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__ _ - ?? ??? _ | h| lewis m. grist, proprietor, j ||it $nbrjpknt Jfamilii Itetospaper: jfjt t|e ^romtrfiaii of tjje Social, ^griculittral anb Commercial Interests of % 5ont|. {terms?$3.00 a year, in advakce. wit"I7 YOEKYILLK, S. C., THURSDAY, MARCH 33, 1871. N" V vy 1 J JL. . . Jm (Original fftfee Jfotg. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. TEMPTATION. BY MBS. S. A. BEDELL. CHAPTER IV. Philip Arrowly and the strange, phantomlike woman, stood looking at each other with level, unshrinking eyes, for many seconds, without speaking. At last she thrust out her long, bony arm, and endeavored to put him aside ; but he seized it in a grasp-like vice, while he ground out between his clenched teeth? i ? Till II "IjOtmCK ! Or x 11 ujuivici juui "Ha! ha! h4!" The same wild laugh. "Murder me?""she shrieked. "I am dead already! I have just come from my grave to - see your bride I Your beautiful bride, Philip Arrowly, who thinks you so rich! and so handsome! and so honorable! H8 deceived i I me?the little old man, who keeps the tombs ; he told me lies, he bade me prepare your room, and said you were coming there to . die?to die! Do you hear me, Philip Arrowly? Todie! But he lied?may heaven smite him! Instead of returning to your bare room and your living grave ; you are here, wedding t another bride. Another bride! Philip Arrowly. Ha! ha! ha!" In a voice, strained and cracked, she sang the lines: "'Tis good to be honest and true, 'Tis well to be oft' with the old lovo Before you are on with the new." j "Let your wedding bells chime that, my gay j bridegroom; and let your bonny bride hear them. But where is she? Let me see her," she j cried, struggling in his strong grasp. "Let i me see if her soft white face looks like your j wifio'a Yfts: vour wife's ! whose heart is ever j " ^ " " 1 J 1 boiling, and her face red with the fires of ( hell! Let me get at her! Let me get at her! ] I'll tear that beauty which you love so from her face. How dare she make you love her ? ] How dare she wrong whom God has cursed? j May God curse her !. Curse her ! curse her! , I say," and the wretched creature sank impo- j tently at his feet. W&skj \ Philip stood scowling down on her, with ft look of deadly hatred and fear burning in his eyes. Gradually the hard and bitter expression relaxed, and he muttered: "Curse of my | life! No, I'll not kill you, for death to you would be a mercy. I'll send you back to eke < out your miserable end, with beings of your ] own kind." He stooped to raise her up, but the threat ] of sending her back to the asylum gave ( strength and agility to the prostrate wretch. She eluded his grasp, and with another of her peculiar, horrible laughs, she was lost in the . dense foliage. He turned to Maude. Truly, her face was soft and white?so very white; and her eyes looked like stars in their luminous depth. He knelt at her feet and kissed the hem of her garment?kissed the little foot that he took up so tenderly in his sinewy hand. She drew herself away from him, although his , abiect devotion went through her heart with a mastering thrill. "My life! my life!" he murmured, brokenly. "Oh! Maude, will you take my very life from me ?" "Who is that horrible woman, Philip Z What is she to you ?" She essayed to be calm, but her voice went quivering beyond her control. For a space there was silence, and then Maude spoke again. No one would have known her voice as the same which had whispered with such measureless content?"I love you, Philip, more than I love my own soul." Now she stood up erect and proud. "Answer me, Philip; for you must never touch me again, until you have told me the truth." He got up, and strode up and down the six steps of the summer house, like a wild beast in a narrow prison; then, without a word, went out among the sleeping flowers and the shimmering moon light. Maude sat still, gazing at him, as he paced, with uneven steps, up and down the broad, graveled walks. She looked at him, with scarce consciousness of what she was doing. The dreadful suspicion, the almost certainty of what was before her, stunned her heart and paralyzed her brain. After a while he came back. He threw himself at her feet. He was trembling visibly. "Oh ! Maude, -what a coward I am. I never feared to face man or devil, but how can I look into your innocent eyes and tell you the blasting truth ? Tell me?woman or angel, which ever you f.re?tell me some other language, less revolting, in which I may whisper the shameful confession?she is my wife." Was the world slipping from under her, really; or why did she feel herself sinking down?down; and why did she throw out the KainlocQ irma for suDDort? Was she I'UVl J nvj^ivw ? A 4 going down into nn abyss of utter darkness, into the great void, out of which omnipotence called creation!' Out of such feelings, it dimly dawned on her that she was fainting, and with a mighty effort she sat up, shivering from head to foot Then consciousness came more vividly, and told her that her place was no longer near Philip's, and she shrank away from him. He did not seek to detain her by force, but he stretched out his hands imploringly to her. "Maude, Maude! Will you spurn me, when I am already in the dust at your feet ?" With infinite compassion and tenderness, she came and leaned over him, put her arms around his neck, and passionately kissed his brow and lip. "Spurn you, Philip ? Oh! no," she said, unsteadily. "But my heart is breaking. Must we, indeed, part ? Must I never see you again ?" "Part!" cries Philip, starting up fiercely. "Who will dare say so ? Who will dare take you from me ? You are mine?you gave yourself to me, and by the eternal God, I will j > t" KW]> j uu The tears were flowing down Maude's face. "How can you ? How can you ?" she I moaned. "She separates us. She is between us. As long as we live, she will always stand between us." "My darling," he said, throwing his arms around her, as if defying fate itself, "could we let that broken, miserable life stand between vs f Never." "But she is your wife," said poor Maude, going back to the bitter truth. "She is not," he cried, with reckless audacity. "What is it, Maude, that