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WATempkton ajn , * r ??^ lewis m. gbist, proprietor.! %n $nlrf]p}rtnt ^amilg fUfosjaptr 1 Jfcrr t|t |}nrmott(m of t|t political, Social, ^griralinral anb Cmmturtial Jjnttrtsfs af % ?rat|. ;* TEBMS?$3.00 A YEAR IK ADVANCE. VOL. I?! ~~ YORKV^LBr^^C^TTHIJBSDAY, JXJ^E 32, 1871. NO. 35. ? ?? JMi #?gra8l frfer ?targ.j Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. THE LOST DIAMOND. BY MBS. KENRY DEAS. . CHAPTER XI. When Ada informed Miss Marchmont, the next day, of her nocturnal, or rather matudinal ramble, the latter was unfeignedly surprised. "I have not done such a thing as walk in my sleep before, since I was a mere child," she said. "I used then to walk, talk, sing and perform other eccentricities with as much sangfroid as in my waking hours; but I imagined that fhad completely outlived this inconvenient habit." "Don't you recollect leaving the letter in j Linda's room, last night?" asked Ada. "Perfectly; and I was puzzled tcAnow how it got into my desk; for I did not recollect putting it there. It was a letter which gave rae considerable concern, as it was from my man of business in town, informing me of some unlucky speculation which had been made with some money of mine in his hands, and I had been thinking about it just before falling asleep, which was the cause, I suppose, of my rising and going in search of it." "And are you sure," enquired Audley Vivian, who was present, for part of us were at the breakfast table; "that this is the only time you have walked in your sleep for years?" "I cannot be sure, of course; but I am not j * i Q? _L_ I aware of anyotner instance. Are you i duo added, thinking she detected a slight lurking smile on his face. "Don't you remember any occasion when it is just possible you may have accomplished the same feat ? I do not know, of course, whether ray surmise is correct or not; but if it is, it would be a very satisfactory explanation of a certain mysterious occurrence which happened here not very long ago." Miss Marchment looked puzzled, reflected 1 a moment, theD as she glanced at me and f caught a smile I could not quite suppress, she' j exclaimed suddenly, "Why, the ring, of course 1 ray dear Fran- j ces: I have no doubt I was the unconscious agent in that matter. Why didn't you tell one you thought so before ?" "How could I think so ?" I rejoined. "I . never knew until last night, or rather this morning, that you were given to walking in your sleep." "Let me see," said Miss Marchmont. "How, could it all have happened ? Linda put the 1 ring, she thinks, in my drawer." 1 "Well, I have no doubt she did," said * i Audley. "Did she tell you it was there, before you went to bed ?" "She did, but I do not remember looking 1 there. No, I am sure I did not, for I know wheu it could not be found I thought it possible that she might have been mistaken." S "You were thinking of t.hft ring perhaps before you dropped asleep." -f"Very probably ; I was going over in my j mind the story I had told these girls in the i morning, of the cavalier and Anne Meredith? | don't you remember, Frances?" i "Perfectly," said I. | "Well, then, in your sleep the subject was ,1 A ? ? ? ? ^ ond it mi m\f un tn ! ' still present to jruur uiuu, <u*u -r look in the drawer for the ring. When y.ou I found it, I suppose you had a sort of convict-;? ion that it was not in the place where you usu-: 1 ally kept it" "Exactly; I always kept it in a box in my jewel case." "Well, so you took it out and strolled off in search of a better hiding place for it, but instead of taking out your jewel case in a ra- f tional manner and putting it up?" "The jewel case was not in my room," said Miss Marchmont; "I had carried it into the ' girls' room that day." "Only see, now, how well you reasoned in ! your sleep 1" said Audley. "You actually weht in search of your jewel case." j "But how could I get into their chamber? Edith locked the door." "I can explain that," said I. Edith came into my room, and into my bed, during the storm, and left the door consequently unfastened. She told me Linda was fast asleep." "So you doubtless walked quietly in, and mistaking Miss Gray's box for your own, popped the ring into that," said Audley. "It! was a very cool proceeding, I must say, Aunt Alice! However, there is very little doubt left in my mind that that muat have been the way in which it happened." All present seemed to agree on this point; and Miss Marchmont, as she rose from the j table, kissed me affectionately, saying: "I think I owe you an apology, my dear, fXr maVinor vniir boxes receDtacles of my jew ? J x - - . elry without your leave; I assure you I feel quite ashamed of myself. However, on the j whole, I am rather glad I was caught at a similar performance last night, as that has. given us the clue to the mystery, which I al- j most felt inclined to trace to the mischeivous ! agency of some sprite or fairy about the house. And now! I must go to Linda." Thus tfre matter of the ring was set at rest; j and I muit own, greatly to my relief; for al- j though m;y kind friends were all convinced ; that I kn<ew no more about it than they did, still it \pas a satisfaction to me that the puzzle ! was tlyhs explained, at least as clearly as it' couJl& be without actual proof. Linda was now gradually improving; her illuess had taken a favorable turn, and the 1 . doctors considered that all danger was past, I though she was so weak that it would probably be a long time before she could go about as usual. One day, about a week after my return to . Beeehcroft, I was sitting with her in her room. I None of the others were present just at that j time, and Linda, extending her hand to me, said, "Miss Gray, I want to say something to you while we are alone together." "Well, my dear?" said I. fek "I want to thank you for the kindness you have shown^me lately. I haven't deserved V tt^mnrilie tears rose to her eyes. m "Now, Linda, you must not excite yourself," said I, gently. "Do not speak of it; let us talk of something else." "No, but I must tell you how sorry i am for all that happened. I am afraid you can never forgive me." "I forgave you long ago, ray dear; I thought you disliked me, and that perhaps that was the reason you had 9uch ideas, but I assure you I did not cherish any ill-will against you." "I was bad and foolish enough to dislil you, Miss Gray; but I love you dearly enoug now?if you will let me love you ?" she adde< humbly. I kissed her, and our reconciliation wi complete. "When are you to be married ?" she coi tinned, presently. I told her that my wedding day had bee fixed for the 29th, but that I was not sur now but that it would