Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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lewis m. grist. proprietor. J |itfrt)pltttrf <famila ^ifosgager: jfgr % ^promotion of % facial, ^gritiiltoral anfr dtmnnmial frctosts gf % Soaijr. j terms?$3.00 a year, in advance. vol. it .yq"r"k"vttjtj"f]. s. o.,.. ti^^day. july 6. 1871. y ^ 37. Jtn #rigiaal frisr j^torg Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. THE LOST"DIAMOND. BY MRS. HENRY DEAS. CHAPTER XV. It was now the end of January. I wa glad the Christmas and New Year's festivitie were well over, although I was removed fron them. The very consciousness that they wen going on around me jarred on my spirits. I had seemed so hard that others could rejoic and be glad, while I was mourning and deso . late. The winter had been, so far, very cold, ant a season of snow and rain bad set in, whicl was anything but cheering. When I was i child, I had delighted in watching the snow To my fancy, then, nothing could be more fas einating than the sight of the pure feather] Rakes descending silently upon the earth, untl they covered k with a carpet of dazzling 4?rWfUO^V wno suuicwiiog U1 IVIMVA pressibly mournful and phantom-like. My uncle, too^could see no beauty in th< snow. He said it brought gout and all sorb of horrors to his mind. "And if it was my mind only, I would not care; but, uuluckily, ray body is the greatest sufferer. Oh ! my dear, I hope you will nevei experience such twinges as these. They art absolutely excruciating." He had been feeling more pain than usual in his limb lately, and soon such a serious attack came on that he was obliged to take refuge in bed?a proceeding which he extremely disliked. I now added to my other employments that of sick-nurse, and as my uncle was far from being a patient invalid, I found it a somewhat trying one. There are many people who are extremely good and amiable while in health, but lose their attributes?at least the latter one?entirely?when sickness comes. My uncle was the best natured of human beings, well; but illness spoiled his temper. It must be confessed that gout made him terribly cross. All day nearly I had to be at his bed-side, and though no one else would be permited to do anything for him, nothing that I did could satisfy him. "Rub my leg a little?gently, now; very gently," he would say. As cautiously as possible I would insert my hand Under the m flannel wraps, and scarcely had I touched him, when he would cry outthatl was killing him? had I no regard for his sufferings ? If I stopped, fearful of making another essay, he would ask what in the world I was good for if I couldn't even rub his ankle ? Then I would go timidly to work again, and perhaps this time the result would prove more successful. If I kept a large fire, he .declared that his room was hot to suffocation, and that he had ' blankets enough on him to keep him from freezing if hewas at the North Pole. When I let it go down, he asked me if I supposed that it gave him any satisfaction to reflect that suffering fron*cold, and begged me to ember that if I got kick he w&tuoiftave no one to aitend to him but the servants. When I brought him bis nourishment, the preparing of which I always carefully superintended, it was invariably wrong, and had to be made all over again. In fact I got scolded for every thing, and sometimes I would sit down and actually cry from sheer vexation and discouragement. The house-keeper offered to assist me in my nursing, but my uncle wouldn't hear of such a thing. "I want nobody but yourself," he said, "and if she pokes her long nose in my (joor I will fling the candlestick at her head." Of course, after this threat, no further suggestion of the kind was ever offered. * ^ n j xl_~ Atter a severe seige 01 some uays me eucwj slackened its forces, and the invalid began to rally a little from the attack. Of course his irritability decreased in proportion to his pain, and I once more had a little breathing space. He acknowledged to me one day that he knew he had been horribly cross, and had treated me shamefully. "Not at all, sir," I rejoined ; "I have no doubt your pain was very hard to bear." "Well, but that need not have made me so savage; I must have frightened you sometimes, I am afraid." "Not exactly, sir; I was only afraid that I % must be a very inefficient nurse." "Inefficient! you're a capital nurse, my dear; I never had a better. I hope I won't have to make such another trial of your skill and patience in a hurry. If this abominable weather would break up I have no doubt I would be tolerably well again. You look quite pale and worn, child; you have had too much confinement in this room. I won't have you shut yourself up any longer; if you do I will get up and come down stairs, and you can judge whether that would do me much good." I did feel very weary, and for one or two days after my release I spent my time chiefly in lying down to make up for my want of rest for some time past. One evening I was sitting alone in the parlor. The fire burned cheerfully on the hearth, but the wind was wailing mournfully without, and as I listened to its weird music a feeling of inexpressible sadness stole over me. The lamps were not yet lit; I loved to sit thus in the twilight and give audience to the fancies and recollections that would come trooping up, under the influence of the quiet hour, in my brain. I had been reading a strange, thrilling book that evening, treating of supernatural powers and mysterious spiritual agencies, and it had made a peculiar and not altogether comfortable impression upon me. I was not superstitious, and seldom gave way to such feelings ; but now, as I looked out of the window at the gathering darkness /ind listened to the sighing of the wintry wind, it seemed to mc as if the wail of lost souls might be borne upon its wings, and that disembodied spirit would surely hover around at such a time a.