constitutes a marriage iif the sight of God ? Hatred, wrong, and utter misery; or confidence, love and 1 idolatry, such as I feel for you ? Which, my Maude, do you think is my wife in the sight i of Heaven?you, or that phantom fiend who came but now, to dash our cup of happiness?" * "She, Oh! she; for you stood at God's al- j tar and called her so." ] "And I kneel here, on His footstool, and in i His presence, calling Him as my witness ; and 1 I swear that you, and you only, are my wife, i my darling?my only beloved." "Why do you mock me, Philip ?" asked i Maude, piteously. ) "How could I mock my little darling! Re- i member, Maude, what you have said?eye to j to eye, and heart to heart you have said it; ] that you love me more than any other created i being in earth or heaven?" "And so I do. Gold help me," interrupieu t Maude, with intense self-pity in her tone. f "Then how can you drive me away ? But I will-not let you do it. I cannot suffer my i little wife to be so wronged. Would I let 1 any one harm my tender, precious one? No! i Say that you know I would not. Say it ] Maude," demanded Philip, imperatively. ] "I know it, Philip. I know it. But you, ] yourself, would do me a cruel, deadly wrong." i "Child, child! I would die for you. Perhaps it would be better if I did die," he said * compunctiously. "Don't you wish I was dead, Maude? Had died before I ever canie i to curse your bright, young life ? Don't you ? < You would be right if you did." ? She raised her eyes to his face, lingered i lovingly on its stern and haughty lineaments, 1 now so melted, and so broken from its calm i repose by the storm that is surging in my 1 soul. < "No," she said, with grave distinctness. "It < is worth the struggle to feel what I have felt t for you. They say that love is perfected only in Heaven. When I get there I will have 1 nothing to learn. They have no higher bliss t LL..?tl,onnna oU/irt Virtnrncrn T doomed DOSSi- I L?UC1C tuaii v/ii^ ouvav mvm* L _ ble to us here." i "It is possible still; nay, it is certain. Our 1 relations are not changed. I could not let 1 them be. You shall be mine?you are mine 1 still. I tell you, child, I will never let you go. I could not let you so wound the heart 1 that is all mine." 1 Maude arose. t "Where are you going ?" he asked. 1 "To leave you. I am weak?you try me i beyond my strength." j "Stay, child," said he, forcibly detaining her. 1 "Listen to me and pity me. For fifteen years I < have been a fugitive on the face of the earth, i with a horrible incubus?the exhalation of a 1 mad-house, pressing the life out of body and ' soul. I have not been as other men, for I 1 have missed my youth. That ghastly phan- < torn stole it from me. When little more than i a boy, I was entrapped into a union that has ? proved to be a league with hell. From that moment until I met you, I never saw a happy hour. Tell me, my darling, don't I deserve some pity?some compensation ?" Maude Jook his hand, and her tears fell, on it > "I do pity you?I will compensate you," she murmured brokenly; "I will save you t from the commission of a great crime. God i tries us all mysteriously, Philip; all of his martyrs did not perish in the flames and at the stake." "For fifteen years I have been a martyr; I will be so no longer. If to love and hold to you be going to the devil, then I will go to the devil incontinently, and bless God for the happy change." ? * . i l- ? L:. : "Hush," sue saia, aweu uy jus lncvctcutc. "The soul that sinneth, it shall surely die." Think of it, Philip?the death of the soul eternally. What is this little hour of life to that?" He looked at her imploringly. "You don't mean it? You will not give me up for a word of priestly cant, like that ?" "It is God's own eternal word," she answered solemnly, "and I dare not disregard it." "You little fool," he answered harshly, "you are not going to turn saint now ? If you do, you will infallibly send me to hell. My soul is in your hands, Maude ; will you let it perish utterly ? You talk to me of the value of a human soul. Think of the reward of her, who saves one from destruction. Stay with me, my darling; if you do not, there will be nothing left, but to 'curse God and die.'" "How can I ? How can I ?" she moaned, "in this sore strait." "What can be easier ?" he eagerly demanded. "No one in the world, except you and me, (for she is nothing) knows that she still lives. I ought not to have told you, but I could not deceive you, Maude; and I might so easily have done it?and deceived you for your own happiness. But I cannot deceive you child. How could I? You are in my heart; you fill every recess; there is nothing hidden from you. I would lay my life in your hand, Maude, as fearlessly as I lay this kiss on your beautiful brow. We two only, will know, and what will it matter to us ? In the true sense of the word/you will be my wife; so there can be no sin between us." "No one knows of the relations between me and that woman?even the officials at the asylum think her my sister; and if she should babble it would be taken for "the ravings of insanity. Who, in all the world, is to make enquiries ? Yes, love, our wedding must take place. We cannot afford to throw away our happiness and our lives for a wretched vagary like that." "But the sin, Philip? Who can cover it from the eye of Him, in whose sight all trans* gressions are offensive ?" "Don't be silly, child," he said, impatiently. "Would I not die?aye, and be damned, too, for you; and do you still harp on the doubtful virtue of loving such a sinner as I am ? I tell you, Maude," said he determinedly, "the affair roust go on. Don't you see its the only way? Consider how people would talk and conjecture if everything came to an end between us. You could not stand for those spiteful old cats to get together, and sharpen their claws to tear you to pieces. I could not stand it. I would do something desperate that would make people talk worse than ever. Maude, all this may be avoided. We may be so happy?and who will ever know ?" "God," she said reverently. He started up, with a smothered oath on j his lips. "Will you drive me mad ? I warn you? there is enough of that in the family al' ready. Why do you make one talk so, i child ?" he broke off penitently ; "why do you ; make me assail your pure ears with a repetii tion of her name ?" "Maude," said he, after I I meditating a while, "what a strange idea you have of the character of this God of yours. Does He delight to see his creatures miserable?" "No; Oh ! no." "Then, to please Him, we ought to be happy?ought we not? And how can we be happy, unless we are together ? Whom do we injure, or what wrong do we do ourselves, by being man and wife, in the sight of God and j man ? You will only be dearer to me, Maude, r swear, for the sacrifice you are making. It is a sacrifice; I know it, darling, but it is one that gives joy for mourning, heaven for hell, and life for death. What will our lives be apart ? Whom will I have to love and ca?