Lorraine —told us some tales of the misdoings of Mr. Fitzwar ren and Mr. Hopeton—particularly the latter. He supported the charges with evidence which appeared to mo incontrovertible, and I told you to avoid these gentlemen as much as you could possibly do, without being guilty of impoliteness. I began, some time ago, to suspect that these gentlemen had been slandered, and lately I have heard so much against Lorraine, and I remem bered that Mr. Hopeton and Mr. Fitzwarren had always acted honorably, I concluded to dismiss my suspicions against them. “ But they have taken the trouble to make a long journey, on purpose to obtain evidence with which to refute the slanders against them, and although I told them it was unnecessary, they insisted on laying it before me. Before Lorraine endeavored to lower them in our opinion, I and you looked on them as particular friends and perfect gentlemen. What I have to say now, is, I am fully satisfied that the allegations of Lorraine were totally false, and I hope you will receive Mr. Hopeton and Mr. Fitzwarren again into favor as those who have kid us under par ticular obligations by their services to Frank.” The last named gentleman had come in and stopped at the dqor, just long enough to hear the two concluding sentences. “ I thought Lorraine lied from the beginning,” he said, coming forward and offering me his hand. “I would have told you all about it, Jack, but I knew Mr. Fitzwarren would right the matter if it could be done—at least I thought so—and father and I concluded the best course would be just to get out of the way till the thing was settled in somo manner. Forgive me if I did wrong. But you don't know whether 'twas wrong or not, because you’ve got no sister.” “ That is true, Frank,” I answered, “ and I be gin to think you and your father acted just as I would have done under the same circumstances, and that there is nothing to be forgiven.” “ And I hope Mr. Fitzwarren’s judgment will be as lenient," said Frank, giving his hand to that gentleman. “I think," answered Fitzwarren, “we—at least I—would have had no right to complain, had you never spoken to us again.” “Let me assure you both, gentlemen,” said. Mrs. Bently, “ that I deeply regret this miserable understanding, and I hope that no recurrence to it will mar our future friendship.” “And I,” said Helen, “never believed the slanders uttered against either of you, so I have no apologies to offer.” These words were uttered with a voice and manner perfectly polite, but oh, how cold! I was astonished. If Helen had not credited the reports about me, what could be the reason of her reserve—nay rudeness—toward me? “ Per haps,” I thought, “ she merely obeyed her pa rents." But why was she so cold now? Os course, though, nothing was to be learned in the presence of others. [to be concluded in our next.] I»I The Milky JVay.—The milky way forms the grandest feature of the firmament. It complete ly encircles the whole fabric of the skies, and sands its light down upon us, according to the best observations, from no less than eighteen millions of suns. These are planted at various distances, too remote to be more than feebly un derstood ; but their light, the medium of meas urement, requires for its transit to our earth pe riods ranging from ten to a thousand years. Such is the sum of the great truths revealed to us by the two Ilerschels, who, with a zeal which no obstacle could daunt, have explored every part of the prodigious circle. Sir William Iler schel, after accomplishing his famous section, believed that ho had gaged the milky way to its lowest depth, affirming that he could follow a cluster of stars with his telescope, constructed expressly for the investigation, as far back as would require three hundred and thirty thou sand years for the transmission of its light. But, presumptuous as it may seem, we must be per mitted to doubt this assertion, as the same tele scope, in the same master hand, was not suffi ciently powerful to resolve even the nebulas in Orion. Nor must we forget that light, our only clue to those unsearchable regions, expands and decomposes in its progress, and comiug from a point so remote, its radiant waves would be dis persed in space. Thus, the reflection is forced upon us, that new clusters and systems, whoso beaming light will never reach our earth, still throng beyond; and that, though it is permitted toman to behold the immensity, he shall never see the bounds of creation.— Marvels of Scienre. - Tiie first newspaper in India was established in 1780, by Mr. Hicky. The first printing press in North America was established in the city of Mexico, about the vear IGOO. * 1 fll SOIT9P3E3S&X YX3G&3) 111 YKSSnS. [For the Southern Field and Fireside.] ALICE LEE; OR. THE SACRIFICE OF LOVE. BY BESSIE B. CIIAITER VI. Two years have passed since George Hast ings entered upon his legal studies. He has been admitted to the bar, and is rapidly rising to distinction. Major Laurens has gone to his “ long home,” and the once dark looks of Col. Lee are blanched to the whiteness of age. But his tall form is still erect, and the lustre of his eye is undiminislied. George has not visited the old place since arranging his affairs there, immediately after his uncle’s decease. A trusty agent has charge of the plantation, and occupies one wing of the mansion with his family. It is now rumored that the owner is about to