< this. All sorts of queer ideas iind recollections o wild visionary legends thronged into my mind and at last I arose to ring the bell and ordei lights in order to dispel these ghostly fancies Before I touched the bell-rope there was t ring at the street door, and I paused to giv< the footman time to answer it I was stand ing on the rug, gazing absently into the fire when footsteps came along .the passage an< the door was opened. "A visitor?how tiresome," was my thoughl and then I caught sight of a figure in th door-way. Suddenly, all the blood seemed to flow from * my heart, leaving it cold- and motionless as a = I stone. In the fire-light I saw a white, spec, tral face, with luminous dark' eyes gazing upj on me?changed, yet still the same?a face I could never forget The influence of the . thoughts in which I had been indulging rushed | upon me with fresh force. I believed I saw a i , wanderer from the spirit land, and, in feeble i s terror, I uttered a cry and sank powerlessj s down on the sofa near which I stood, i "Frances!" said a familiar voice?familiar, b yet weak and altered, as if from suffering? t "Frances, don't you know me V' and the fige ure came forward, holding out trembling and "GeraldT I ejaculated, faintly. "Oh! 1 Heavenly father, is it a dream ?" ? "No dream, Frances, my love?my own i darling! See, it is I?your own Gerald, re. stored to you at last. Have you no welcome for me ?" r I was strained to bis heart. His cheek, his 1 lips, touched mine. It was no spirit, but a ; j warm and living human being that held me^ ? - in his ulttspV 'It was Gerald cofhe tfafik?doe ' lost restored?the dead come to life again. 5 I could not yet take it all into my compre5 hension; it was too unexpected, too wonderf.,1 ka raoliviul T frmohpf} his hrow. his AUJL IV WV tvunuvui * ? t hair, his bands. I looked into his eyes to see ! t if I could read the well-remembered expres- j r sioffthere. I was afraid to believe the evi5 dence of my own senses. My mind was ut- 1 terly bewildered and confused. "Well!" he said, smilingly, after a moment ' or two ; "are you convinced at last?" "Gerald, I can't believe it. Talk to me; ? ' tell me how it has all happened. Has the sea ( " given up its prey, after holding it for more 1 ' than three long months in its depths ?" 1 "No, Frances; I never was its prey. A 1 merciful Providence rescued me from that ' ' fatal wreck." i ! I "And you never wrote?never told me all < i this long, long time, that I mourned you < ' dead?" 6 - "I have been, for many weeks, at the pointy I of death. Don't you see how changed I am ?"' I I looked again at his emaciated form, and J i pale, wasted features; I saw, too, what I had not before observed, a scar on his left temple, ' partly shaded by his hair. My over-strained j feelings gave way, and throwing myself again 1 on his breast, I wept hysterically. f "Be calm, my own love," he whispered in ' soothing tones." All is over now; our sepa- * ration, our suffering indeed. Now that we are restored to each other, Frances, there is no ' more cause for tears." ( I calmed myself presently, and then begged ' him to tell me the whole story. His escape had been almost miraculous. He had been picked up with three or four others after i floating for a day and a night on a spar; but 1 he himself was totally unconscious and to all I appearance dead. He had been fearfully wounded by the explosion of the boiler, which < had caused the instant death of many on board. He and his rescued companions were i conveyed to a small island wnere a iew rougn 11 ? fi?h(jripeo lived^nd in tfc* hntofjonf of!.i he was kept and tended during his long and dangerous illness, and almost excruciating sufferings. For days he was insensible, and i even when consciousness was restored to him, was too helpless for weeks to seek any means ] of communication with his friends. As soon s as he could manage to hold a pen he had writ- 1 ten a few lines to an acquaintance in New c York, who came for him and conveyed him to c that city; but the excitement and fatigue of the move threw him back and brought on a t second and almost equally dangerous fit of 1 illness. Again, however, his^vigorous cousti- \ tution re-acted, and after a hand-to-hand strug- t I gle with death, came off victorious. ^ "My convalescence, when once the real e danger was past, and my wounds nearly healed, was really rapid," he continued. "I wrote t to you twice, Frances, before I was strong f enough to be moved. I directed the letter to " the care of General Vivian, but they must have miscarried, for you 3ay you never re- c ceived them." 1 . "No?if I only had! And then you came i on?" c "I came on, and went, of course, to Elm- i wood, whence I sent a message to Beechcroffc I to inform them of my arrival. They were all c as much astounded as you were, having, like the rest of my friends, supposed me lost, g They took me home with them and nursed me there for a day or. two. I had expected to ' 8 find you there, and was dreadfully disappoint- j \ ed. As soon as I had rested from mf long I s journey I came immediately here, having ob-; tained your direction from Miss Marchraont." \ I was beginning to believe it all now. The i very recapitulation of all these particulars ; seemed to bring the event down to the level: 1 of mortal understanding. i r "But how was it you were left so long on j the island ?" I asked. "Could not the men j ^ who were saved with you give some informa- J ! tion about vou and have vou sent for ?" I c ! " * ? "Two of them went off again immediately, f leaving me .as they suppposed dead. The one t who remained, being then 'unable to move, c and who afterwards assisted in nursing me, c was a rough sailor who could neither read or 1 j write. My only wonder is that I did not die ! 1 ' in such inexperienced hands. This very sail-1 c or was the man who carried my note to the j i friend in New York who afterwards came for : 1 ! J) ' A me. ! t i "And you are ill yet, Gerald?weak and < 1 | ill ? Oh ! I fear you have exerted yourself too ' j soon." !' j "No, I am not ill now. I am still thin j < j enough, because I have had not time to re-; , wot "Rnt T will crpt alone fast enough ' < !wu,,r" -? - o o ? 0 ! now that I have you with me again." ! 