*? ivKneo hnanm will mv Maude lie. ICOO J UUU VU imvuv ..... ^ f is she now lies on mine ?" She raised her head. "Don't,Philip; don't tempt me with your sophistries, so wrong?so blissfully wrong." "What I say is not wrong. Am I not older ind wiser than you, little one ? And do I not know right from wrong? How can it be ??rong; and who will ever know? Come, Vfaude, say that you will trust me. Lay pour hand in mine, and just say 'I trust you, Philip.' Say it, Maude. Don't you trust me?" Oh! the earnest pleading of that dear, clear voice! Maude looked out through the luminous night, and saw two life-paths stretchiug on to eternity?one bright with happiness, with sunshiny with flowers?fadeless flowers?and his irm always around her; theother?Oh ! God, tiow dark! how dreary! how lonely! No sun shone from the lowering sky, no flowers olooraed along the rugged pathway, no hand nf love guided her faltering steps. Her fascinated eye dwelt on the prophetic vision, and she was tempted?terribly tempted. Who is it that says the price of sin is only to buy bread ? That only the miserable and starving are tempted into forbidden paths ? " - " * %T 1 T* * i * *_ A!_ - Lt is false?JNo ! it is true. x>ut it is me miserable soul, and the starving heart I The lips may clamor for bread and be silenced ; but the cry of a breaking, craving heart, who can resist ? Philip saw the struggle. He held her in his arms, his ardent breath fanning her poor, white cheeks, as he whispered his alluring sophistries into her ear. For a time, Maude was past reasoning; she just lay there cradled in his strong arms, and a cry?"an exceeding *reat, and bitter cry"?went up from her heart, "Oh, that I might die! that I might lie now!" that loving, idolizing heart, electing that it was better to die with him than to live without him. To die! to live / Her mind svent hopelessly from one idea to the other for some moments, until the mere repetition if the words began to re-awaken perception ind restore her reason to its normal supremacy. 3he looked up, at last, with a holy decision shining in her beautiful eyes. "Which is it?" he eagerly entreated, his lips lying caressingly on hers; "It is happiness?is it not ?" ^ She answered: 'fit is happiness, I hope; but not of this wond." He felt that this was final. He did not speak, but covered his face with a sob of unutterable anguish. CHAPTER V. We must go back again. A little more than fifteen years, before that terrible night which blasted Maude Alleyn's life, and turned its beautiful, beautiful fruit to ashes on her famishing lips, Philip Arrowly, a youth of nineteen, was studying in C college, preparatory to going to Heidelberg. His uncle, Doctor Surrey, who had been a father to the boy, had died some years before; and Philip, whose haughty, self-willed nature, illy brooked control, fell into disgrace with one of the professors. Nothing but an apology could restore hira to the favor of the faculty, and this he indignantly refused to render. The consequence was, he left the college over which his uncle had presided, and went to C college in Pennsylvania. In this college, Dr. Antonelli, a man of Italian extraction, was professor of modern languages. Years before, this man had formed a clandestine union with an English heiress. One child had been born to them. She inherited her mother's name?Alethea?with her wilful, erratic disposition. Madame Antonelli, soon after her marriage, gave evidence of incipient hereditary insanity, which rapidly developed into a most violent form of that dreadful disease, and Alethea was actually born in a mad house, her mother dying soon after. Madame's English relatives attempted to retain her estates on a plea of her insanity, and gave Dr. Antonelli much trouble and vexation, to secure the property for her child. For this reason, he always* hated the whole English people, and when some twenty years after, Frederick Norris, a young English traveler, solicited permission to address his daughter, he was refused with scant courtesy. But Miss Alethea had a will of her own and was quite willing and able to use it, as her mother had done before her. When her father "saw that neither entreaties nor remonstrances were availing, he sent for Mr. Norris, and they had a long and quiet conversation in the doctor's study, from which the young man came, looking pale and grieved to the heart. That evening Miss Alethea had no one to turn over her music, or whisper the admiration of which she was so fond. The next dav brought her a letter, the con tents of which shriveled, like the blast of a furnace, the bright hopes of this passionate girl. It was a hard task Mr. Norris had set before him ; but he accomplished it, with all the delicacy and tact of which he was master. Alethea, however, was not deceived. Through the indiscretion of others, she had heard, from her childhood, of her mother's mournful fate, and she at once traced the galling insult to its bitter source. "Respect for my father's feelings?" she sneered. "Not rob an old man of his only child ?" Bah! The coward! Why don't he say he is afraid of me ? Why don't he come out, like a man, and tell me the blood in my veins is too hot ? The base coward, to insult me with a subterfuge! My blood is hot. It is fire! I burn?I burn!" and she threw I herself on the floor, in an agony of ungov| crned passion. The candle burned dimly, the clock ticked loudly, the hands crept slowly round to