be expedient to pos pone it In fact I had been talking to Gei aid about it, and though he had* appeare considerably put out at first, and had pishe and pshawed at my reasons, I had succeede in convincing him that it really would be ad visable to delay it; in fact I did not see h<n we could act otherwise. I could not be mai ried at Beechcroft under the present circuit stances, and I certainly was not inclined to g back to Bentonville to have the ceremony pei formed there. Mrs. Vivian was at presen laid up from the fatigue of nursing; and did not wish to desert all. of them until Lin da's recovery was complete. And, to cap th climax, my wedding dress was not ready. "I am so sorry I have been the cause o putting it off," said Linda, regretfully. " am afraid Colonel Vavasour won't forgive me but I would rather have you wait until I an better, and we can have a home-wedding." I did not tell her, of course, that Geral< had wickedly anathematized her (as soon a he found sh? was convalescent) as a horribl; disagreeable young person who was alway making mischief and putting everything out I knew he had cause to dislike her, but I wa resolved that when everything had got bad into proper order again, they should b friends. "You know, my dear," Mrs. Vivian said t< me one day (I was no longer "Miss Gray" fo: the elders of the household) I told you lonj ago, that you must not trouble yourself abou the arrangements for your wedding. Yoi and Gerald must fix on another day, and i will be my pleasure to see that everything goes off in a suitable manner." So it was finally settled for the last of Sep tember; only a month later than we had a' Rrat.intAndpdAftp.rftll. "Delays are dangerous," says the proverb but it did not seem to me now that there wai iny risk in this delay. In a short time mor< my own preparations were accomplished; Mrs Vivian was restored to her usual health, and Linda's recovery was assured. One evening Gerald came to me with a troubled face. "Frances, I have received bad news," he ?id as he sat down. "Read that," and he placed in my hand an open letter. It was lated New York, and contained the informa;ion that his only brother was dangerously ill, md an urgent request that he would come on jo him without delay. "What shall I do ?" he asked. I felt my face grow pale at the question, >ut my faltering lips could frame but one anwer?"go, of course." Tmust hut is coir jxmxxktszB ttv b?t JgtWj txI tgain ? It is very hard, isn't it f It was now the middle of the month. I reninded him that perhaps, after all, his brother vould recover in time for him to return before ;he appointed day. "And if not, Gerald," I idded, "we must bear this delay as we have lone the last." "So be it," he replied. I am afraid, in oui selfishness, we thought more of our own disappointment than of the cause of the separation, On the 17th, Gerald bid me good-bye. We x>th spoke words of hope, and anticipation o1 i speedy re-union; but iny heart was verj ieavy as I watched him depart, and a vague foreboding of coming evil appeared to over ihadow me. "Don't look so sad, Miss Gray," said mj little sunbeam, Edith, stealing up behind me is I stood at a window, and putting her arrr caressingly around me. "Depend upon it, ir i few days you will get a letter saying that hie brother is much better, and naming a day foi bis return." "I hope so, Edith," I answered, tnrninf round and trying to smile. And in a little while, I had reasoned myself into hopeful ess again; for I was not given to desponc except under very discouragingcircumstances The cool weather had set in earlier than usu al and we had a series of delightful days, clear balmy and not too warm for morning walks Charles Forester had left us for a little while to prepare his city home to receive his little wife, so I had Edith's society all to myself except when Linda, a little fretful in her con valescence, exacted more of her fime than wai quite reasonable. She was now nearly well but unfortunately her cheerfulness did not in crease with her returning strength, and sh< was often silent and moody as of yore. I has never been able quite to understand her dis position, and it was impossible to love an< admire her as I did her warm-hearted, impul sive, affectionate sister. I was very glad, how ever, that the misunderstanding between u had been cleared away, and that cordiality and harmony were restored. In fhet ve wen better friends than we had ever been since my entrance into the family. Gerald wrote to me on his arrival in Nev York. He found his brother in a critical state and feared it would be some time before h< could leave him, even if he should recover The letter contained but a few hurried lines for he said his constant attendance on the in valid was required, and he had no time for i longer epistle. He promised to write, how ever, as often as he possibly .could, and begge< me to do the same. I now foresaw that ou separation would probably be a longer on than we had at first anticipated; but I school ed myself to bear it patiently, trusting every thing would come right in the end. We were a little diverted at another son MiaaUfnmhmnnt'R. for. fl uauiuuiiDiii; icai vi 7 ?, Frank said, "she had got into the way c walking at night and couldn't get out of i again." She had been engaged one day i the manufacture of a large cake, from a ne* recipe she had obtained ; for she prided hei self on her skill in such matters, and often a sisted the housekeeper in her preparation The occasion for which the cake wasjlesii?? was Ada's birthda^-?ni"~wt5SrTT was finishe Tt looked so tempting that Frank suggeste trying a little piece of it then, instead of wai ing until to-morrow; to this, however, h aunt objected, and the cake was put away o a shelf in a closet in the pantry. The nei I morning, to the astonishment of every one, had disappeared. Search was made in evei direction for it, but in vain; until it last Mi Marchmont, in going to a closet in her ow ce ' room, found it comfortably deposited there on i ;h j the floor, and carefully covered over with a f 3, j towel?she having, doubtless, removed it there c ' in the night Of course every one had a j is laugh at her expense, and Frank insisted on i 1 examining it to see whether, in her sleep, she e j-1 had not nibbled a bit off the edge; but his 1 ; aunt, though she joined in the laugh, was a r n little provoked, and declared that in future t e she believed she would get somebody to lock a t- her chamber door outside every night, and b r- keep the key until morning, so as to preclude T d the possibility of her stalking about the house 1' d in that absurd way. We suggested that it e d would answer as well for her to