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W alter yrann ^ps g I _ j - ' ___ | M- ??isT, Proprietor, j ^it Jjittoptttol Jantilg fttfapjitr: Jot t[|f ^prcimrtiim tf t^Jpolilical, facial, Agricultural airirCmmntrrial Interests af l|t | TERMS?$3.00 A YEAR, IS ADVANCE. | VOL. 17. YOEKYILLE, S. C., TH|RSDAY, JULY 20, 1871. NQ.29. ?iaap???w^mmm?^??wmm?i??? 1 - " .1 ;_i. I *:? Tl,fl on^rahlft riflfi of thlS j^ti original fttec ^torn. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. Broken Cisterns. BY MARY F. WATERBURY. CHAPTER III. Great was the surprise and delight at home,' wheu it was reported, by one of the boys, that j J "Miss Helen was coining in a jolly, big sleigh,; i with a span of horses." j < "Helen's friends are so kind to her," com- j' . mented the pleased mother, as she hastened to < light the already prepared fire in the parlor, j open the blinds. "If any one is with her, i will be so fortunate that we have a fresh : ^H^^Bast to-day." But the carriage drove away BH|d Helen came in alone. P^I^^For once, home looked pleasant. The beech e wood fire was blazing and crackling cheerily, ( the sun shone in brightly, and the good, moth- f erly face was beaming with a loving welcome, j f Helen sat down on a low stool before the fire 8 while her mother removed her wrappings, and | a i * ai?1_ ! li in .answer to tne iew motmjny enquiries, luiu , ^ the whole story of her visit, concluding with ! r a fit of crying. ; a * "I believe home i3 the best place after all," t she said, as her mother drew her head on to f her lap, and smoothed the rumpled hair. ? "Home is the best place, my dear child, J unless duty calls us elsewhere. If we cannot * find happiness in the place where our duty a lies, we cannot find it anywhere." a "Please don't moralize," Helen said, with n a little of her old petulance. "I hate the * word duty. It always means something un- c pleasant. Isn't there any such thing as pleas- ? ure?" e "Yes ; there are many transient pleasures a that are followed by pain, and there is a hap- ?a piness which is abiding. The former are often ^ beyond our reach, while the latter may always ^ be ours." n "You talk just like a Moral Philosophy, d mntlipr" a "My dear child, don't throw off such things ^ with a jest You will never be happy until s< you believe and practice just what I have told ^ you ; that the only true happiness this world n affords is found in the willing performance of ^ each day's duty." c< "Oh ! dear, what a dull, doleful world it is 1 a It looked really pleasant when I came In, but w talking about duty always gives me the blues. w Though I do want to do right, mother. I m thought it all over while I was in New York; ? how I would be cheerful and industrious and ^ help you all at home. But the days are all of sc one pattern, and the boarders are noisy, and m the children are vexing, and Mary goes around ^ ' as pale and still as a ghost, and you and father work yourselves to-death?and all to earn enough money to keep soul and body together." M "No," .interrupted Mrs. Weston, gently; er "all to do our appointed work." JH Johnny and Ltfftia intarrjipiad tL-c.o-ucnr. sation by a boisterous entrance. Their fat, M ? freckled feces were shining, their brown locks je glued to their heads with soap, and their stout fu cloth jackets and pants intricately patched. "Has sis come, really ?" said Johnny. "Oh ! ^ ain't it jolly. Do you know," he continued, leaning against the delicate grey traveling dress, and resting his plump elbows on her ' lap. "Do you know, ma said if Lawrie and ^ I was awful good while you was gone, you'd a 6 bring us a nice present." "Is it a top that C( you pull with a string, and it goes 'buz-z-z' just like bees do?" asked the more bashful Laurie, just appeariug from behind his moth- u er's chair. j ^ 1 in/V TAUnni? ! PI "JJon't lean on your sisici su, uuuunj. i Poor little fellows! They've been so anxious i si to have 'sis' come home. Now, run away." j Mrs. Weston was about to lead them out, but 11 Helen put an arm around each. "There," I b she said, trying to laugh, "mother will have j h to take us all, if she takes any." Then, more I ti seriously, "you must not feel badly, children,! b because sister didn't bring you anything. If j a you'll be real good and not cry one bit, we'll j have a candy-pull some night, and invite all j si the boys. Won't that be nice?" b The disappointed faces brightened at the P prospect, and the unanimous and emphatic P "i bet it will," testified to their entire satisfaction. j 11 Mrs. Weston looked very much gratified. e For Helen to take so much notice of her brothers was a rare occurrence. Then Mary b came in with her calm face brightened by ex- d citeraent and gave an earnest, though mute n welcome; then the father, looking old and 0 worn, and bowed as though the burden of b life had been too heavy. "Are you glad to be at home, daughter ?" v he asked, noting anxiously her varying expression, and the hesitating reply. i s "Yes, of course," she said, carelessly; then i b throwing her arms about his neck, she said: j c "I am glad, father. But I am so sorry to see s you and mother looking