pay it j a visit. Alice's twentieth birtli-day is approaching, and her father has desired her to celebrate it. by inviting the gentry of the neighborhood to an evening party. Her thoughts flew to George, and she wished I he would return in time to be present. But the ; eventful evening came, and he had not arrived. Os late his letters to her had been less frequent, j and they seemed constrained and hurried; but she attributed this to a press of business, and looked forward to the expected visit with bright j anticipations. Her guests had been for some time assem- j bled, and she had been flitting hither and tlnth- I er among them, striving to promote the happi- | ness of all, when she found herself for a few minutes by the side of Miss Morrison. Her brother she had never seen since he left the house in such a rage, after her rejection of his suit; but had heard that he had gone to “the far West” “ Have you heard the news about George | Hastings ?” asked Miss Morrison, with a malig nant light gleaming in her eye. Involuntarily Alice started, as she replied: j “No, what is it?” “ llis marriage was in the Baltimore paper j we received to-day.” Reader, can you remember a period in your j existence, when some fondly-cherished hope was \ suddenly extinguished forever?—a hope that | had twined itself about your heart till it seemed I a part of your very existence ? And did you not feel (to use the expressive language of ano ther) “ the blood, drawn from every avenue of the frame, settling in thick and stagnant pools about the seat of life ?” And at the same time have you been conscious that there were those watching you who would mock your suffering? If you have felt all this, then—and then only— can you realize the situation of Alice. A deathly pallor overspread her face, and, for a moment, she felt as though she would suffo cate, but it was for a moment only. Her wo- i manly pride came to her aid, and she replied : “ My attention has been so occupied to-day, that I have not looked at the paper.” And moving away, she mingled with her guests, without one trace of the conflict that was passing within, save an unusual paleness, and a look of stern resolve which none had ever seen on her countenance before. All, however, except Miss Morrison, attributed this ton deter mination to make the evening pass oft' as agree ably as possible; and, had this been her object, so far as the company was concerned, she could not have succeeded better. The brilliancy of her fancy, and the readiness of her repartee, charm ed all who witnessed it. At the request of her father, seconded by her guests, she seated her self at the piano, and played and sang several stanzas she had herself composed and set to music, descriptive of the happiness which had marked her life thus far. Her voice, always soft and sweet, but not remarkable for its strength, rang out in some of the more exulting strains of the music so clear and loud, that Jenny Lind, even in her palmiest days, might have envied her. As the company were separating, she sought her maid, who always occupied a pallet in her room, and told her that she might go home with the servant of a neighboring family, who had been with her, and spend the night. The girl at first demurred, on the ground that her mistress would be more than usually fatigued that night, but on being assured by Alice that she would not need her, consented to go. When her father pressed his good-night kiss upon her brow, after their guests had departed, he said: “You have made me prouder than ever of you to-night, my daughter.” “ Dear father 1” she thought, “he shall never know that what he has so much admired, was the mask which hid a breaking heart.” Before she retired to her room, she sought the paper, and read herself the fatal paragraph. It stated that the “ happy pair’ were going to Mr. Hastings’ country seat, in Virginia, to spend the honeymoon. “They will be hero to-morrow,” she mentally ejaculated, “ and I must meet them. Oh! how can I do it?” She entered her room, and locking the door, flung herself upon the carpet. Laying her throb bing head on a chair, she now, for the first time, gave way to her grief. Oh! the fearful agony of that night 1 No pen of mine can portray it. Towards morning she arose, and drawing aside the window curtains, looked up at the moon, which was bathing the landscape with its silvery light. In its cold, calm beauty, it appeared at first to mock her anguish; but as she gazed, its calm seemed to sink into her soul. She began to think of Him who had voluntarily suffered so much for mankind; of the blessiugs which she had all her life enjoyed, and with which she was even now surrounded. She remembered that this was the first great affliction she had ever known. She recollected how providentially her life had been preserved, first at the swing, (and here her heart gave a great throb, as she thought of George as the agent,) and then at the preci pice. Something seemed to whisper: “ Hereto fore yon have lived for yourself. This disap pointment is sent to teach you to live henceforth for God," and bowing her head, she exclaimed, in the language of the hymn— “ Here, Lord. I give myself to Thee, ’Tis all that I can do.’’" When, some time afterward, she raised her head, the calm, sweet light of the moon seemed reflected from her own countenance. The bit terness of death—the death of her earthly hopes—was