lock the door 1- herself and hide the key, but she said she was \ n syre she would find it, and let herself out if v r-! she felt inclined to do so. e i- j At the end of the month, Charlie returned p 0 j for the purpose of carrying Edith off! She r -: had counted on being present at my wedding, f 11 but as that was again indefinitely postponed ii 1 j it was no use for her to wait any longer. She q i-! Wanted Linda to acoompany them, thinking 11 e the change would be beneficial to her; but,phe j * ! refused, saying that at present she did not feel ! I f inclined to leave home. The young couple a I accordingly departed, leaving once more a u ; blank in the family circle. Ada and her husa band also went off to pay a visit to her par-1 ents, so that our circle was quite reduced. | I By way of passing the time, I had requested , g to be allowed again to superintend the chil- u y dren's lessons, for they had not yet got anoth- gj s er governess; and with this and various other n I employments, I managed to get through the 0 s weary days. Gerald wrote frequently. For r( j! sometime his letters gave no account of his f e | brother's improvement; but at last came the fi j announcement that he was better, and that k 3! the physicians prescribed change of air and r! scene?had, in fact, declared that it was re- p ,! quisite, and a tour to the lakes was in con- gj t j templation. f( I : "And now, my own Frances," Gerald wrote, c] t' "I leave the question in your hands. Shall I jr , j accompany him, or come home ? It is but '! just to admit to you that under different cir- ^ . | cumstances I would consider ray duty too a( II plain for an instant's hesitation in regard to it; jt ' his health is still wretched, and I should feel j anxious at leaving him to hired care, or even i C( 5: that of his friends ; on the other hand, he in-! jj > | sists that he is well enough to dispense with ! 0] , | my services, and that I ought not any longer | I to remain away from you. I do not think, as | far as human foresight can go, that his ulti- tc . mate recovery is otherwise than certain (or ' nearly so) but he is still weak and compara- ]e , tively helpless, and certainly could not take ; ( care of himself amid the inconveniences of I p, . traveling. , w "My heart is aching to see you; 1 long for 1 m your presence to cheer me after the sad and q anxious time I have lately endured. Counsel' w, me, for I feel too weak to decide for myself, I jj, ! and I know I can trust to your decision." j "Oh! what sorrowful tears I shed in secret S< over that letter! It did seem as if everything i hfe come in our way?this brOtner?j list "as all1; yC other difficulties had been overcome? How- \ ever, there was but one answer for me to give se him?and I gave it, though with an inward pang of bitterness and regret. I bid him go, j-4{ as it was his duty to do so, and to let no thoughts of me influence him to return sooner thanhis conscience fully permitted him to do. jg] He wrote next to tell me of their expected de-; parture on an appointed day near at hand,; | adding that they would probably return about! pr the end of October, when he would bring his j w brother home with him and keep him for a i ^ time at Elmwood, that he might fully recruit ^ in his Southern home. j Sl] "Nobody wants him there, I am sure," I! 0f thought discontentedly, for in my present not | a, very cheerful frame of mind, I did not enjoy j se t' the prospect of the presence of this intrusive { invalid in Gerald's home?my home as it f0 i would then be. j h, r "A letter for you, Miss Frances," said Lucy j y one evening when the mail had coipe in; "but I 8C r not from Colonel Vavasour." I r? ' I had so few correspondents that I wonder- i ed, as I took it, who it could possibly be from, i g, I It was directed in an odd-looking cramped ! ^j band, quite unfamiliar to me, but post-marked i d, Bentonville, I opened it, and glancing nastily at the bottom of the page, saw to my sur' prise the signature, "George Gray." [ The letter was as follows: w ' "My Niece, Frances: I have lately returned ' , from Canada, and have been for some time in w ' search of you. "I was quite ignorant, until my return, of , i the decease of your father, my late brother, , I Albert Gray. J learned it on makiug inqui. | ries among persons whom J thought likely to hi a i be able to give me information concerning di him. I have cause to feel somewhat the neg- jj, lect of which you have been guilty in never ' writing to tell me of this event; at least, as I 1 never received any communication from you - to that effect, I presume it was not sent. On e? . this point, however, it is not my object to dwell b s bere. tl i "I have discovered your present address, ^ 7 j with considerable difficulty, and now write to B! request that yon will come to this place as J f Hoon as you can arrange to do so, as 1 am de- i P sirous of having an interview with you, and I w v the gout (an infirmity I am subject to) at j a: ; present renders me unable to move. You will ; ' board at the same hotel at which I am stay- J e ing, of course at my expense. I should like i P ' much to become acquainted with you. I i,; "I learnt with pain that you had for some " i-1 years been reduced to the necessity of earning j, j your livelihood as a governess, I was not: y r. | aware tbatmy brothers circumstances, at the j ^ , | time of his death, were so bad. ! "My hand is weak, and I am unable to write , r I a longer letter; but I trust soon to see you, j. e and have the satisfaction of saying, in person, j11 I-1 many things I cannot communicate to you on j n -1 paper. I do not know whether you are at j | present engaged in teaching or not; but in J b ! any case, you will not find it to your disaal* | vantage to comply with my request. Write 13 i "and let me know what day to expect you, and , >f; I will go (or send) to meet you at the station, it; "I remain, ray dear niece, n "Your affectionate uncle, ii (v "GEORGE GRAY." j r.! In a postscript he added his address, which j <3 3. i was the best hotel of which Benton fcilh>-e<roitt~'~T 8, j boast. ? | <3 ?f-warcbmpletely astounded, and not par-; t d ! ticularly gratified, by the receipt of this let- j j? d ! ter. My first impulse was to leave it unan- f t. swered. I had always cherished a vague dis- a {g ! like of this unknown relative, and I wished a |Q i heartily that he had remained in Canada, or j wherever else he had been, rather than have \ it taken it into his head to come in search of ub. \ j However, my friends at Beechcroft all de- i as cided that I had no alternative but to answer t n the letter; and if I answered it at all, I did 3 I lot see what reasonable