so tired. You must 1 let me help you, now. I can teach all day." I "Yes, yes, you can help. You must not c feel badly. Your mother aud I are used to ? work." t The poor child is nervous," said Mrs. West-. on. "When she has had her supper and a j1 good night's rest, she will feel better." i 1 In honor of the arrival an unusually pice 11 tea was served that evening, and the boarders, | the convalescent Ned Grover included, laid in j < a large supply of cakes and sweetmeats, as an 11 indemnity against the past and prospective i scarcity of goodies. That night Helen made a number of good ] resolutions, and went to sleep planainga large i seminary-building, where she was to be Lady- i * Principal] and in which the father and mother wtnhavfi an elecrant suite of rooms, and ! i live at their ease. j j In the morning, how different everything !) looked ? The house so poverty-stricken, the boarders so rough, the children so neglected, 11 the table so meagre, so unlike the degance and abundance at Mr. Lee's ! The excite-1 . ment of the home-coming was over, anl there j lay before her what seemed like one ?arren j stretch of duty, in which all the paths tended j toward a life of wearisome toil and ptiful. economising8. Helen's face and manner betrayed her discontent, but she worked persistently, an<; the | devoted mother fondly hoped that time wiuld j reconcile her to whatever was distastefii in j her lot. Every task was made as easy aid j pleasant as was possible, the parlor was warned each afternoon for her occupancy and fir chance callers, and a stove was put up in hr room. But all these efforts of loving hearts ' were unavailing, for nothing but "'the unat-j tained and dim" was of value. The present castle in Spain was a grand seminary with . professors of music and the languages ; an ar-! tist for painting; and, at least, a hundred j young ladies in some pretty uniform ; and j herself the guiding, ruling spirit of the whole, j She thought of it, and dreamed of it, and , talked of it, until the scheme wore a slight1 appearance of practicability, and Mr. Weston, after persistent and earnest persuasions, went to a neighboring town, to see if there was an I opening for a ladies' school. He reported favorably, and Helen was wild with pleasurable ; ? i j; ! Bxcitement. Mrs. Weston spoKe uiscuuru?ingly. They were already making a comfort-1 ible living, and were at little expense for | rent. The school was just what Johnnie and j Lawrie would need, and for Helen, she could j issist in teaching and study branches which i ihe had neglected. Mr. Weston felt the force i )f his wife's reasoning, but Helen cried, and ; retted, and urged, and persisted, until both j < ather and mother laid down their arras, and urrendered. Then came the labor, .hurry < ,nd bustle of the breaking-up?the sending tome of delighted boys to disappointed pa- j ents. The packing, moving and settling in i l new house; and the vain attempt to make : wenty yards of old carpeting do the duty of ] orty yards of new. The house was large and i veil finished, hence must be nicely furnished, i Jr. Weston's credit was good, Helen ordered 1 whatever was needed, and though the bill was i larming in size, all hoped that a good patron- < ge would enable them to settle it in a few i aonths: as undoubtedly it would, but, unfor- 1 unately, only a few applications were re- ' eived, excepting for day-pupils. However, Jr. Weston and Helen organized the school, t nortiirorrirxT tVlO wnillfi.hp UnmiistS. artist8 UWU.Ujj.Uj, 0 , nd musicians with the assurance that "just * s soon as classes were found of sufficient size, t be necessary teachers would be provided." I 'he classes did not grow, and the teachers did s ot come. Helen soon lost interest in the daily I rill of a score of thoughtless village girls, r nd fell into the habit of excusing herself rom the school-room at first for an hour or I ), but finally for days together; and poor Ir. Wieston, not knowing the "tricks and the h iar>ners" of young girls, felt himself to be, as r e expressed it "all at sea, without chart or t jmpass." Bills came in, pupils went out, a nd as a climax of discouragement the father ti as attacked with typhoid fever. The school tl as closed, for its prop had fallen. In three a lonths the shadow was lifted. 'Saved from eath, but a burden to my family,' groaned v le weary old man. The fever had consumed i much of his vital strength, that many weeks 1 iust pass before the bowed shoulders could d ear the old burden. In the meantime, the d .raily must be supported. s< They sat together one evening discussing e; irious plans, none of which seemed feasible, y irs. "Weston, undaunted and hopeful, spoke icouragingly of a return to the old home; y elen p-ptT 1 iy u trnrlifrT" _ "triarTThere they were; Wine t< .ary, divining, though not hearing, the sub- a ct of conversation, looked on, sad and wist- h il. c "I am willing to do whatever is best," Mr. a Jeston said, "whatever is best for the chil- tl ren." "I am sure, father," Helen said earnestly, y that this place is better for us than dull, reary Clayton Ridge. We can have society it ere, and if we could once get established, we a )uld make enough money so that you and ii lother could rest in your old age." tl "It is of no consequence about our resting, h atil the time comes for us to rest," Mrs. & feston said, "but there are many contingen- v es about our succeeding here. You are too f luguine, Helen." 