1 ! And then we were silent for awhile?silent j j . I in the rush of exceeding bliss that filled our j ] , souls, and which could find no.vent in words. | < j1 We were brought back to' the common-! ; place realities of life by the entrapce of a ser- ,1 3; vant with lights, and a message that my uncle ; 3 had sent, desiring me to step up-stairs a mo-' raent. I ran up, treading on air. (i f j "Frances," began the invalid, and then j f catching the expression of ray face, he exr i claimed in astonishment, "Why, child, what ? has happened ? You look transfigured." i' As briefly as possible, I told him my story, j i j "Uncle, can you believe it all ? Isn't it like ! - a dream T I said, as I concluded. !, j My uncle desired that I would carry Gerald ; 1' up to his room, to "let him see what he was I like." j, The inspection seemed to satisfy him, though j e as he informed him, he looked more like a , ghost than a man. I "That is a misfortune which time will rectify, sir," said Gerald, laughing. "I have gone through enough to wear all my flesh off, instead.of merely reducing it" "And so you have come back to steal away my daughter, have you, sir? 'She is not pay niece any longer; she is my own child. How can I give her up to you f* "I had her first," said Gerald. "Yes, yes, all that was very fine; but if you choose to go away and leave her, and get drowned, and have all your senses knocked out of. you, and I take her under my protection and act toward her like a rational being, it strikes me that the case is considerably altered." "Oh ! uncle," I remonstrated. "Ob 1 niece; come, what hav^you to say on the subject ? Let us hear your wise opinion." "My-Qpinion is, that you are nearly as glad as I ara.to see him safe and well?for my sake," I replied. "Humph ! Iam not sure of that by any - msm., <r ir t 1 ' v* t? . '.-a teeang JLio you suppose i re^^^^cwmrall?" 7 "We won't talk about thai yet,-uncle. As he says, you know I belonged to him first"? I slipped my hand in Gerald's?"but still I promise you you won!t get rid of me altogether." "No," said Gerald ; "I think we can effect a compromise." "Oh I yes, I doubt if you think of the old man much now you have each other again. However, don't mind my grumbling; it is only ray way?Frances can tell you that, can't you child ? I am heartily glad you are come back, for I can tell you your supposed exit from this mundane sphere came pretty ear causing her to malte her exit in reality. Sir, you have a treasure in that girl?I doubt if you can quite appreciate her yet. If you ilon't take care of her and love her as she Reserves, I will never forgive you." Whereupon they shook hands heartily, and [ saw the tears in the eyes of both of them, lis for me, I went off to the window and had mother good cry. After a while my uncle began to make some inquiries concerning Gerald's present plans and arrangements. On learning that be had put up at a hotel, he immediately insisted on sending off at once for his valise and beeping him as his guest during his stay in town. "As for my plans, sir," said Gerald, "they lepend on you. As soon as you are well mough to be present at a certain ceremony, I iope you will allow it to take place." "What! are you driving at that already ? (Tell, it has been deferred so long that I don't vonder you dislike the idea of farther delay. Pll let you and Frances settle that between. w." Jmm. : "We will wait till you are quite well, )le," said I. "Oh! tut, doij& think of me. I will get veil fast enough now; that my laments it learly cured. Tou can fixnn this day week if ^TttTIay month^said L ^ "This day fortnight," said Gerald; and so t was finally settled. "And now go down stairs again, both of rou, and don't worry me any more to-night," aid my uncle. "You can come baek, by the >y, Frances, if you choose, at bed time. Be >ff, and enjoy each others' society for the rest >f the evening." We went down together, but at the foot of he stairs I left Gerald with -the request that le would wait in the drawing-room for me! vhile I went up again for a few minutes. I! hen hastened to my room, and speedily di- j rested myself of the sombre garb I had worn j lince I heard of his death. "Go there, wretched dress!" I exclaimed, i browing it on the floor. "I shall give you J tway to-morrow and never see you again. Fou remind me too much of all my*misery." I then opened my trunk and took thence a j KIma "illr AMA nnnlo'a nriftfl WlfK iUI & U1UC Oillk UUC vx XXJ J UUVlV o g4&vut Tf | lasty and joyous fingers I arrayed myself in i t A lace collar and cuffs and a pearl broach i lompleted my attire. I returned to the drawng-room where Gerald was awaiting me. "What radiant vision is this ?"' he exclaimsd as I entered. "Is it a pleasant vision ?" I asked smilingly is he drew me near to him. "Pleasant ? It is very sunshine to riS? eyes, ifter a long dark night," he returned. "But fhat magic has transformed you in such a hort time?" "Oh ! I transformed myself. I could not1 jearyou to see me in my black dress." "Little Vanity!" "No, Gerald; it was not vanity, but I can't j ceep on the emblem of mourning when all my | nourning is at an end." "Add you were wearing it for me I" he said I enderly. In our exaltation of mind we had quite for-! jotten that there were such things as coffee tnd tea in existence; but fortunately for Geril<J, who must have tyeen very tired^after his lay's journey, the servants had not, and the j evening refresment was presently brought in. rhe house-keeper, with unusual consideration, earning that the gentleman had just come lown by the cars, had a'dded to it something ather more substantial than usual, and I now >egged him to partake of it, and to excuse ray houghtlessness in not attending to his wants jefore. "I had everything I wanted," he returned. J 'You need not reproach yourself in the slight-1 ?t degree." Oh! what au evening that was, to have him mce again at my side?to watch his dear face, to drink in the tones of his manly voice. Was aot that happiness epough to make up fully for those long wretched months of anguish and despair ? I could not look at him sufficiently. Even then I was almost afraid it might possibly turn out to be a delusion, and that I would awake to find the bright vision flown, the airy fabric ruthlessly, as once before, destroyed. But no, it was all real; my lost treasure was, indeed, restored to me. All I desired now was to see hjip onpe more well and strong; and he assured me that when he once had me at Elmwood to nurse him, his recovery would soon be complete. "And Gerald, my poor old uncle?must I leave him here alone ?" "Would you like him to come with us, Frances ?" Joyful assent sparkled in my eyes; but I answered that it must be as he pleased. -r "Then, we will have him there," he rejoined. ^I^oaldMb^iar^b^iira^^c^now^dge, toj i lose yon so Boon." \ j "Thank you, Gerald ; you are always good. ; and kind.