excuse I could*gtV?or refusing to grant his request that I would some to see him, when only a twelve hours' ourney lay between us. I accordingly wrote, nentioning a day when he might expect me; md, as in my present morbid state of mind, a ittle excitement was just what I needed, I do tot know that the prospect of the change and he introduction to this strange uncle, whfthad is suddenly sprung up as a jack-in-the-'fWlefore me, was otherwise than a salutary one.j Phe Vivians promised to forward to me any j etters that might arrive, and on the appoint- j d day I set out. - ? ? My journey on the cars wr accomplished rithout any incident, and at the usual inconenient hour of four in the morning, I found ayself at the Bentonville station. I was expected, for the driver of a neat looking car- j iage, entering the car as it stopped, enquired I or Miss Frances Gray, and on myself bbing \ odicated to him as the individual he waa'io j [uest of, he assisted me and my luggage to ! he said conveyance, and in a lewmffiiJres^F ras deposited at the door of the hotel.5! 1 :_x_ i.i 1? ?j ?* ,1 : WU8 BI1UWI1 lliiu LUC jmuui, (U1U oat uuvru w : wait, in some trepidation, the entrance of my ! nknown relation. ? , CHAPTER XII. I had not waited long before a little dried- ( p looking old man entered, hobbling on a tick. He came up to me, as I arose from, ly seat, uncertain whether he was my uncle r not, and extending his hand, said in an abjpt, but not unkindly tone, "Is this Miss 'ranees Gray ?" and as I answered in the afrmative, he added, "Will you allow me to issyou, my dear?" Not without reluctance, I submitted to the roffered embrace. He then invited me to t down by him on the sofa, and continued j >r some moment to scrutinize me with ju_ [oseness which I found somewhat embarrass- j 'g"Well, well," he ejaculated at length, "to 1 link of our meeting each other in this way, | ctually as strangers! It does seem odd^^CCLk not ?" I answered with some spirit, that I did not insider it odd, seeing that we had always ' ved apart, and that he had never written to btain any news of either my father or myself. "Softly, softly, my good niece?" said the ' jeer little man. "Who says I never wrote ! i your father ?" "I do not recollect his ever receiving any j1 tters from you, sir," I replied. i1 "The last letter I wrote," said the old man, i it+inr* flio undo nf Kio finnrorfl f/icrflllldp nnfl ] UUW *-?A U<? UUgV?W KVgv.uv. MMM | isuming a meditative expression, "was, let i e see?the fifteenth?yes, the fifteenth of '1 ctober, 18?, not quite six years ago. It!' as the third I had written in the course of ^ at year; and to not one of those three letrs, my dear, did I ever receive an answer. ) then I left off writing." . ^ "I don't think my father ever got them*" I! i joined. "He did not Bpeak of them to >u may not be aware, certain differences be- L reen your poor father and myself before wa4 parated. He cherished considerable animoej in his feelings toward me, and I attributed j s silepce to a desire (hat communication hereen us should cease." . "I don't think my father was one to cher(1 animosity," said I. I was beginning to ^ s!ike my uncle excessively. "Well, well! perhaps his feelings were softled ; I hope they were," he rejoined. "He * as ray junior by several years, and imagined ( iat I showed an inclination always to die? -j ,te to him. I didn't do it, my dear; I as- ( ire you I did not. I was always very fond . him?very; but our ways were different, J id it was for that reason that we. agreed to ( parate." "My father saw a good deal of trouble be- . re his death," I went on. I imagined some- ' iw that he had been the oause of this trou- j le, or that at any rate he might have done^ raething towards aljeyiating it, and for that j iason I spoke of it to him. "Ah! so I heard lately. It grieved me?it |. rieved me bitterly, my dear; on my soul it Lj id. And you never wrote to tell me of his sath." "I did not know your address, sir." "Humph ! I see my poor brother kept you i i complete ignorance concerning me. It was rong in him, Frances; it was indeed." -> I was silent; I could not tell now mucn 01 hat he said might be really true, and how , ,r my father might'have been to blame, so I lought it prudent not to discuss the subject. My uncle continued for sometime to strokfc j is chjn in a cqqtemplative way; then, sud-j ] snly arousing himself from his abstraction,., a exclaimed in a cheerful tone, j "Well, well, niece, letby-gones beby-gones.1 ; is a sad thing to go over family difficulties, I. ipecially when they are all past. I came ack, Heaven knows, to seek nay brother, with le kindest possible feelings and intentions; , ut since, alas! it is too late for us to tneet i gain on this side of the grave, ut you in his place. Frances, my dear;11 ish to adopt you in future as my daughter, | od provide for you accordingly." I felt quite confused and astonished by this iece of intelligence, and hardly knew whethr gratitude or vexation were the uppermost I ?ling in my mind. I "I am sure, sir, I am very much obliged to {. ou for your kind intentions," I managed to ji eplyatlastj "but?I am already provided jr." ' ! "Already provided for!" he repeated in an i iquisitive tone. "Why, I thought you were-H laking your living by teaching." "So I have been doing, sir, until lately; ut I have now other prospects." "And may I ask what they are, pray ?" "I am going to be married," I answered, ilnaViinor. O" "Going to be married, eh ! and who is the adividual ?" Feeling a little indignant^t_jhiflL-JHOdfc-ot, lesignatjijgjna1--'^^ gave him r nelJesired information. He then went on to [ucstion me as to Gerald's whereabouts, the ime fixed for our marriage, etc., to which I eturned sjiort but explicit answers. He then ireserved a profound silence for some time, iter which he resumed, with a disappointed lir, "Well, my dear, I must own I would have >een better pleased if all this had been othervise ; however, it can't be helped. Of course, t will make a difference in ray arrangements, >ut that's neither here nor there. Meanwhile, ,'ou had better go up to your room and make -yourself comfortable?it's all ready for you. t The breakfast bell will ring at eight o'clock." j p He then rang for a waiter, and desired that1 2 I might be shown to No. 22. I was accord-1 ingly ushered to a comfortable chamber, and ; r there left to take a brief repose. I now passed some days at the hotel with ' d my uncle. He was very kind to me, and I be-! j gun gradually to like him in spite of his ec- [ -oeatricity, and of my.