twelve, and Frederick Morris still sat and brooded over his short, but beautiful dream of bliss. A light step was heard without, the bolt was softly turned, and a female figure glided into the room. A woman of resplen dent beauty with scarlet cheeks and blazing eyes. -Mr. Morris started to his feet. "Good heavens 1 Miss Antonelli?Alethea, what does this mean ?" She stood and gazed at him with her baleful eyes, and never was Wedding Guest, mortT" entirely transfixed, by .the burning eye of the ancient Mariner, than he, by the'fiery glance confronting him. Directly she spoke, trying to be calm, but failing wofully. "So you are going away ? It was kind in you to write and let me know; and considerate, to send you adieus in a letter, and not trouble me. Who told you they would trouble me ? Who told you that you were at liberty to say good-bye to me, and go away forever ?" "My letter explained," said the young man, cruelly embarrassed; "I could not speak : plain ; I hoped you Would comprehend?rt* * i i ii i 11 1 ?. *' ' "I do comprenenci, sne Diazeu uuu, wnnr^ ing off the last restraint "I-de compSfceirthl why you insult my mother's daughter! And you dare to do it! Ha! you forget that I i have fire, and not blood in ray veins, and that I do not tamely take an insult like oth- < er women. Thus, I avenge myself on the coward that insults and fears me." She deliberately took a pistol from under i her mantle and leveled it at the horrified i young man. He saw she was in deadly earnest. To seize and disarm her, was the work of a moment, while her shrieks of baffled rage rang out on the midnight air. The landlord ! and guests were aroused, and though the af- ; fair was hushed up, yet any one who desired to know, would readily have been told that i Alethea Antonelli was going as her mother j went. i From that time, there was a marked change ; in her. She bloomed out into fuller luxuriance. Her cheeks were always glowing, and j her eyes strangely luminous; but her wretch- ) ed father marked these beautiful changes with i the deepest anxiety. i At this juncture, Philip Arrowly entered i the college. With an artist's eye for beauty, and a boy's inexperience, he was soon floun- i dering, beyond his depth, in a wild passion for j Dr. Antonelli's fascinating daughter. She i pursued him recklessly, and he was only too ] willing to be caught. Before either his or 1 her friends knew what folly was afloat, he had j consummated his madness by a secret mar- ' riage. i It was not a secret long, however, for Ale- j thea went directly to her father and flaunted the startling intelligence in his face. She i fold liim ha had driven Frederick Norris I away because he thought her mad ; but she 1 had married in spite of him. "You thought no one would have me," she , said, triumphantly ; "but there have been * some fools born since you, my father." With feelings of the deepest compassion, Dr. Antonelli laid before Philip the certain consequences of his rash and unadvised action. His feelings had already undergone a p|ftial revolution, and he s^t before the doc- ^ toy in overwhelming confusion and consternation. "If you had shown me the consideration due to a father, I would have saved you from this miserable fate," said his father-in-law, severely. "She said you' would never consent," said the unhappy youth, feeling that he had been a fool throughout, and that for the gratification of one mad, fleeting passion, he had wrecked his whole life. His marriage soon became known, for Mrs. Arrowly would not abate one jot of her matronly dignity ; and then everybody could tell her boy-husband that her mother died in a mad-house, and that she, herself, was looked upon as?as?well, as people would be likely to look on her mother's daughter. Philip heard all this as in a horrible dream. Sometimes he fancied he was crazy himself?how else could he be so miserable? To stay in O was impossible, and without delay he announced to Alethea that they would leave in a few days for Europe. She raised a storm and vowedjshe would never go ; that if ever she put her foot on European soil, she would have to be carried there by force. "Vorv topU " rpnliprl Philin. ouietlv. "bv . ~.J , --J. j-, </l _J force you must be taken then; for sail we will, next Thursday." And sail they did. The exigency of the case had developed Philip suddenly into a stern and resolute man. His beautiful glowing youth had slipped him, and gone forever. Five years had passed from this time, when a man, young in years, but old in the weary trials that are sometimes given in such full measure to a human life, drove to Heath House. He gave his name as Mr. Surrey, and confided his sister, Alethea Surrey, to the charge of Dr. Michael; but had the old church register been examined, the names would have stood?Philip Surrey Arrowly, and, by courtesy, Alethea Surrey Arrowly, his wife. CHAPTER VI. "Breakfast ready, Maude ?" asked Mr. AI- ^ leyn, bustling into the breakfast room, the morning after that eventful night, in Maude's hitherto happy life. "Time I was off, I must ride over to the Garr plantation this morning to confer with the overseer about some improvements to be made. I don't forget that the place is yours, daughter; and that you may be calling on me for it soon. But hallo 1 What's the matter ? You look like a ghost, child. Are you ill; or did you and Arrowly quarrel after I left you, last night ? What can be the matter ?" Maude came round the table to her father, put her arms around his neck, and laid her head upon his bosom. : "Father, I have a great favor to ask of you. Last night something occurred between Mr. Arrowly and myself; something, father, that neither you, nor I, nor any one else can help?something that ought to be forgotten. Will you help me to forget it, father? This is what I want you to do?never mention his name ; never seek to find him out; never notice me in my wayward moods, for the task before me is long and hard,and I cannot, just at first be your bright, cheerful daughter of old; but by and by, I will do better, and we will be very happy together, father. You used to say, you never wanted me to leave you, and now I never will. And you know, father, you always said we would be