1' The discipline of the past few months had d lade Helen more patient. She did not reply, e ut a depressed, disappointed look shadowed er face, and tears filled her eyes. Her beau- ^ ful castles were in ruins. There seemed to e nothing in life for them but privation, toil a nd mortification. i i' "Don't feel badly, ray child," Mrs. Wefcton lid, cheerfully. " 'It is always darkest just E efore the dawn.' There will be some way rovided for us if we are careful to do our s art." s "But I don't see that it will ever be dawn, e lother. It has been just so dreary and misrable with us ever since I can remember." f "Not in the old home. To be sure, we had 3 work hard, but we were out of debt and in- c ependent for many years, until " the 4 lother hesitated. It was cruel to say "until * ur daughter became such an expense to us ^ iy her extravagance." * The door-bell rang, and Mary soon returned j pith a card for Helen. jc "Kenwood Thayer!" exclaimed Helen, pringing up excitedly. "0, mother, will my j lair do? Has the parlor been dusted tolay ?" and without waiting for either reply, i he hastened to her room to put on a fresh 1 nuslin and add a knot of blue ribbon to her 1 iair. The pleasant excitement flushed her iheeks that had been paled by confinement in i sick room, but it did not quite remove the \ races of tears. "I am very glad to see you," she said, offer- \ ng her hand, and looking up confidingly to ; ;he earnest face, that just then seemed so far ibove her, and looked so kind and true. "Are you ?" and Kenwood Thayer's blue j jyes were lighted with a sudden joy. "Then I [ am rewarded for these long months of wait-1 log. But you have been in trouble, Miss' Weston. I see from your face; but, do not j '' ^ 1-?AtTAMrttin +/-?/-! tfAM i fC^r6t It now. 1 littVC ^AUiiCiat^u j uu I * uua | ill blame in the matter, and am the bearer of j i letter to you from Lizzie." "Oh ! that trouble!" said Helen. "I have ! aot thought of it for months; but I am very j glad Lizzie is not offended with me. "When ! are you to be married ?" "Never! to Lizzie, Miss "Weston. The dear j girl found that after all she did not care for ! me excepting in a sisterly way, as an old play- J mate and friend. Our marriage had for so j long a time been a foregone conclusion, that j it was something of a shock to both of us to j find that it had all been a mistake. But she j will explain the matter in her letter." Helen's face flushed and paled, and her , hand trembled nervously as she took the of-! fered letter. "If you will amuse yourself with the books,; and excuse me a few moments," she said, rising. "Certainly, and if you are tired or not | quite well this evening, allow me to cal' in | the morning. In that case I must leave some- j thing to plead for me in my absence," and he slipped a tiny box into her hand. "If you would," Helen said. "I am not myself to-night. We've had so much trouble and sickness and " but the unshed tears refused to be kept back any longer. "My dear child I" Kenwood said, much distressed by her grief, but hardly knowing what to say. "Is there anything I can do ?" "No, no, nothing!" she answered, hurriedly leaving the room. Lizzie's letter was frank and kind like herself. She apologized for so misunderstanding her friends, and asked for a letter, or, if possible, a brief visit, to show she was forgiven. | "Dear Lizzie! I don't deserve her kindness," said Helen, remorsefully. Then she opened the little box, and found her own miniature painted on ivory, and nnder it a slip of; paper ou which was written: "I give the! semblance for the reality." ' Oh ! isn't it splendid!" she exclaimed, and,; taking both letter and miniature, she ran I down to the sittingsroom. . i Mrs. Weston was alone, with the never ( smptied riending*basket at her side. "It was Kenwood Thayer, mother. He is j 2jone now, but will be here again in the morn-1 ing. And here is a letter from Lizzie, and, | see! an ivory miniature of myself. You know lie sketched my portrait last winter; and Oh ! mother, Lizzie wants me to visit her. She is lot offended with me at all. Isn't that de-! liglitful ? And it all came just when I was! reeling as if there was no use in living. And J ;his slip of paper! I forgot it, but I suppose t is a bona fide offer." Helen's breath failed ler, and she sat down in the mending basket. 'Dear ; I thought it was a stool!" "I am afraid your good fortune has affec,ed your brain," Mrs. Weston said, smiling. "Good fortune has never injured me. I 'never am, but always to be blessed." But hings do look brighter. You and father will >e relieved of one burden, and I will have ome one to take care of me. I suppose I'd >etter accept him, mother ?" Helen said interogatively. ,.i "If he offers himself, and you love him," drs. Weston promptly replied. "Of course he will offer himself. That is lis purpose in coming. As to loving him, I eally believe I don't know what the sympoms are. I am glad to see him. He is good, nd a splendid artist, and, very likely, could ake good care of a wife; but I always fancied bat I should feel a little differently toward , ny man that I loved." "I think you would, Helen ; and let me ad- , ise you never to marry until you do love. ] rou may mistake your feelings toward Mr. 