-former prejudice against j d him. He told me that it had been his inten- j tion to carry me with him to some Northern ; city, or. anywhere else I might prefer to go, e and there to purchase or rent a comfortable 1 house, and have me live alwajra with him. He had been married, but was now a widower; he had never had children, and had no one in j a i i l % i , ... / 1 a. T : ! tne wona, ne said 10 care ior now, uut me. x ; ij began to feel a little sorry for his disappoint-! p meaferpfor it evidently was a disappointment? j t though at the same time I felt that the pros-j peel of Jiving with him as his adopted child n jffildno t ha v e been as agreeable as the one It heard every two or three days from Ger- r aW. His brother, he wrote, continued to im- c prove rapidly, and he had little doubt that v by the end of the month, or the beginning of I November, he would be sufficiently recovered for them to return home. p I heard also from Beechcroft, where MiBS Marchmont and Blanche were my chief cor- e respondents. They wanted to know all about! my new-found relative, and how long he in- u tended to keep me with him; they were anx- j o ious to get me back. This was a question | * ^rhich I began also to revolve in my own g mind, for I had no desire to be absent from Beechcroft at the time of Gerald's return. I But one day, when I suggested to my uncle that I feared I must soon leave him, he seem- fe ed so surprised and hurt that I dropped the si subject, and did not recur to it again, think- n ing it best to wait quietly and let events take w tfiefr course. At last Gerald wrote to me their return was fixed for the 3d of November, w "And now, ray dearest, for our wedding- cl day," he continued, "for it is time to make a definite arrangement concerning that impor- j di AAnaainn What odv vaii t/\ t.hft 12th ? ! 88 ^ J J Ttfat allows for any little delay that may oc- j cur in our journey, and give you and me at1 B least a week over in which to send out invi-! ^ tations, etc., though for my part I would not j enjoy having tocWmuch fuss made about it? j in would you ? However, I suppose the Vivians ; sa will like a little festivity, and we must let! al them have their way. How I long for the i pi time to come," <fcc. Here followed a rhapsody j uj which it is not necessary to transmit to these ai pages. hi I thought it right to read part of this letter to my uncle, to let him see what our plans "1 were. He listened .attentively, and when 11 bad got through, said, ar "I don't understand the part about the is! Vivians wishing festivity, and so on. What ias that got to do with it?" vi I explained to him that General and Mrs. es j^viflpjftssksd thft T f,^n"1,7 ' 1 1? ^Sfarried at their house, indeed!" he echoed. : th 'I won't hear of anything of the kind. I am j yt juite rich enough to give you a proper wed- J ling here, and I think it most fit that I should 11 oe allowed to do so, considering that I am j hs pour qncle, aq4 tl}at they are not your rela- j tions at all." "They are very dear friends," I replied, "and th have been very kind to me indeed. Mrs. Viv- to ian even insisted on giving me my wedding w Iress." "Did she, indeed ? Well, all that was well bj apqqgb as Jong as yoq yyerestayipg there, and ! ki bad no other proteotors; but how, you must i e<] 3ee that the case is quite different. I think | v( pou ought Jo defer to my wishes, and if you | in don't I shall be quite mortified?though of j n< coure* I can't compel you against your will." j w; ^Scre was a coil! There was nothing left \ ui for me to do but to write to Mrs. Vivian, ex- j if plaining how I was situated, and entreating j fo her not to be offended if my uncle should in- j sfc term keeping roe with him. I represented w to hep his eccentricity, his age, and above all, ! st his kind intentions toward me, and his disap-j fit pointment at finding that he eould not carry m Ehein out; and begged her to write to me as i g( soon as she could, and advise me how to act. th I received in reply a very kind }efter, say- ac ing that it would disappoint them all not to tii have the pleasure they had promised them- w< selves in having the-ceremony performed at a Beechcroft, but that they agreed with me in ca thinking that it would be best to as do my wi (incle desired. j wi I then despatched a communication to Gergjd, informing him of the change of arrange- h( ments, for it seemed, from his silence on the G subject, that he had not received the letter in : or which I had told him about my uncle's arri-! w val." j fr It was now the 25th of October. In a week i in mose^r ten days at farthest, I could count on j op seeing Gerald. I had told him, in my letter, j that it would be best to appoint the 15th in- e\ Bteod-of the 12th of November, as that would sp i^jfcawider; margin for delays. * th ^^Bwseemhd to tread on air. Through my ea mina, like joyous music, rang forever the re- a fijii/V "He is coming home?he is coming la home 1" g] " ' ? ? ?- if L . : ,, My gooa uncie gave me carte otancne unvim gard to shopping, and although I assured him 1 it I was already supplied with all I needed, he pi insisted.on adding extensively to my store, | it* Eftfcry day nearly, he sent for a carriage and : er accompanied me to the different stores, where ! tli k& obliged me to purchase the moat expensive | articles. No less than five heavy winter silks,, "1 as one item, would satisfy him. He also made ! y< irrtTuhoose three bonnets, though I told him ' cc one would be all I needed. "It is good to i p< have a change," he remarked ; "when you af are tired of one you can wear another." Then tt the kid gloves, the lace handkerchiefs, the in dainty collars and cuffs of Cluny and Valen- pi ciennos! I had a real trousseau now; I had w ntver even dreamed of such an outfit. gi "Why, uncle." I said to him one day, "you .B'imhnlH'i me think 1 am ? <ja*>An." I "Tnt, child," was his answer, "it's little ol enough you will let me do for you ; and when It you are married, you know, there will be an hi |p?bf my.giving you things." i ts Finally he conducted me to a jeweller's. ! pi "What are we going here for?" I inquired, I di as the carriage stopped at the door. ai "You will see," he rejoined. oi When we entered the store he desired the li sbpman to show him some diamond sets, lc forthwith was produced aparure that dazzled 1) nty eyes with its brilliancy. tc :"Now look here," said my uncle, "I don't oi wiut any of your paste stuff. I don't profess o be a judge of these things myself, and peo>le are so cunning now-a-days they'd cheat old tfick himself with their inventions." The man assured him that these were dianonds of the finest quality. "How do you like them, Frances!?but lon'tbein a hurry; show us some mor&, will rou, sir ?" "Oh! uncle," I whispered, "surely you lon't mean to buy such