passed. The next morning, her father remarked that she was very pale, and feared that the fatigue and excitement of the preceding evening had been too much for her. She replied that she was quite well excepting a slight headache. As her fathdlr was looking over the paper | that morning, he suddenly exclaimed: “Alice! my child! come here.” “ What is it, father ?” she asked, rising and going to him. “Look there!” he said, pointing to the an nouncement of George Hastings’ marriage. She read it through calmly, and then said, with a faint smile, “They will be here to-day.” Her father regarded her attentively for a few moments, and then muttering, “ I don’t believe she ever loved him,’’ laid down the paper and went out. A tear stole silently down the cheek of Alice. It was not for herself, but for her father. • She knew that this was a bitter disappointment to him, and she feared that he would not draw consolation from the source where she had found it That evening. George and his bride arrived at their plantation. CHAPTER VII. “ Father, will you accompany me to call on the newly-married pair?’’ said Alice, the next morning.* She had fully resolved to conquer a love which she felt was now sinful. “ I suppose I must,’’ said the Colonel, “ but I am really vexed with the boy for not having chosen a wife nearer home.” The same sweet smile, Vas his only answer. George received them cordially, and presented them to his beautiful bride, and the friends that had accompanied them ; but somehow, he felt ill at ease iu their company. He could not help feeling that, perhaps, he had wronged Alice, lie had never before noticed how very spiritual was the style of her beauty. The trial through which she had just passed, had heightened this expression. Great, indeed, was the contrast be tween her and the young bride. With a form tall and finely developed, hair and eyes black as the raven’s wing, regular features, and a clear complexion, Mrs. Hastings seemed queen-like in her regal beauty, but its whole expression was of the “earth, earthy;” and such, I may as well add here, was her character; while Alice seemed angelic in her loveliness. She conversed with case and freedom. All the old want of conversational power had van ished : and after watching her for some time, George came to the conclusion that he had mis interpreted her feelings, when he had suspected her of entertaining for him any other than a sis terly affection. Often, while sitting by the fascinating woman now his wife, had Alice Lee's sweet face risen up before him, seeming to upbraid him for not first ascertaining the true state of her affections; and something whispered, “You will find in her a more congenial spirit;” but the spell of the en chantress was upon him, and he yielded to its power. Now, however, when he saw her cor dial manner towards his bride, he flattered him self that he had done her no wrong. Mr. and Mrs. Hastings did not remain long at their plantation. Mrs. Hastings could not en dure the quiet of country life. They soon left for a fashionable watering place, and after the usual round of fashionable folly in such resorts, returned again to the city. George now hoped to enjoy the domestic bliss he had often pictured to himself of late ; but soon found that society—not himself—held the first place in his wife’s affections ; and bitterly did he regret, when too late, that he had not made choice of Alice Lee, instead of Adela It—. His wife died in less than three years after their marriage, and was soon after followed by his in | fant child, and George Hastings was again alone ! in the world. r_ CIIAPTER VIII. Go with me to where Cheat river (so called by the Indians on account of the frequent, rapid and unlooked for rise of its waters) winds along the western base of the Alleghany mountains. If you want to see Nature in her grandest, most sublime moods, you will find her here. You will see solitary places, where grandeur itself sits enthroned. Gloom lurks in the deep ravines, where the sun never seoms to penetrate, and beauty laughs iu the cascades that leap from rock to rock, o’erhung with tiny rainbows and bor dered with flowering shrubs. Where the mountain slopes gently down to wards the river, you will see a large, commo dious looking farm house, built of massive hewn logs, and plastered with lime, till it rivals the gleaming marble in its whiteness. Enter, and you will recognize in its inmates, Col. Lee and his daughter Alice. How came they here, you ask. A few words will suffice to tell the tale. It is an old story. Col. Lee, de frauded by one he had trusted, found himself suddenly so embarrassed, that he was obliged to sell the old plantation on the Potomac, and a portion of the servants, and with the remainder ! lie crossed the mountains; thus placing them | between him and the scenes of his former hap- I piness and subsequent misfortunes. It was a sad day for the old Colonel when he left the home endeared to him by so many fond , recollections ; but the cheerfulness, even gayety j of Alice, served to reconcile him to the change. ' It is now two years since the eventful night when she first entered, through much tribula tion, the kingdom of Heaven on earth. Her re ligion has been like herself—beautiful and unob trusive ; but casting a halo around her, which you could not belong with her and fail to per ceive. It has not been without its influence on her father; and she is now rejoicing in the glad assurance that his hope“ is anchored within the vail.” She has not been without her trials. It was hard for her to bid a final adieu to the home of her childhood —to leave all those haunts endear ed to her by their associations with her earliest love. But she felt it was for the best. There, everything tended to revive her straggles with this most unconquerable of all the passions.