* You will love him, I am certain,, when you know him better. He is a dear, good old man, and has been vefjr, yery kind and generous to me. You .kiiqw he baa . .adopted me as his own child." "I know which I consider the gainerjfc ' that bargain," said Gerald. "However^5? rather fancy he is of the same opinion as nyfeelf" When I communicated to my uncle our wish that he should accompany us home after our marriage, to my surprise, he declined acceding to it. "I thank you both, all the same, my dear; but I would rather not Young marriedpeople are best left to themselves, and I don't want to spoil your honey-moon by being air ways in your way." ... ^1 "In our way. Oh! uncle, we wouWlifcdi so much to have you." "I don't doubt vour sincerit^i^^H^^I kit I prefer staving quietirji sly but that I should after a while." "But, uncle, it is so far off," IpSBBW "and you may be sick again, or something." "I shan't be sick. If I am, I can get somebody to nurse me. Why, how do you suppose I have been getting on alone, all these long years past ? I am quite accustomed to ! managing for myself; only you have spoiled me lately." * Finding him resolute in his determination, we forebore to urge him farther; but we extracted a promise from him that he would.pay, us a visit in the spring, if nothing should oo-: cur to prevent' ' * "Gerald stayed with us nearly a week, -but. the days seemed more like hours, so quickly did they fly. He improved wonderfuUysCrtfe? in that short time. For the first day or two. he felt too languid to leave the house, but after that he was able to go out, and we took two or three charming drives together. At last the day of his departure came, but we separated with light hearts, look' g forward to a speedy re-union, "after which, my darling," he said, "<pre will never be parted again, please God, on this side of Heaven." I Mv dear uncle 1 bow good and unselfish he * w , was during those last few days of my sojourn with him! What active interest he took in the preparations for the wedding; how particular he was in the necessary arrangements, superintending them as fer as he could in all their minutiae, and leaving nothing to the ' care of others that he could attend to himself. In the midst of my happiness, a pang would sometimes cross my mind at the thought of how lonely he would be when I was gone. I had learned to value his affection so highly, and return Itfo sincerely, that I could not ding, in the morning, and^&wLg &t once for \ Elm wood ; but at mytancle's request the lat-i fer part . ised to come, and one or two friends in town. Blanche and Lucy were to officiate as brides| maids. i I ran up and down stairs, and fluttered aboutthe house, busy in getting everything ready for our expected guests. The Foresters came first, on the eve of the wedding-day. My dear little Edith looked as lovely and almost as girlish as ever, as she ran into my arms, saying how happy she was. : that everything had turned out so delightful^ * ly at last! My uncle was quite charmed with!"' her, and before evening came they were fast friends. "Do you know, I have not yet seen Colonel Vavasour ?" she said to me, as we were having a chat in my room after dinner. "Is he very much charged ?" "He is very thin, and looks badly still," JL, rejoined; "but he had improved considerably before he left Bentonville." "Oh! Miss Gray, it was all so dreadful, wasn't it? I shall never forget that time 1" "Nor I?but Edith, let us think only of his return. I don't want any clouds, even those in the past, to dim the brightness that is around me now." "No; I was wrong even to allude to it, but , I was only so thankful that it was all over. I am sure if any one deserves to be happy it is you." . Next morning came General Vivian, Aud-j ley and his wife, Miss Marchmont, Blanche and Lucy?and Gerald. The latter went to a hotel; but I had a transient peep at him at the door. During the day came a mysterious package, which a boy left, and departed without explanation. I opened it, and found a case containing a most exquisite set-pearlp?necklace, earrings, broooh and bracelets. On the purple velvet lining lay a card, written in Gerald's j hand, "For ** wtf "Oh! how lovely," criedEdith^pThose are1 for you to wear this evening." y ': I had contemplated wearing the diamond set my uncle had given me; but of course these must fyave thp preference. How strange that I, of all people, should ever suffer from an embarras de richesses ! "My dear uncle will be hurt if I don't wear something that he has given me," said I; so ; after due consideration I decided on wearing j all Gerald's pearls except the bracelets? which, after all, were an addition on ins part to the actual set?apd adorning myself in-; | stead with a pair of heavy gold ones, with dial' I mond clasps, a recent present from my adopted father. . Edith had presented me with a beautiful little bouqet-holder of carved silver; Charl^ Forester, an elegant fan ; Generald and Mri Vivian, a pair of massive silver pitchers; Mis# Marchmont, a turquoise brooch and ear-rings; Blanche and Lucy, an embroidered handkerchief each. When these and my other gifts 1 : were spread out in order on a little table in ; j my room, iffhich $dith begged to be allowed ! j to arrange, they "presented quite a gorgeous j effect. Miss Marchmont and I were contemplating them together, after the others had left the | room; and turning to me she put her arnf^ about my waist and kissed my cheek. "Do you remember, Frances, the last timcu we were together, and the conversations we' used to have ?" she asked. i I answered that I did. pWiave been strangely brought about, I.hwwMfa' riot? You don't doubt now the j wu^w^f,jpod and His love, in afflicting you id make yon value your present j?fi||i^*K>dness?all