costly things." "Will you have a little patience, ray dear?" The shopman produced two other sets; evrything of that description, he said, that he tad at present in his store. "Choose one," cooly said my uncle to me. I saw that resistance was vain. I hesitated .. ?J j.i? ?i?...... : > I LIU I Lit; Lit auu llltJU 3C1CULCU UUO, YYUIUU ill U1J gnorance, I thought would be the least extensive. I afterwards discovered that it was he costliest of the three. "Have you ^ watch?" said my uncle to me lext. "No, sir." -tv "Let us look at some watches," to the shopaan. "Not yourfiddle-faddle, Swiss enameled oncerns; some good English watches that nil keep time?those are the best, ain't they Frances ?" o "Yes, sir," I answered meekly, for I was ast remonstrating now. The shopman lifted out a tray containing very variety of English watches. "How would you like this, eh ?" said my ncle taking up an enormously thick, round ne. "It would be a nice little ornament, wouldn't it? and I'd warrant it would keep ood time." "It would be a little heavy, I'm afraid sir," answered smiling. //mi i ii L .11... T it-* L. * me neavier tne Deuer, i midk; you can ;el it in your pocket, and be sure no one has ;olen it from you. However, it might be ither cumbersome for a lady's belt. Here ; hat do you say to this?" The one indicated was a small double-cased atch, elegantly finished, with a beautiful liatelaine and trinkets attached. "I think it is beautiful, sir," I replied, ading faintly, "you know, uncle, I would be itisfied with anything." "Would you ? I wouldn't, by a great deal, [ere, you sir, put this up for me, will you ? / hat is the price ?" The man named the amount, and my uncle amediately wrote out a cheque for the whole, tying that he never carried much money aout with him, for fear of pickpockets. The recious packages were then carefully tied p, and my uncle, holding th$m in one hand id his stick in the other, hobbled with them mself to the carriage. "Oh! uncle," I exclaimed as we drove off, iow can I thank you enough ?" "By saying nothing atallaboqt it, child," he 1 lswered. "Pon't you suppose I take a child- i b pleasure in choosing those gew-gaws ?" "But they are not gew-gaws?they are real j iluables," I rejoined. "I am sure I never ipected to have a diamond set as loner as I EiUij, uuuiuin Jlf.?-what's his name-?? e man you are going to marry, give them to'1 ?u if you wanted them ?" "He would give me anything in the world, j wanted," I answered; "but it would not ive occurred to me to desire them." "Then, you don't care about them, eh ?" j "Oh 1 yes, sir, indeed I am delighted with ; em ; I only meant that I was so unaccusmed to such things that I would not venture en to think about them." I was really touched by his kindness, and j the real pleasure he seemed to find in m&ng mo these gifts. Bo had already expend1 several hundred dollars on my dress alone; rivet cloaks and handsome shawls seeming,, his estimation, to be mere trifles. I had >w so many fine clothes that the difficulty as to get half of them made in time, but my ' lcle insisted that they should be completed I had to employ a dozen dress-makers.. I und that by limiting the number to four I ood a tolerably fair chance of getting the ork done; and for days I was in a chronic ate of torture, being laced and pinned and ;ted until I could have groaned with weariss. It was amusing to see the interest the >od old gentleman took in the progress of ie work. Whenever it was in a sufficiently Ivanced stage to be submitted to his inspecDn he desired to have it shown to him, and ould examine and criticise it with the air of connoisseur. He invariably ended with a .ution to me not to have it made too tight, j hereat the official in attendance would smiie ith an air of good-natured superiority. At last the third of November came. My iart beat, as I recollected that on that day erald would probably arrive at Elmwood ; i the next, or perhaps the one following, he Quid come to Bentonville. I had not heard i om him recently, but I thought this was owg to his being on the road, and not having )portunity to write. I was up in my chamber before tea that rening, and, by way of pleasing my eyes, I: read out all my newly acquired finery about ie room, and threw myself lazily into an isy chair, whence I could inspect it What goodly show it made 1 Here across the bed ; y half a dozen silks, of various shades, | ossy and fresh in their uncrushed folds; I ere, a cashmere shawl drooped over a chair,j 3 rich fringe touching the floor; here was a : le of gossamer lace, dainty as a cobweb in i 3 texture; gloves, and ribbons, and embroid- j ies scattered in butterfly confusion among | lem, "Who would have thought," I reflected, hat the poor, hard-working governess of a ;ar ago, destitute of all but the common ue- \ - ^ 11 i i. asaries 01 me, wouia ds at mis wsmun iuo i jssessor of all these costly things ? And, j ter all, I don't value them half so much for j iemselv& as for the sake of uncle's kindness i giving them?and, still more, because it is leasant not to go destitute to the one who ill make it his pride and pleasure to lavish fts upon me when I fairly belong to him." So I thought, reader, honestly enough; yet believe in my inmost heart I was something r a Sjrbaiito I was born with a taste for j ixuries of every kind, though hitherto fate ! id denied me the possession of them. Cerlinly, at that instant, the sentence of the reacher, "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity," id not enter into my mind. I was heartily ad unaffectedly pleased at the contemplation : these my worldly goods; X would not wilngly have parted with any of them; I no mger thought them too numerous or too costr; in fact I was beginning to get accustomed > my good fortune, and to take it as a matter f course. I got up presently, when I had sated my ! eyes with my treasures, and commenced put- 0 . ting them away again.. One by one I folded i them carefully in their original crease, and replaced them in the drawers and on the shelves where they belonged. Then I looked at my bridal dress, hanging up in the ward- < robe?a heavy white silk, plain as I had re- j quested it might be; the veil, a fabric won- ' derfol in its combination of richness. and airi- 1 ness, lay in a box,*with its accompaniments 1 of wreath mid clasps, all sent to me the day 1 I previous by kind Mrs. Vivian. These, too, ' II inspected; then closed the box again and sat I down to think?to steep my mind in a deli- ? j cious revery. Two more days?only two J more, and Gerald wouM be here! I tried to picture to myself our meeting?beyond that t I did not care to look; the happiness of that f one anticipated moment was enough for me to 1 | dwell on. After that he would be mine?all' ' mine; we would ndVer be parted again, J j I trusted, in this world. I tried to fancy the ^ sound ot his nng at the bell,. tor which l i f would be listening?then his approach ing foot* i step on the stair. I could almost hear bis v deep voice murmur "my owh Frances 1" and J feel the clasp of his warm strong hand. The ^ dream was so vivid as I sat there in the gath- j. ering twilight that I could almost fancy it c ! real, and I started when the sound of the tea 1 bell, loudly clanging, rudely broke in upon it That night and the next day passed?