— Here, amid new scenes, and with many new du ties devolving upon her, from their altered for tunes, she hoped entirely to subdue it. One day, not long from the time we introduc ed the reader to her new home, she wandered away from the house, and ascending the moun tain a short distance, sat down on a rock, shaded by a cluster of beach and maple trees. She felt more than usually depressed in spirits, and the remembrance of her early disappointment came over her with more overwhelming force than she had experienced since her removal from the old home. She had been for sometime engaged in silent prayer that she might be able to banish all sin ful regrets, and now, with clasped hands, and eyes directed heavenward, she sang in plaint ive tones— Oh this wrestling—struggling—panting— To be freed from secret sin ! Each rebellious thought recanting, But to think the same again ! Tuor ! who while on earth wast tempted By the world, as I am now. Till from trials here exempted. Be my guide—my guardian, Tnou! As she finished singing, a slight movement in the top of a large maple a few feet from her attract ed her attention. Looking toward it she perceived a panther, just gathering itself up, preparatory to springing upon her. * “ Ah I” she thought, “this is such an ending of my trials and temptations as I had not dreamed of. God help my poor fa ther 1” and committing her spirit to her Saviour, with eyes fixed on those of the monster, she awaited the fatal spring. Her gaze seemed to disconcert him, for he hesitated a moment—and that moment was his last. The sharp crack of a rifle, close behind her, caused her to spring to her feet, just as the panther, uttering a piercing shriek and leaping high into the air, fell against the rock on which she had been sitting, and rolled off down the side of the mountain, crash ing the laurel shrubs in its course. She turned to look for her deliverer, and saw a young man in a hunter’s dross, leaning on the rifle he had just discharged. “ A narrow escape, Miss,” he said, lifting his hunting cap from a high, white brow, and bow ing gracefuly. “Yonder beast had anticipated a dainty meal.’’ “ I owe you many thanks,” she said, extend her hand, “ for my preservation from a dreadful death. I was not aware that any one was near till I heard the report of your rifle.” “ An over-ruling Providence directed my steps here,” he replied, “ I was hunting on the moun tain, and, passing near this spot, was attracted by your singing. I came up softly behind you, and was about to retreat unobserved, at the close of your song, when I espied the panther.” Alice felt her heart drawn toward one who had not only saved her life, but acknowledged the guiding hand of the God she served, and she invited him to go with her to the house. He thanked her, but declined, saying, “ I must now secure the trophies of my victo ry over yonder blood-thirsty creature,” and bid ding her good evening, he sprang down the side of the mountain. When she told her father of her adventure, he expressed regret that she had not persuaded the young man to accompany her home, to par take of their hospitality for the night, as it was nearly sunset and no other house within three miles of them; and calling one of the servants, he went to seek him, but when lie reached the spot where the dead panther lay, the stranger had disappeared. The next evening a well dressed gentleman rode up to the door, and dismounting, inquired for Miss Lee. lie was shown into the parlor, and on Alice’s entrance, he introduced himself as Alfred Wells, from Carolina. She immediately recognized her deliverer of the preceding day, and welcomed him warmly. Col. Lee, coming in soon after, expressed his gratitude in suitable terms, and insisted that he should spend the night with them. To this he consented, and in tho course of the evening, they learned that he was spending tho summer among the mountains for the benefit of his health, which had been im paired by hard study ; and that he had original ly intended to enter tho ministry, but owing to an affection of tho lungs, had been obliged to abandon this design. He expressed himself so much pleased with tho scenery of the moun tains, that he had thought of luming farmer and locating among them. He became a frequent visitor at Col. Lee's, and it was soon evident that he regarded Alice with more than common interest. She was pleased with his manners and personal appear ance, and more than all with his religious sen timents ; but she felt that none other could ever occupy the place in her heart that Gcorgo Has tings had filled. CHAPTER IX. Mountainous regions are the place for excit ing adventures, and one which Alice met with the autumn following her acquaintance with Alfred Wells, threw all the others of which she had been the heroine into the shade. From the top of the mountain, near the baso of which their house stood, a view of tho sur rounding country was attainable, unequalled in extent and