love," I replied. think so, then, Frances ?" wicked days, Miss March? M them, please." _ i SS^M^d you Have thought and felt as you y?u had continue^) sorrow?if | not been restored to you ?" %c-T think I Would, after awhile. Even beif^e bji came back, Miss Marchmont, I was to feel it; I was trying to be good ; never again have cause?no, you ?0|Hr have cause, but may you never w^rcfirompted to have donbte on such a You have had a hard trial, |^^Kre&anrdeeply grateful that it has JflWllii#from you. In your prosperity, ibe.k??aVyou have learned in ^^JPRnow," she added, in a lighter tone; "I fete't preach to you anymore, and you mmwbrgive my sermon for the Sake of the feepg~which prompted it" | E CHAPTER XVI. j wetting came?my bridal evening. After ! so tiany postponements, it was here at last Jil eight the guests were invited.. Miss Mm^mont and Edith helped me.to dress, "W^Fthe two little girls, already arrayed in -tfcjK^ite muslin and pink sashes, fluttered defghiqlly around. Ada, who prided herlefflBfther skill in arranging hair, begged to MfcU toact'aa my coiffeur. would ttoi let me look in the glass untJHBverything, even the veil, was arranged to v^jir IikiDg. Then Edith, with an importanljjjr, led me up to a long mirror and asked raejgravely if I was satisfied. After a raome^s inspection I answered, as I looked attenjively at the figure in white draperies, "I doitU^hink I know thatlady." '{Why, Miss Fiances I" cried Lucy, in ecstaffy "don't you know your own self?" *>8the transformation satisfactory, or other* wisely asked Ada. Hrrfectly satisfactory, thanks to your united efforts." 3'^L^en.our efforts are amply rewarded." '^j^Sow somebody will think Miss Frances tjful to-night," said Blanche, sagely, [ore than one somebody, perhaps," said F " ooJil T.n/?v "Tvpahha "Blanche and I '^3>th kissed me and whispered, "And bo 3o^f . . ; C-Jrswspleased at their praise; but, most of pjUL*** pTeased to think I would look well ^^^down to aw^^e appointed ^hour ; for. haw come toJne the bride down stairs," he announced. lWIt is half past eight, and everything is ready." ? I rose, trembling. Miss Marchmont brought him in to inspect me. ' I was turned arotnid,: examined, praised, and then we all went dowft3 The room seemed to me to be full of people, although in reality it was quite a small party. ?Efa?riiuater stood waiting to receive us; Geraldcame to my side; the ceremony comand in a few moments the words were ^reaounced which made us one. $it was all cover! I actually belonged to hii^now; no human power could separate us again. The clergyman, a kindly old man whiim I had known many years, pressed my hand with a few cordial words and good-wishes ; then friends came around, and both of us went throngh the usual amount of handshaking and congratulations. "We had no dancing, but everybody seemed to enjoy themselves; there was a lictle music, and a supper which my uncle had token care should be an extremely handsome one. Then the quiet evening was over, and everybody whltwrftkiot staying in the house went away. Foresters and the Vivians left the p^jpporoing; the latter, however, claiming & promise irom us 10 visa jjeccuuiun* ?i ?u earfy date. ?en another day passed; my last in my un<?j? house. "Yon must not forget, uncle, that you are coining to us in April," I said as I sat in the tvv&ght by his side." ""No, my dear, I am not'apt to forget pleasant appointments," he replied, cheerfully. "Aritl it will not be the only visit you will have from me, I promise you. Don't think because you are deserting the old man npw, that tiiig^rjd of him hj^at ft wsstfflflocky for a bride to weep dQnng tlte-first wipek after her marriage; and beriftes, I irks too happy to indulge in melancholy reflections long. Early in the morning we were off. My uncle came down to the street door, and all thehtervanta crowded around the steps to wish me good-bye. The words of parting were said, we entered the carriage, and were off. We go?fto Elqiwood late in the evening, G^dV carriage meeting us at Tbornby. and the'hospitable looking tea?u unread in readiness for us. Gerald , into the room, and bid me "Welcome my own home I the haven was j reached at last; I had found my sure abiding place, where it seemed to me that care would ; uever dare to intrude. Full of a tranquil. content I sank down on the luxurious sofa,1 awl glanced admiringly around. Old ancestral portraits, hanging on the walls, looked down on me with smiling and friendly eyes, seeming to echo the welcome I had already Jigtrd from loving lips. Bruno, Gerald's favorite setter, after walking gravely up to me ?t-be patted, returned to his usual place on rtfrfl.JDlfi Tthi? he lay down and basked in the vllttvth of the blaze. In a short time the servants brought in tea, and sitting opposite my | husband at the table, I found myself doing I V the honors with as much composure as if 11 had been mistress there for years. Although J I had never been there before, I could not; feel like a stranger. Instinctively, I felt it] was my home. ' . . j "Now, this is something like 1? exclaimed ' Gerald, when, left once mora to ourselves, we were enjoying the respose and comfort of the ^rra-chairs.after our journey. "Frances, I onght to be a, ve$ happy inabi This is what I have been looking forward to for years.'' ! "For years 1" I repeated. . . "Yes?ever since I came into possession of j this place at the age of twenty-one, J have j been thinking.of the time when I could bring, a wife here to brighten it with her presence, and as Tennyson saysvjeh^r my soul; with Jove.' An oldJktfhelor life is .a. miserable existence." I laUghech "Jton have not tnffl matrimony yet" I replied. "HB ' "Oh lghaye zp feare, ? Froij^ the time I first saw jou, J Jojew you were jift toe very woman friends, Iamiyssaid,^tl^erfghto^e'i^^ot"yet appeared.' When I met you, I said to myself, 'that is the right one now.' " "And I only a poor governess!" I rejoined. "Yes, and what pains you took that first evening to inform me of the fact!" "Did you notice that ? I didn't want to appear in your eyes under false colors." "So I perceived; but you need not have been so particular, for, as it happened, my little friend Edith had told me all about