happy." Mr. Alleyn had put his daughter aside and struggled to his feet. His brows were drawn down into a frown of startled perplexity. "What is all this, Maude?" he asked, mistily. "Where is Philip Arrowly ? Where is the man who came to me yesterday evening and haughtily demanded my daughter? If he has wronged you, let him beware. My arm is not nerveless yet, and by the heavens above us, I will have his heart's blood for the innlt" "ffo, father," said wretched Maude, forced to excuse what she could not explain. "No, f$her,you do him wrong; he is not to blame? na one is to blame. Oh! will you not believe me, darling father, and let the miserable business rest? I can't explain father, hut do beRSve that the fault is not his." "Why then, it must be yours. Say girl, have you been playing the coquette, and Bhamingyour womanhood?" "Am I a woman to descend to that ?" asked Alaude reproachfully, "No, you are not," said Mr. Alleyn, looking with admiration on his beautiful child. "But how else can it be ? It is not his fault? it is not your fault; and I am sure it UAiofc my fault; whose, then, can it be ?" ... God sent it Please, father, But Mr. Alleyn looked into his daughter's tear-stained face, and swore he would follow Philip Arrowly to the ends of the earth, and demand from him his child's happiness.. Maude thought how glad she would be to Allow him even bare foot, to the ends of the earth ; not to demand her happiness, but to 3hare his sorrow. "Oh! father," and the exceeding pathos of her voice touched the old man's heart; "please let all this be forgotten. You break my ta|rt to hear you talk so. If you knew all, you would not harm a hair of his head." At last he yielded. It was agreed between them that the episode, that living episode in^Maude's life, should be as a sealed book, and the name of Philip Arrowly, never spoken in the house. ^Itwas a hard life for the girl, or rather woman ; for from that night her girlhood seemed K|lie^very far behind her. Her vision in the summer house was prophetic?neither sunslgne/nor flowers were for her, but her life 3eemed to stretch out, one long, unbroken wfete?J>efore her. In her father's house refined and cheerful hospitality still reigned, and she was ever the pleasant, courteous hostess, with the smiling lip and the breaking heart. The world laid Mr. Arrowly aside as "one more unfortunate," and he passed from its cognition. > T 1 J _?J 1 i,n. raauue aia not sit uowu uuu ucmuau u? sad lot, and demand of God why he had taken away the light of her eyes; but she went to work, rather vaguely and nervously, at first, to help others, less miserable than herself. She read the Bible more; was oftener seen in the cottages of the poor, and reverently and humbly, in her poor human way, "went about doing good." It was mQnths after, in the depths of winter, when Maude had gone to sit up with a peor woman, who was very ill, (she often did tl?t now) that in the middle of the night she h&ird a distressing sound, which alarmed her. r'le there any strange person about the place, asked other fellow-watcher. ^BNot that I knows on," answered Mrs. Smith. "But what noise is that ?" "Hush !" said Maude, drawing her away, so as not to alarm the sick woman. "Come out here. Let us get a light and search for it" "Law sakes!" exclaimed Mrs. Smith, as another hollow groan smote their ears. "You are not a goin' to look for that t No, Miss M*uide, honey, don't you bother with that." "With that?that what?" asked Maude, looking, for the first time, into her companion's face, which was as white as a sheet "What do call that t Mrs. Smith." "Law, child, don't you know ?" "It sounded to me like some one ill aud in distress." "No, child, it wasn't that," said Mrs. Smith in an awe-struck tone. "Then, what in the world was it ?" "It was a token" "A viliat t" ' "A token?a warnin'." ^A warning of what?" asked Maude, still mystified. "A warnin' for her" pointing to the room in which the sick woman lay. "I always said she'd die, from the very time she was tuck." "Nonsense," said Maude, though a little ^ *nn fl> kaii a a unnfKoi* till ill U1 UYTO U1U A UU liiA UUgil HVi y Ilk? UUVVUV4 groan, sounding unearthly in the midnight stillness, fell on their e&rs. "Mrs. Hardin is better; indeed she is out of danger now. With careful nursing, there is no danger of b?r~dyirig." "Don't you believe the half of that, honey. I've seen and heard tokens before this; and I know what they is. And if ever there was one, that was it" "No; that wasjust as much flesh and blood as you or I. Come with me to look." "Oh! Miss Maude, child, I dar'snt go," said thq poor woman quaking exceedingly, "Do take warning honey, and don't you go neither." But Maude had already opened the door, and stepped out into the winter night. For ^plUe^lVliiHi her tallow candle flared so she could see nothing; but as her eyes became accustomed to the flickering light, she distinguished some object crouched in the angle, against the chimney, as if endeaovring to obtain a little warmth. ?When it became conscious of another presence, it strove to rise, but fell back with a groan. Maude went to it and saw it was a woman? or rfither a heap-of bones, over which was tightly drawn the thinest and sallowest skin, the whole covered with rags and filth. "Mrs. Smith," called Maude, "Come here." At last, that worthy did come. "Laws a mas^V!" she exclaimed, "If it aiiiXthat poor creature that's been guistering about here ever since last fall. I remember the first time I ever seed her; it was justabout the time Mr. Arrowly went away." "Hush I" Maude had become exceedingly pale, and was trembling violently. The miserable creature on the ground seemed to have caught the meaning of Mrs. Smith's last words; for she looked up quickly as"*Mr. Arrowly's name was pronounced. There was no need that she should recognize Philip Arrowly's name. Maude knew her, without that. That phantom face?could she ever forget it? Was it not more baleful than that of Medusa ? Had it not come and looked on her beautiful happiness?and did it not perish at once, and forever ? She was aroused by Mrs. Smith asking: "What shall we do with her, Miss Maude 1 Seems hard to leave her out here; and there's no room in