magnificence, by any she had ever seeu. There, forgetful of the world, she would sit for hours, spell-bound with awe and admira tion. Undisturbed, she could there resign her self to the contemplation of the wisdom and power of the Great Creator. Below her was the valley through which Cheat river wound like a huge serpent, clinging to the base of tho mountain ridge ; while beyond it, toward the west, far as the eye could reach, stretched tho variegated landscape, rising at one timo into lofty mountains, then subsiding into sloping hills and beautiful valleys ; checkered here and there with glistening streams ; while occasionally a cultivated farm peeped out from among the dense forests. The little village of Beverly could be seen in one direction, nestled down among the surrounding mountains, like a child sleoping on its mother’s lap, while, in an opposite course, lay Franklin situated quite as romantically. Away to the north-east, was the south branch of the Potomac, gliding on to tho home of her child hood ; while the peaks of the Blue Ridge, dim and hazy in the distance, stretched away toward the South. * One bright, beautiful morning in October, Alice made arrangements for spending the day on the mountain; for she well knew the snows of win ter would soon prevent access to her favorite resort.* The weather promised to be everything she could wish. Indian Summer, that season which novelists have portrayed, and poets sung, but which must be seen and felt to be fully ap preciated, was beautifying the landscape. The now crimson foliage of the maple, the yellow leaves of the sycamore, and the deep green of the cedar, united to form a parti-colored mantle ; while higher up, the oak, tho pine, the chesnut, and the hemlock, blended their colors in a gorge ous canopy. As Alice rode slowly along the serpentine path, on one side of which the mountain rose almost perpendicularly, while on the other it formed a precipice, over whose brink the brav est could scarcely look without trembling, she thought she had never seen the face of nature so lovely before. Absorbed in the contempla tion of its many beauties, sho had proceeded about half way up the mountain, when a gun was suddenly discharged, by some one conceal ed in a clump of laurel, growing out of the side of the mountain, not more than six feet from her. Her horse, startled by the sudden report, gave a sidelong spring, trembled for one moment on the edge of the precipitous descent, then regaining its footing by a mighty effort, turned, and gallop ed off down the mountain with fearful speed, while a fiend in human shape, sprang from his concealment in tho laurels, exclaiming, “Con found the horse—l thought he would have gone over the precipice with her; but he’ll soon break her neck, and his own too, going down the moun tain at that rateand lie started along at a rapid pace, hoping to witness the catastrophe which he had predicted. Irakis excitement, he gave no thought to the manner in which he car ried his gun, one barrel of which he had just discharged, and tho lock, catching in a little bush, discharged the remaining load into his side. Tottering backwards, with a shriek which Alice never could forget, he fell over the very precipice which lie had hoped would have pro ved her destruction. The moment her horse started down tho moun tain, Alice, knowing well the danger attending such a rate of speed, and finding herself unable to check its headlong course, drew her foot from the stirrup, and sprang to the gronnd, while at tho same instant, the second report of the gun * lor the information of my Southern readers, I will here state that snow usually begins to fall on Cheat mountain early in November, and seldom disappears from its top till late the ensuing Spring. caused her to look back, in time to see the form of young Morrison disappear over the edge of the dreadful abyss. Horror-struck—she essay ed to hasten to the spot—when she found that in leaping from her horse, she had dislocated her ankle, and was unable to walk. With a great effort, by clinging to the shrubs which grew along the path, she succeeded in dragging her self back to the fatal spot. Looking over the brink of the precipice, she saw the mangled corpse of her discarded lover, on a rocky ledge far below. Involuntarily, she drew back, and covered her eyes with her hands. The delibe rate design against her life—her almost miracu lous escape—and the swift and fearful retribu tion which had overtaken the villain who had thus plotted against her, caused her to bow in humble adoration to “ Him who holds our lives in the hollow of His handwhile she felt that she might safely trust in Him for deliverance from the disagreeable situation in which she was now placed. She soon found that she had need to exercise all her faith, for the wind began to sob and moan, in the recesses of the mountain forest, as though chanting a dirge over the mortal remains lying on the rocks below her. Dark, dense clouds rolled up from the western horizon, and soon the storm burst in all its fury. Oh 1 how sublime is a storm among those mountains! No language can portray its awful grandeur!