you already. However, I rather admired you for it; I saw that you had independence enough not to be ashamed of your position." "I little thought then, Gerald, what my position would be now." ^ "Well, that shows the difference between us; I did think of it, even then." "And I imagined, for ever so long, that you were in love with Edith !" "So she told me. We used to laugh a little sometimes at your expense, for to tell you the truth, Edith knew my secret before you did." "S^Lheard afterwards; and then I understooc^Riy little things that had puzzled me at "And now, to think of all that has happened?all the difficulties, all the trQuble that has been in qnr way?and that after all, we should be sitting quietly here together, belonging to each other for life!" I leaned over and placed my hand in his. I could not answer, for my heart was too full for words. "Fiances, shall we make ope resolution, which V we keep to it will insure our happiness as far as it is in our power to do so ?" "What is it, Gerald ?" I asked. "It is this. Always to have perfect confidence in each other; never to let anything shake our mutual faith and truth. I have ideas of my own, relative to the duties and privileges of married lift?perhaps higher on? than the generality of people. I conceive that m^tepghts, and feelings, and wishes, tafaKfcBn as muck as t^mvself; and way. "Xshlli be very* thou^M|Pot the smallest grief, the share?and I will do the same by you. Shall jge make the compact ?" Without hesitation, I agreed to it; and from that hour to this, it has never been broken. I trust it may never be. We spent ouhoneymoon quietly and happily at home, Gerald daily recovering health and vigor, and I finding my greatest pleasure in nursing him, and watching to see that he took proper care of himself, which he was not! apt to do. We took daily rambles on foot about our place, when the weather was fine, and when Gerald was strong enough, we made some excursions on horseback. Being a novice in the art of riding, I'was a little timid at first, but my husband had presented me with the gentlest of steeds, a beautiful creamcolored mare, which I called Zara, and I soon became very fond of the exercise, and, in the course of time, a very good rider. In March, we went to pay a visit te Beechcroft, where we faund&yerything unchanged, save that Linda waafrfaent from the family circle; but Gerald didkotlament her absence. He had never overcome his dislike to her. Mrs. Vivian's health seemed a little more delicate than formerly. I think she had never quite recovered from the shockher daughter's conduct had caused her. The children had i? A '*> ^1?AA n OV>TT wnfirinrv UlUtUCr UTttUUCI lftl iiij' n> aixjj twuiug little person, whom nothing but the extreme kindness of the Vivian's could have induced to come sufficiently out of 'her timidity and reserve to mix with the family at all on a footing of equality and friendship. I always felt a special interest in little Miss Morris, and remembering that my position had once been the same as hers, was careful always to show her the greatest consideration, for which she seemed much more grateful than was at all neceasary. .. Aftdr onr retire^ home, we had several vis1! itors. Miss March niont and incy first, then j Edith for a little while, and just before her departure, my uncle arrived. The old gentleman was in good health and spirits, not having suffered for an unusual length of time from his enemy?the gout. He was delighted with everything, and appeared to enjoy himself immensely. He told me that he contemplated making Bentonville his permanent abode, as he found it a nice quiet place ,that suited him, and he was getting too old to ramble about. "Look here, my dear," he said to me, confidentially, one day, "I have a little project on i hand which I would like to consult you about j before I put it in .effect. You know it is rath-1 er lonely for me in that big house, now you j have left me. What wquld you say if you j beard that X bad. an idea 01 getting ? cumtT0Br T ; .. For a wondered, if my uncle could possibly be th'inldng of getting another wife ; but the absurdity of the thought made me reject it as soon as conceived. He went on to tell me thathe had lately become inters ested in a young girl by the aame of Ellen Clyde, an orphan, who had attracted him first by her beauty, and afterward, when he casually met her, by her sweetness of manner. He had made inquiries concerning her, and , finding that she was very poor, and in every way deserving, had formed the project of adopting her, but did not wish to take any steps in the matter without consulting me. She was living at present with an uncle, who was not in good circumstances, and took-.in < sewing as a means of support ** ,w "Tou know, my dear, I am tolerably well off (he was, in fact, very rich,, but be never allowed it) and have enough to spare, besides what I intend leaving y ou at my death." h rtOh 1 unole, don'tspeak of tfiat," I replied, jjj "You kixow j have eydfything rwant, and of c course w^en I married I^onsidejred that that tl cancelled^our kind intenriou of leaving me ir your property." tl "Well, in some degree; but don't imagine^ ^ child, that I owe you such a grudge for leev- * ing.me that I would out you off, with a shil- JJ ling, as the saying is. But I thought as your u good husband was a rich man yob would agree " with me that I could not do better than to* lay out a part of my money* at rftiy rate, for' % the benefit of this young girl, who has no one |! to provide for her. Of course, I shal 1 make-it & a condition that she always Uvea with me, and a acts towards me as a daughter." si "How old is she,.uncle?" ' ? "Barely flixteen, I understand; so there is I i a chance of jBdine year* elapsing before she . ltwas^quiXe charmed with the scheme, and v 0 Ge;ald,when I confided it to him, agreed t! with me that he thought it an excettenf; ode, d vhich would benefit my uncle quite as^much tl as the recipient of his bounty. The old genf . tleman was so full of it that he did not pay us ^ as long a visit as he had originally intended, 0 but hurried back to town to make the neces- v sary arrangements. In less than a week af- p ter wards he