the house." "We must awake Mr. Hardin and gel him to carry her to my father's house. I will go with him to attend her. Mrs. Hardin is doing very well; you can wake up one of the children to sit with you until Mr. Hardin's return." "Miss Maude, you ain't goin' to take that poor creetur up to your pa's house, is yon ?" "Yes." "You better not, child; you don't know what conflagious disease she mout have. You better not, Miss Maude. Your pa's not well any I how. I wouldn't" "Mrs. Smith, you are a Christian woman, | and you read your Bible. Did you ever Bee j these words there?'Inasmuch as ye did it not j to one of the least of these, ye did it not to j me?" "Law, Miss Maude, tnat aon t mean uitxy, old creeturs, like her." "Yea; it means God's people, everywhere? and we are all His people. She, and you and I are, I hope, His little ones." "You is," said Mrs. Smith, with genuine admiration and bad grammar, equally mixed ; "but as for her and roe?I don't know." Mr. Hardin was at last awakened, and made to understand what was desired of hinf. He regarded that dirty mass of humanity, with evident disgust, and at last confided to Maude that she looked "powerful jubous," but for very shame he could not refuse to carry her, when Maude had been in his wretched hovel, sitting up, night after night, with his sick family. He took that repulsive wreck of a once beautiful womanhood, in his stalwart arras, and bore her to the old stone mansion, j while Maude walked on before, bearing the' light She went around and tapped softly at the window, where Rhoda slept, so as not to disturb her father. At last Rhoda was aroused, and opening the door, stood staring at the party. As her eye fell on Mr. Hardin's burden, the last trace of sleep forsook her eye lids, and she started into frightened alacrity. "Gor A'mky! Miss Maude, you ain't a . .V_s .L-i I? Lw?? gwine 10 unug luai ojfuun. iu ucic i "Yea. Go and prepare the room next to mine. Mr. Hardin will take her in there; then wake up Alf; he must go for Dr. Winters." Rhoda stood looking at her young mistress as if she thought her "clean daft." At last, she ejaculated softly?"W-e-c-ell!" "Whatis it Rhoda?" asktd Maude. "What is you gwine to do next Missy ? You keen gwine round settin up with them sick, poor buckras, till you look like a skelikin?and now," with tremendous emphasis, "you gone and tuck up dead folks, and bring dem in here?bring 'era in old massa's house, too 1" "She is neither a dead woman, nor a ghost," said Maude, "but a poor creature who is very ill, and we must nurse her and take care of her until she gets well." "Hi! Missy, I ain't gwine near her. I'm skeered of her now. Jist look at her big eyes!" i "Hush, Rhoda. You must <Jo I bid you." "I tell you, Missy, I ain't gwine about her. If she ain't a spook, she came from 'tother piace, and I'm feared of her. No, I 'clare to goodness, I won't go near her; if you send me to the plantation, I'll have to go, but I won't go 'bout that onnateral creetur?thar." That was Rhoda's defiance. But when Maude, with the assistance of some of the older negroes, had changed the filthy rags of Mrs. Arrowly (for it was she) for clean and comfortable garments, and surrounded her with the luxurious appointments of a hand - ? olio man an innnti imnrnuwl ill C5ULLIC uliamuci) ouw n?o dv muvu v . wv.; appearance, that Rhoda condescended to reverse her decision, to that degree she would rather assist Missy than go to the plantation and let some one else come in her place. Mrs. Arrowly had, indeed, been improved by her surroundings, but she was still a shocking object to contemplate. Nothing human could look worse and live. She had not spoken once, and she lay now without motion or sound, save her quick, irregular breathing. Maucje sat by her side, holding her hand and trying to count her weak, fluttering pulses. She thought the woman was dying. Who shall say what thoughts went singing madly through Maude's brain when she looked on that feeble life, and knew that it, alone, stood between her and happiness?between her and Philip; for that name, meant something more than happiness to her. And this life was so broken, so utterly wrecked, death would be a mercy?a blessing?an expiation for all the _ misery which had hung upon it. Amidst all these turbulent thoughts, Maude remembered a picture which she had seen in school days, when she was a happy girl. This pioture represented the three weird sisters, who spin out human lives. Oh f did not that one, who stood ready to clip the brittle thread, know that this life had gone far beyond its appointed mission ? Why did she not stretch out her withered hand and cut it short? "Oh! I am so miserable?so miserable," moaned Maude. "Am I tempted of heaven or hell?" "God tempts no man." The answer came to her soul, with the distinctness of human utterance; and she started up with guilty trepidation, putting aside, with a resolute will all evil desires, and beautiful possibilities. Would "the doctor never come? The gray dawn was breaking, and still he came not Maude prayed with more fervency that he might not be too late, than she had ever supplicated the Almighty Maker to remove this woman out of her path. The doctor came in at length. "Good morning, Miss Maude. What's this I hear ? Alf says you have a very extraordinary patient here for me?either a ghost or next kin to it What is it, child, you have for me to look at? Not a ghost, surely? I think all of that genus had enough of my medicines before they left here." "This is a stranger, and not receiving her share, while in the flesh, has come back to allow you to correct so grave an error." "No, child, a grave oversight of that kind cannot be corrected. But where is this apparition ?" ^ i i .1 .t Tin mantle iea tne way to tne room, vy nea the doctor saw his patient, his face assumed all its professional gravity. Her case was critical in the extreme. Want and exposure, i super-added to her previous condition, had brought her very near the grave. 