* Alice had succeeded in dragging herself to the partial shelter of an overhanging rock, and there, as calmly as the pain of her dislocated ankle would permit, she contemplated the manifesta tions of Omnipotence around her. She had remained in this situation about an hour, when she heard her name shouted from below, and replying as well as she could to the shout, she soon had the pleasure of seeing Al ford Wells standing before her. “Twice my deliverer,” she murmured, as carefully lifting her to his own horse, ho supported her there, till he could resign her at her own door into the arms of her anxious father. lie had called at Col. Lee’s soon after Alice left home that morning, and learning that she had gone to spend the day on the mountain, ho remained, conversing with the Colonel, and de bating m his own mind the propriety of seeking her, when the sudden bursting of the storm de cided him; and telling her father of his intention he hastened in pursuit of her. A little lower down the mountain than where ho found Alice, he saw her horse, disabled and I dying, and the fear that she had fallen over the precipice and perished, drove him almost frautic. Need we wonder then that his joy at finding her comparatively safe, unloosed his tongue, or that after hearing of the dangers through which she had passed, he plead with irrisistible elo quence, for the right to be henceforth her con stant protector. Toward night the storm ceased, and Col. Lee and Alfred, accompanied by several stout ne groes, repaired to the mountain to obtain, if pos sible, the remains of Morrison. They were obli ged to force their way over scattered rocks and fallen trees, and through tangled underwood, often in places where a single misstep would have caused them to share the fate of him they sought, until, after a series of exertions but little suited to the years of Col. Lee, they succeeded in reaching the body. It was shockingly mangled, and had it not been for some papers found on him, Col. Lee would have thought it possible for his daughter to havo been mistaken, in supposing it to be their former neighbor; but these established his identity beyond a doubt. They buried him near the foot of the moun tain, under a wide spreading maple, which alone marks the last resting place of one, who, though qualified both by natural talents and the acquire ments of education for a high position among men, fell a victim to his own ungoverned pas sion. The only intelligence of his fate ever ob tained by his friends, was conveyed to them by the following paragraph in a newspaper, sent them by Col. Lee: POUND DEAD. The body of a man, about twenty-five, or thir ty years of age, shockingly mangled, was found on the 23rd inst., among the rocks on the wes tern declivity of Cheat mountain. He had ap parently fallen over a precipice while hunting. From papers found upon him, it was ascertained that his name was Henry L. Morrison, and he is supposed to have been a resident of one of the Rastcrn counties of this State. chapter x. Would you liko to look in at Col. Lee’s a little while on New Year’s eve ? Our call must be short, for we havo a journey before us to-night. In the neat and tastefully arranged parlor, a little company is assembled. A young man and maiden are standing together, with clasped hands, while a servant of the Most High invokes his blessing upon them. You need not bo told that it is Alice Lee and Alfred Wells, that have just plighted their faith to each other in mar riage, while the old Colonel looked on with a moistened eye, as memory led him back to the time when he had stood thus with the chosen of his heart. Alice had frankly told Alfred the se cret which no other ears had ever heard her utter, of her first love and disappointment, but he had assured her that he should value her second love more than ho would the first of any other woman; and now let us leave them to re ceive the congratulations of the few acquain tances assembled to witness the ceremony. In a spacious and splendidly furnished cham ber of one of the finest mansions in the city of Baltimore, lies one whom we have met before— the wife of George Hastings. She has just been informed by her physician that she has but a few minutes to live. With what a shriek of ag ony did she receive this intelligence. “Die? die ?” she exclaimed, “ oh! I cannot die I I nev er thought of dying! Oh! Doctor! can’t you save me ? I will give you everything I have— only save my life! Oh! George, can’t something be done for me? You know howl have loved the world—how I have lived only for its pleas ures ! I cannot leaVe it now! I must at least have time for repentance!” She called for her infant daughter. Pointing to her, she exclaim ed—“ If sho lives don’t bring her up to do as I have done. Teach her not to set her heart upon the world! Teach her ” A convulsive shnddering shook her frame. She sprang for ward upon the bed—then fell back in her hus band’s arms, a corpse. While the spirit of Peace and Love was writing in Heaven the uniou of two kindred hearts—in that gorgeously furnish ed chamber, the angel of Death had sealed the record of a lost soul ! After the death of his child, which survived its mother but a short time, George went to his plantation in Virginia. Here, for the first time he heard of Col. Lee’s misfortunes and removal, but whither he had gone no one knew. Al though universally esteemed and beloved in the neighborhood where she had lived, Alice had no particular friends with whom she chose to keep up a correspondence; so that all George * The writer once witnessed a storm there, and knows how inadequate her pen is for such a description. ±-c