wrote me quite a triumphant let- i ter, saying that everything had turned out as c he wished. Ellen was grateful for his offer, q and willing to come to him, audio a very short time he expected to receive ber in his c home; and by the next accounts, she was c domesticated there, and occupied in receiving h instruction from., various roasters my uncle c had provided for |ier. I saw her some time ^ afterwards when I paid my uncle a visit, and ? found her a very gentle, amiable, well-bred girl, Mtxraely respectful and'considerate in w her turner towards her guardian, to whom U she appeared sincerely attached. I was truly g glad of the arrangement, which seemed in every way such a satisfactory one, and which ? relieved rae of the compunction I had felt at ^ first at leaving my uncle alone. g Early in the summer a sou and heir arrived ft to sladdened the hearts of mv favorite Edith a and her husband, and to my gratification I P waa invited to be its- god-mother.: If I had u thought Edith lovely and winning in the ? characters of girl and bride, in that of a moth- ^ er she seemed doubly go, and I could imagine b no prettier picture than that presented by the1 ii fair young matron With her blue-eyed baby on her lap, while the young father looked " proudly and admiringly on. ' '[; And now, what more is there to be told? g I have recounted briefly the only portion of n my life characterized by any incidents, beyond F the mere daily occurrences which are of in- m terest only to myBelf and those of my house- sc hold. The current of my daily life glides on, a tranquil stream, unruffled so far by adverse m winds, and reflecting in its bosom the bluest and|M?$t. <;r p :i y u= Wff ee Should the day come?as who may dare say st it will not ??when clouds fleck that glorious 7] ether, I trust they may prove but passing shadows, quickly dispersed; or if they grow blacker and deeper, spreading over me a pall e; which fills my souls with gloom and dread, I w will still put my confidence in Him who has tli hitherto been my stay, hoping Hp will raise et me up as before from my distress, and cause 9f the sun once more to shine about my path ^ Gerald is all I pictured him to be?true, gl noble, devotedi I often wonder what 1 have a ever done to be blessed with so much happi- 1? ness; happiness to which I cannot name a ?( single drawback. My home is a lovely one; my friends numerous. I would, indeed, be un- hi grateful, did not peace and contentment fill la my heart. ' "i . ? "Frances,1' my husband said to me the m other day, "I think you are ten times prettier ^ and more attractive than when I first knew you." ? "Do you, indeed ?" said L "I thought the ti time was past for you to be paying me those ? kind of compliments." gy"What kind shall I pay you, then ?" jjj "No compliments at all; only the sober, y matter-of-fact truth." fi, "Well, that was the honest truth; but I ai will tell you something more that perhaps you hi will like better, once you set so little store by personal appearario*--apH^ of that, I suppose you never look in the glass,.of course?" J "Of course I do," said I. gl "Very inconsistent in yon. However, I as will tell you my:opinion, which is this?you d< are just the most amiable and cleverest of hi women, and the best and dearest of wives, in the whole of the Southern'States, and if I jH had sought over the wide world I never could K have found your equal?certainly not one ^ that could have made me half so happy,. Jt Does that suit you?" * ' p< Did it not ? If I thought his praise a little jj exaggerated, and not fully ^aserved, I was, at 5WratevWelipleased. to knpw that it was syh ^ core.- My. highest happiness is in his admira- q, tion and love; and while that remains tame, ot I can desire no farther boon. pi [the end.] hi fCoplen oftlie Ekudiuk containing the prevtooi chapter* of hi tills Story can be furnished to new subscribers.] fa Savings for Old Age.?No one denies that it is wise to make provision for old age, [Jbut we are not all agreed as to the kind of provision it is best to lay in. Certainly we snail ? want a little money, for a destitute old man is indeed a sorry sight; yes, save money.by.all means. But an old man needs just that par- le fcicular kind of strength which young men are as apt to waste. Many a foolish young fellow he will throw away on a holiday a certain amount th of nervous energy which he will never feel or the want of until he is seventy, and then how in much he will want it I It is curious, but true, m that a bottle of champagne at twenty will in- pi tensity the rheumatism at three score. It is a vi fact that overtasking the eyes at fourteen may th necessitate the aid of spectacles at forty in- 4 stead of at sixty. We advise our young vi readers to be saving of health for old age, for b< the maxim holds good in regard to health as ai well as to money?"Waste not, want not" yj It is the' greatest mistake to suppose that vio- wi lation of the laws of health can escape its te penaltyC Nature forgives no sin, no errorat she lets off the offender for fifty years some- p] times, but she catches him at last, end inflicts sa the punishment just wbeq and where, and & just now he feels it most Save up for old ?] age, but save knowledge ; save the recollec- y< tions of good and noble deeds, innocent pleas- tv ure, and sure thoughts ; save friends ; save Pi love. Save rich stores of that kind of wealth h< which time cannot diminish, nor death take vi away. ? ipsttllaiicousi awnmi HOW TUEPE5XISE IS MADE. Few people know anything at all about ?w 'the principal article of North, .Carolina \ Dmme^isoffinqd and manufecjfcired. Iu F # turpentine "orbarda.. Daring the month of November, ie laborers begin the work of making boxes ito which the sap will flow, which they conThese boxes are not made -y"~ f n# aw^tbgy log troughs, such as sedW$fyis atcaWing process?a eort of woodpecamg^ Operation?and it requires nisHhg the box, smoothing and rouhdiifg ae bottom ~rface, so that the liquid turpenJie can be deanly scooped out, is done with smafladze. Theboxea are made in the tree. bout two feet from the ground, and have the iiap&ofa distended pouch, or well filled coat ocket. They Usnally hbld about a quart, 'fan boxhas a depth of threat or fifoYinches. . A skillful workman will ea^dly make a box ? 