1 "Had you not found her, when you did, i she would not have lived till now," said he; "as it is, she will have a hard race for her ; life. I am afraid she will lose it; however, we will do what we can. Who is going to ' nurse her? "I am." . j j The doctor tore off his spectacles to look at; her. "You mentioned a young lady as turn-; ing nurse; you were not meaning Maude Alleyn ?" "Meaning Maude Alleyn." "Why, child, you look like a love-sick milk maid, now. What, with tramping from the quarter to the cottages, and sitting up about eight nights out of the week, you are worn to * * a *WT1 -4f_ I a shadow aireaay. yy nave come over jruu, child? You are no more like the little jade, who used to turn every masculine head in the neighborhood, than chalk is like cheese." "Have I grown to be a fright?" She tried to ask it lightly, while she felt the tears rising into her eyes, as the doctor thus mercilessly raked among the dead ashes of her hopes. Truly she was changed. What an earnest, working woman she was now. She had to work. The moment she sat down and folded her hands, her heart cried out in its lonely agony. She must do something. She must constantly be doing. She had to go where the complainings of others shut out from her ears the wailing of her own soul. "Are you a fright ?" said the doctor, having steadily regarded her for a full minute. "No, not exactly. Red roses are not always most beautiful. I suppose, if you don't kill yourself outright, some foolish fellow will be glad to take you yet. Indeed, I'm not certain but I'll take you myself, if its only to keep you from conjuring my practice out of my hands. You have reduced it about one-third within the last few months, and I can't stand that. I'll have to form a partnership with you, in4' self defence, or prosecute you for practising without a license. Take your choice,-yOU audacious innovator?or innovatress, which is it? Shall it be the altar or the halter?" "I believe I'll stand the prosecution." "Don't think because I am old and ugly, and you are young and beautifhl?ahem!?I mean not quite a fright, that a judge and jury won't condemn you. Why, child, they would rush into it, as people rush under the shower bath, for the good of the constitution. What will become of the doctors, if you are allowed to go on in your nefarious practices ?" "I will not interfere with them?they can practise on each other." The doctor made a wry face. "As if they would take each other's pills andpotions? Catch them at it-! But, seriously, Miss Maude, you must not nurse that poor creature; she has a strange look about her. I think she is a lunatic or has been ; she is helpless enough now, and likely to continue so; but you must not be exposed to any possible mischance. You had better let old Martha come up from the quarter." No, Maude would nurse her. Martha might come and help; but she would take sole charge. How many days and nights did she sit ^here whije life ebbed and flowed in its narrow channel. At last the crisis came, i "If she live through the night," said Dr. Winters, she will probably recover. She must have this medicine precisely at twelve to-night, or she cannot stand it till morning." The doctor had done what he could; he went off to bed, feeling that her life had pass-J * 1 J_ xr-i ,. eu iruiu ins imuus, nnu wai ui nci maa^i. Human skill could do nothing more, but watch and wait Maude sat by the bed fighting her old battles over. Oh! why would the Tempter not leave her in. peace ? She tried so hard to shut him out from her heart, but he would get to it and whisper?withhold that draught, but one hour, and you and Philip may be happy! She started in feverish haste and looked at her watch. She wanted the hour come and gone?the fiend tormented her so! "Five minutes to eleven!" How long the night was, and how importunate was the fiend that whispered at her heart She sat with her head bowed down, struggling with the fiercest passions of the human soul. A clock in a distant part of the house rung out the hour. It struck twice?and stopped! Terrified, Maude tore out her watch. Five minutes to eleven! It had stopped. Trembling all over, she poured out the medicine, "wondering, humbly, if murderers felt as she did then. She administered the draught, and sat down in a quiet, despairing way. The contest was over now. She felt that the evil had triumphed against her will. It does seem that we, like Job, are sometimes given up to Satan, that he may do with us as he likes. Maude sat motionless by the bed until the morning dawned, and Dr. Winters came in x l:I ?x: x iu aet! uib paueuu He looked at her, felt her pulse, looked again and considered. It seemed an age to Maude before he spoke. "Yes," he said, decidedly. "She is better. She will live." Maude did not speak; she drew in one long breath of relief and thankfulness, and then the poor white face lay back among the'purple cushions without life or color. "Just as I expected," muttered Dr. Winters ; "she'll kill herself yet." He took her up in his arms, and carried her to her own room, and put her in the bed. It was'long before she came out again. [to be continued next week.] [Copies of tbe Enqdiiir containing the previous chapters of this Story can be furnished to new subscriber*.] Too Deep by Half.?People who have secret motives for everything, ascribe the same to other people, and in doing so are often tripped up by the very simplicity they neither can understand nor cope with. Manceuverers are a detestable species; and it is curious, as well as edifying to see them thus caught in traps of their own springing. A deputation of the Maine Legislature, on a visit to the Insane Ayslum at Augusta, while walking through the corridors, were greeted by one of the inmates, who was peering through the gratings of a cell door, with, "Well, I declare, if here ain't the animals from Noah's Ark I" JfiF'MDdical men have discovered a new remedy for intoxication. It is nothing more than raw potatoes, cut up into slices, and eaten without salt An ordinary "murphy," it is said, will cure the most obstinate case in half an hour. . ? ? Important to Smokers.?There are said to be eleven thousand factories in the United States for the manufacture of "pure Havana cigars," and they make lots of them. IpSttUatteflttS Rafting. THE MERIDIAN TRAGEDY. The Meridian (Mississippi) Gazette of Tuesday, March 7, gives the following details of the violent scenes at that place heretofore