|b- ], verishly, restlessly. Towards the evening I a began to thrill and flutter with the vague hope I that he might come then, by the day train? 11 j though the other was in every way more con- * I venient for 'the travellers who got in at a ; Thornby. Then a letter was brought to me b from Miss Marchmont?I tore it open, and h eagerly devoured its contents?not one word b about Gerald! Yes,>there almost at the end 0 | of the last page, I .caught sight of his name. 0 ; "We hope to see Colonel Vavasour early next g week." I glanced hurriedly at the date of n j the letter?it was a week old; I threw it down oi impatiently, since it had no tidings of him. ti Next morning came?still no Gerald. If 81 he had arrived at Elmwood two days before, ^ as he expected, he would surely have been I here by this time; but then something might j ! have occurred to delay them on their journey; | the very something we had looked forward to k. in allowing for unexpected detention, but which I was not in truth prepared to put up b with. There was still a chance that he might ? come in the evening. That day my uncle was unwell, suffering a] much pain in hfe gouty limb. He asked me h to be kind enough to read to him. I com-* a: plied, reluctantly enough. How could 1 fix my mind on a dry uninteresting book when & it was in such an excited state? I stumbled, hesitated and read so badly that the good old ^ man at last said, "Why, my dear, nobody ja would ever think you had been a school- ai marm?I hope you didn't teach your scholars pi to read in that style. I think you had better 10 put it aside for the present j ft]* ?i-w the*irnlmi - - i1 fl for evening tc^ come. If Gerald did not ar- m rive,purely I would receive a letter from him, su explaining the cause of the delay. I oould eat no dinner, for my feverish excitement had g actually brought on a headache, Strange jj that I should feel thus?J, the calm, self-con- ^ tained, almost unimpressible Frances Gray ! ae Five o'clock came?six; at half-past six the evening train was due. I went to my ^ room and dressed myself carefully in white? Gerald loved "white, and though it was No- yi vember, the weather was not cold. I donned pt a jaunty little scarlet merino jacket, and pot 10 a spray of ooral fuschias in my brooch; I sl< looked in the glass, and ibund that my dress cc had never been more becoming. I had a bril- ^ liaot color, and a color always made me look q well. I descended to my ante's private par- at lor, where we received our visitors; the old ? gentleman was in his own room, lying down, fr A ring at thd belli My heart leaped, J* though that bell was rung every half hour in ^ the day. I listened, and waited?it could be ^ no one concerning me. Presently a waiter ai knocked at the door? m "A gentleman to see Miss liray." "What name ?u J asked, trembling. JJ The man was a new importation, and very w stupid. th "He told me his name, Miss," he said: "but ^ I didn't rightly catoh it" , re "Show him up," I said. Of course it must to be Gerald, and his name being an uncommon bi one, had puzzled the waiter's plebian ears. ac Directly X heard approaching footsteps?a ^ manly tread, yet more deliberate than 1 had ^ fancied his would now be?I arose from my qq chair, and leaned on the back of it to steady 01 my trembling frame?my heart beat, almost to suffocation. The waiter threw open the J5J door?"Gerald I" almost rose to my lips, but the eager accents died away, and a cold chill jjjj of disappointment passed through me. ^ It was General Vivian. h? [to be continued next week.] co [Copies of the Ehquiu* containing the previous hapten of b] tins Story con be flinilshed to new subscriber*.] " A Jack SHEPPAED.^-St. Crispin never had ti< a more ingenions follower than James A. g& Hamilton, whose recent escape from a Penn- bi sylvania prison is the most marvelous rogue's uf work on record. Hamilton was an old prison re bird, and one of the most dangerous convicts yc in the Lancaster prison. Assigned to a soli* th -1?V*rt nrna ?a4 4-f\ tlTA*lr O4 wrjr liUU-UlBU UCU) UC WOO ovh yvr nU4a wv gv. shoemaking. Sometime ago, he complained vi that his bench was too low, and askea for a hi oouple of short pine planks to pat under the ca legs to raise it a few inches. For weeks he ta worked under these boards at night, cutting a gi hole through the floor, and in the daytime ia covered his tracks with the boards. Having or cut through the flooring, he reached solid ma- fe sonry, ana worked upon that with such sue- th cess that eventually enough was removed to az admit the passage of his body. Having clear- lfl ed the mason-work of a space a foot thick ed and about three feet broad, he attacked the wi solid prison wall from his narrow crevice under si] the floor, and although it was three feet thick ai he made a breach and passed safely through as and let himself down two stories dv a very O thin but exceedingly stout shoe-thread. Break- on ing into the wash house and carpenter shop, se he procured a ehanfe of dotfas and lumber- in to construct a ladder with which to pass over tr the jail-yard wall. This ladder is a model of of ingenuity. None of the lumber was stout enough to make the sides, so he lashed several I slender pieces together with bed cord, and tied te broken barrel staves across for rounds. With la this the prisoner found his -way to freedom. b< Early Sunday morning his flight was disoov- e\ ered. In his cell fully a cart-load of debris h< was found carefully stored under his bed, the y< slats of which were cut in half and boredat to regular intervals to make a ladder, which, tl however, he bad been unable to get through di the peculiarly shaped hole by which he had cl escaped.?New York Tribune, h< gpcdtattecus fkMing. GOVERNOR SCOTT'SWEulLTH. The New York Herald, of Monday last, jontains a long account of an* interview beween one of its reporters and Governor Scott, n New York. The bulk of the conversation elated to the Taxpayers' Convention and the iu-Klux. On these subjects oarreaders are dready familiar with the Governor's views. Fhe interview dosed as fellows: "Governor, I haveheard it stated that you ' ire a millionaire and have made an immense unount of money out of your position. Is hat so.?" . * \ lii answering mat yueauuu X mn ??