1ai? minntaa. or seventy a day. The less he ^approaches the th< tree to btain thej>roper sise, the IesfTOiefViflelity of lie tree iMnjuied; but such vow is uwally one carelessly. After the boxes are fmwbed. be bark and a few of tbeouter rings are acked off along the edge and above the uper lip ofthebox. It is from* this excoriation hat the sap begins to flow about the middle f March, and gradually fills the box, from hich it is dipped out with a large spoon of eculiar shape, and is collected in barrels. Lhpot onoe a week the workmen visit the orhard, and clarify,or make slight incisions in besurface above each box. A slight shave r clip is all that is need-tpbe-laken off, the ob;ct being merely to expose a new surface or ellular tissue, tne flow of the former being logged by the coagulations of the sap. A? 3r the dipping is commenced, owing to the rude way in'which the business is pmsecuid, the turpentine generally collects npich ; abbish, chips and leaves, considerably injur-' m ig its value.' Most of this might be avoided y making the help clean out the boxes into hich the rubbish has fallenduringthe-winjt. But they seldom take this trouble. A ood band will take care of 2,500 treee during le sap-making season, doing both the dip *"?' ImAlrinor. tliA frPA? Kftinc visited bout onoe & week? Many groves have been Dntinuously worked for forty years, but eUeh radually become unprofitaole from the insrior quality of the terpentine. Years ago, 11 the turpentine was shipped to Northern arts in its crude state for distillation; bat it i no\v almost all done on the grounds; in cop-' er stills, just like those used to obtain alcool at the North. They usually hold from m to twelve barrels. They are generally uiltin a valley where water can be brought i troughs to such an elevation as to flow into ie condensing tank. The Still is set in a rick furnace, and is nearly filled with the rode turpentine, often, full of straw and sedilent If from age it has become stiff and ammy, a little water is added to reduce it hen heated to a state of mare lively liquidity, inally, the still-head is put on, the joint lade tight with clay, the nre kindled, and ion a small transparent stream of spirit runs ora the month of the worm, and is directly night in the barrel, in which it comes to the larket, In the large turpentine "orchards" or ,fprity from n v<* hunur^'to eight and upon tne acre. These, when Tapped, [eld about fifteen barrels of sap in a season, iving, after distillation, two barrels of spirits P turpentine and six to seven of rosin/ The Supentine lands are now valued from five to iteen dollars per acre. In a few years they . no doubt bring a higher price. Where ie original long-leafed pine has been destroy1, ana then turned oat, a bastard variety irings up and grows rapidly; but'it is of no ilue for turpentine, and but little for lumber, he true variety, rich in turpentine, is of very ow growth. It is very doubtful if there hie renewal of the spontaneous growth of the ng-leafed pine?the ginue paliutrvi of the itanist How Mosquitoes Bite.?The mosquito is a proboscis like an elephant, only not so nre. It will, however, look nearly as large lifer a good microscope. He cannot do is any handy things with it as the elephant in with his, bat he can caase a good deal of m inoyance with it in a em all way. It is hard; the thing to say that the mosquito bites us, ft he has no teeth. The microscope reveals te . fact that he carries a pair of scissors inde of bis proboscis; the neatest and sharpit little tools you ever saw. He gets his livg by these. They are two delicate little ades, and are placed alongside of each other, fhen he is ready to make a meal off us, he rat buzzes around with those beautiful wings, id singp a pleasant little song. If we let m quietly settle down, he picks out a place 1 our skin which is just to his liking. He very delicate about it. When he gBts ready 3 puts his ragbpMpft down, and pushing the trie scissors, makes aneat cut so that he can ick the blood out Then he drinks as much i he wants, and is done his dinner. But he )es not leave yet He is going to pay his 11. $ge has taken our blood, and he will ave us something in exchange for it With b fashion'" He has the ^av in his pocket ady to squeeze out before ne goes. It is >iS0U, but tn him i is the best he has to givenis. His poison xrketis at the head of his. proboscis,: and at te lower end of his proboscis he has another r onTdose. The poison ^ia very powerful, little of it makes the place wherathe mosiito?puts it very sore. After he sucked lr blood, he puts the drop of poison into the ace he took the blood from. It is not the te nor the cut that the mosquito makes that irts us, but the dropping of this powerful >ison into our flesh. If the mosquito was rge enough to give a powerful dose of this rison, it would be bad for us. If he were as g as a kitten, and his poison as strong in oportion, a "bite" from aim would instantly 11 us. A ^Chinese Will.?A Chinaman died, avinghifi pro; ?)rty by wiHto his three sons, follows; To Fum-Hum, his eldest, onedfthereof; Nu-Pin, his second son, oneird thereof, and to Ding-Bat, his youngest, le-ninth thereof. When the property was ventoried it was found to consist of nothing ore nor lees than seventeen elephants, and it lzzled these three fieirs to decide how to dido the property according to the terms of e will without chopping up the seventeen ephants, and thereby seriously impair their due. Finally they applied to a wise neigh>r, Sum-Punk, for advice. Sum-Punk had i elephant of his own. He drove it into the ird with the seventeen, and said: "Now we ill suppose that your father left these eighen elephants. Fum-Hum, take your half id depart." So Fum-Hum took nine elelants and went his way. "Now, Nu-Pin, id the wise man, "take your third and git." ) Nu-Pin took six elephants and travelled. Sow, Ding-Bat," said the wise man, "take >ur ninth and begone." So Ding-Bat took 10 elephants and absquatulated. Then SumLink took his own elegant and drove him >me again. : Query?Was the property dided according to' ibe terms of his tchange. > *