noticed: TURBULENCE ANJ> ARSON. Saturday afternoon Billy Clopton had his thin brigade of negro militia in. arms and paraded the streets as usual. Billy was extremely abusive toward the close of the militia exercises, and declared that with one hundred men be could annihilate athousand white men?that the whites were afraid of the negroes and he would have his way in Meridian. He was not interfered with or molested. When Am ko/iVn /?nf that name scoundrel was U40 iliO Lsivsnv yuvj *M??? ? on hand, thanking God the rebels' property * was burning, and praying that the flames would consume every building in the city. He drew a pistol on a man who remonstrated and would have killed him, but for the inter-"" ferenceof a friendly negro. While marching up the street in front of the fire with pistol in hand, cursing rebels and gloating over their misfortunes, he was suddenly and very unexpectedly knocked down, disarmed, and left to colored comrades, who carried him out of the crowd, when he beat a hasty retreat for home. About this time, while the fire was raging, and our citizens struggling to arrest it, and save a little of their property, the bell of the African church pealed forth the usual signal for the negroes to repair there. This was more than our people could stand, and a company was at once formed and marched to the residence of the sheriff, where a tender was made of the pom and a request made for the arrest of Billy Clopton. The sheriff sent his deputy, Mr. Belk, in charge of the posse and arrested Clopton and placed him under guard m the court' house. The turbulent threats of the negroes and their white allies called the citi* zeus together again Sunday afternoon and evening, wnenone nunurea mtui vwwmbww; to vindicate the majesty of the law and crush lawlessness, no matter whence it might oome. The town was well polieed on Sunday night and a guard kept overClopton, to see that he was neither rescued nor molested. The negroes did not carry out their threats; the firefiend no longer darted athwart the sky, apd the constant and promiscuous shooting, which has alarmed women and children for months, ceased. One squad of armed negroes was dispersed and sent home, and the night passed in moonshine, balm and peace. Yesterday morning there was an immense mass meeting at the court bouse to devise ways and means for keeping peace and giving repose to the community. The meeting was large and enthusiastic, the largest probably ever held in Meridian, over five hundred persons were present; all classes were represented there, and all climes; Northern and Southern men clasped hands in the deliberations. The speeches were pacific and pointed, and showed that the tybite people of Meridian have at last determined to check the mad and destructive career of the bad negroes and their white confederates. In the afternoon, the case of Billy Clopton, Aaron Moore and Warren T^rler came before Justice Bramlette. Captains Evans and Ford represented the State, and Mayor Sturges his black friends. Tho examination is not concluded at this time. The testimony shows that these negroes, in their meeting on Saturday, made "very inflammatory speeches. Warren Tyler, in stepping upon the rostrum, placed his pistol on the table.. Aaron reminded his hearers of the fate of Sodom aud Gomorrah, and spoke of what might be the fate of Meridian. Other ne groes spoke of the possibility of tbe town being reduced to ashes. That very night the hdhd of the incendiary reduced to ashes seventy-five thousand dollars' worth of property in Meridian. THE COURT HOUSE TRAGEDY. Meridian has been the scene of one of the most horrible tragedies that ever occurred in a civilized community. While the examination of the witnesses in the case of the State vs. William Clopton and other negroes,charged with riotous conduct on Saturday night at the time of the fire, was progressing, Mr* Brantley deposed as to some remarks Warren Tyler had made about the white people. He was interrupted in a very rude and angry manner by Tyler, who, it appears, was armed with two pistols, and who was oiie of the defendants in tbe case. Tyler stated that he would impeach Brantley's testimony, for which Brantjey raised a cane and advanced to within eight or ten feet of him. At this juncture General Patten, city marshal, caught Brantley and held him. While he was thus held Tyler drew a repeater and commenced firing at Brantley. At the first fire Judge Bramlette was shot through the head and instantly killed. The room was crowded with white and black, who were attending the trial, and as great excitement was prevailing, an indiscriminate firing commenced, in which William Clopton and a negro, named Gus.? Ford, were killed, and several persons, white and black, wounded. After firing several shots, Tyler jumped out of the window of the court-room, which was in the second stoiy of the Sheehan-building, and ran up Sydney street. As soon as it was known that he had killed Judge Bramlette, he was pursued, and, on refusing to surrender, was instantly killed. Tyler fired a number of shots at the parties in pursuit of him, and resisted his capture until the very last Judge Bramlette was a man universally loved and respected. He had been judge of probate, and was at the time of his death justice of the peace and a member of the board of aldermen. Clopton and Tyler were turbulent and disorderly negroes, who have been stirring up strife in this community for the last two years. Their greatest desire seemed to be to stir up enmity between the races and do all 1 the mischief in their power. A French physician, who has been studying the problem upon what diet human life can be most economically sustained, announces that a man may live for many months on an ounce and a quarter per day of the following mixture: ten parts of cocoa powder, ' 1 n ? * ? ?j *? i.. nve eacn 01 conee ana sugar, mm twu.v* im. ? t A fashionable but ignorant lady wanted a camel's hair shawl, but her husband bought a cheap imitation article. On examining it, she'found the name of the manufacturer on the corner and wanted to know what it was. "That," said the hushand, "is the name of the i camel of whose hair the shawl was made." o :'J&i 9%