/ una, hat I have never regarded It ae ^good policy or any man to make a public-declaration of lis poverty, as very frequently a large porion of a man's capital is his reputation as he possessor of wealth. Therefore, if I were 0 admit the fhct that I was a millionaire, it eould give me a much better standing than f I were to tell .the.single truth.. Thejact^^^^ s, when I entered the army my property^^^ vhich was in Ohio, consisted mostly of wild, uncultivated lands. The money I received rom various sources durine; the war was rom time to time so invested These lands lave since appreciated in value perhaps four >r five times, and are worth to-day over ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS. In addition, a portion of the town of Napoeon, Ohio, is built on my property, which is ,lso rapidly enhancing in price, besides afordiug me an income. This income I have avestea in South Carolina. In fact, before I ras nominated as Governor, I had invested 11 my surplosmeans, and borrowed addition1 money, which I invested in the stocks and onds of the State to the amount of nearly one undred thousand dollars, purchasing the onds at from twenty-seven to forty-two cents q the dollar. In 1807, I found myself the wner of perhaps one hundred and ten thousnd dollars worth of State stocks and bonds, ome of these bonds. were sold at advanced ites to return the loans on which I made the riginal purchase. Of course the appreciaofi under my administration has made a condor able increase in their value. Today, if ly property in South Carolina, real and per>nal, were sold at the best prevailing rate, I SHOULD HAVE, SAT $70,000. be stories of my immense wealth are simply. tbrications by those who have no means of nowing of what my possessions consist"' "To vonr knowledge has vour name ever een mentioned by the colored people %conection with the Presidency or Vice-Presiency?" "I don't know that I would be justified in aswering in the negative, but the suggestions &ve come from persons of no importance and re merely the result of personal feelings." "What are your views with reference to the nances of the State V "I regard them in as healthy a condition as ly State in the Union. Our debt is a mere igatelle?only eight millions and odd dol,rs. The tax-payers have pledged themselves lew to its redemption, tne taxes are being romptly met as soon as it falls due. I therere consider that unless.bad and vicious men imbine to destroy their own State, South fljltM "WW ii 'tout1 uUA" can ore fervently pray and work for that anamination than myself." Ulysses the Great at Long BnAScfl^- " is Cow.?A correspondent of the New York rorld writing from Long Branch to that pair concerning the movements of the Presisnt and his family says: "The Presidents cow, which he brought om Washington, is an object of a good deal interest I have had the honor of seeing sr, but have not had an opportunity of interewing her. However, I chance to be in issession of some fruits concerning her opinD8 on mattere in general. She is a small, aek animal, and is blooded, of course. Her ilor is significantly black, but she has a bite line over her back, and ber maternal isom also does honor to the Caucasian race. ? T DMHAII oil fllO /1A0Q u not nitiviu at jia/u^ juk?uvi% uu ?mv w ??m wot here paid'her* the greatest reject, ven now, as she passes alone the road to and om her pasture every night and morning, 1 the cows in the adjoining fields regard her ith envious respect The multitude of local )gs which woula-soon warrjr to death any oth1 unprotected kine ooming from abroad, skulk vay from this cow queen, and dare not so ucn as utter a growL None but the dainBst of flies are permitted to ride on her neck. lib. Cow is abont five years old, and has been arried three times. None of her offspring ioompany her on this trip. She is fond of e Jersey red clover, but dislikes the noise of e ocean. She is no bather. Having been ared in a rural district she has never learnt swim. Mr. Grant's cow would like to see m reflected, which is very natural. She Imires her owner's pluck, and his silence Inch insures her against being scolded. She ug8 to be milked by bis soft bands, and only ites him for giving so much attention to arse, vulgar hones. She does not believe le word of the Ku-Klux stories in the Tryme. Gen. Porter has a cow also, but she is >t allowed to associate with the President's, wing to her peculiar notions about family a tiers this cow cannot become a mother here July. She prefers not to be annoyed by lildren during the gay season, and makes ir calculations accordingly. She is an inrrigible flirt, or else the stories circulated r.her keeper greatly belie her." .. Keep Straight Ahead?Pay no atten>n to slanderers or gossip-mongers. Keep raight on in your course, and let their backtings die the death of negleci What is the le of lying awake at night, brooding .over the mark of some false friend, that runs through fur brain like forked lightning? What's e use of getting into a worry and fret over issip that has been set afloat to your disad- ' intage, by some meddlesome busybody, who is more time than character. These things n't possibly injure you, unless, indeed, yon ke notice of them, and in combatting them ve them character and standing. If what said about you is true, set yourself right at ice; if it is false, let it go for what it will tch. If a bee stings you, would you goto e hive and destroy it ? Would not a thousid come upon von? It is wisdom to say ;tle respecting tne injuries you have receiv- ' L We are generally losers, in the end, if 9 stop to refbte all the backbi tings and gosppings we may hear by the way. They are moving. it is true, but not dangerous so long t we do not stop to expostulate and Scold*, or characters are formed and sustained by trsebee, and by oar own actions apd purpose and not by others. Let us always bear llllml tlmSi ffn>lw'inlftifi ninjr tMiiftUy hq osted to time and the slow but steady justice * ' public opinion/' ^ 19^ Miss Delia Roberts, a Kentucky school acher, twenty-two years of age, bung herself st week because of her love for one of her >y pupils, a lad not yet fourteen. On the renrng before her death, she went to the boy's )use, and callin&him to the gate said"Ned, m will never see me again. When you crow > be a man and many, tell your wife about ie woman old enough to beyoUT mother, who ed on yonr account/* Tbtt? ayin&she asped the object of her 'stance >r bosom andl was never sefen alive