'hayer. Think candidly and seriously, and < ecide as is right, without reference to expe- ( iency: and, my dear child, do not call your-1 j ilf a burden to us. It is better to share povrty with your father and mother, than to sell , ourself for a home." j "I don't think I will ever love any one as < ou do father. Perhaps it would be just as j nd, for the sake of his talent, he is received , 1 the best circles, so I should have good so- ( iety. Please forget your moral philosophy , moment, mother, and tell me, don't you j bink I'd better ?" i "My dear child! You must decide for j ourself, and, remember, it is for life." "Well! I have until morning to think of ] ;. Good night." Helen kissed her mother ] ffectionately, and, taking the letter and miniture, went to her room. She looked at j, he exquisite painting of the miniature. "He ; Dves me," she thought. "I know he would !, ie kind. My life would be so different from ! ,'hat it is now! Then I am sure I could help | j ather and mother in some way. I should j j earn to love him, I presume." The scales j descended on the side of expediency, and Hel-! j n went to sleep, to dream of operas and ar- j ist's receptions where she should be the en-1 , ied of women and theadmired of men. > i "I suppose Kenwood will expect to see you , ,nd father then," Helen said the next morn- nS "And what is your decision ?" asked the oother. , "It is, "yes, sir, if you please," Helen anwered, laughing; "and Oh! I feel so relieved , ince I know how I am to get my winter dress- . s." , Mrs. Weston's reproving look was wasted, or Heleu's eyes were intent upon the window. ( "There! he is coming. I do hope he will lispense with any such lover-like demonstraions as are recorded in novels. How do I ook, mother ? I feel terribly nervous?as if . should either laugh or cry as soon as I meet nra. "Do try to compose yourself, Helen. Now, >f all times, you should be womanly." "I-don't want to be a wonyan!" Helen ex-1 claimed. "I wish I could be a child always. \ [ used to be hannv?but there's the bell!" ! 1 * y ! md, wiping the tears away that had gathered n her eyes she'went to meet her lover?half | smiles, half tears. The interview was brief, but to Mr. Thayer j* my satisfactory. Helen's indifference seemed a him but maidenly hesitation and timidity. He felt that the fruit was sound that did not fall too readily into his haud. He admired j Mrs. Weston's cheerful dignity, and Mr.; Weston's christian submission to trials. "I can love them for their own sakes as I well as for yours," he said to Helen, when j they were alone. Mary was not to be seen. Her hands were j more than full in restraining Johnny and i Lawrie from rushing into the parlor with j torn aprons and bristling hair, to see "sis's beau.". The preliminaries were left to be arranged by letter; Mr. Thayer stipulating that the wedding should not be postponed later than December, and Helen assenting because it would give her a part of the winter gaities of the city. i CHAPTER IV. The wherewithal to buy the weddiiig outfit, J was now Helen's chief anxiety. The bank at home had suspended payment. Nothing was left for her to do but to draw on her own re-! sources. "What can I do, mother, to earn some mon-1 ey ?" she asked one day after having thought herself almost to the point of distraction. "You might teach a summer school. It is early in June, and they may not all be engaged ; though the chance is doubtful." "How can I secure one? Shall I go on a walking tour with my clothes in a handker-1 chief, and carrying a blue cotton umbrella?" j "0, do. All that is necessary is to call on ! Mr. Clive. He will know if there is a vacan, cy." i Mr. Clive was a young widower, who, hav-> j ing been made independent of labor by his wife's last will and testament, was always ready for any office with which there was more of honor than profit connected, partic- l ularly if but little care was involved. "I am but slightly acquainted with Mr. Clive," objected Helen. "Write him a uote. It is simply a matter of business." jJ The note was written, and Johnny, with j freshly polished face, was made the bearer,! and instructed to wait for a reply; but he re-! turned with only a verbal one, and that oddlvj confused. "Mr. Clive would giveMiss Helenl the pleasure of calling on her in the afternoon | ?:*u Tntnnu'o mnmnrrl WiWJ IClClOliUC IAJ ) AIWCV M ?. completely failed him. "Do me the pleasure ?" questioned Helerr.J "Mother, did you ever hear such an impei^i-} nent message ?" ? "Johnny has, probably, confused the wonted I presume he said he would do himself the pleasure of calling on you." I Mr. Clive called, in his most elaborate costume and hiB most polished manner. He was the village model of grace and gentlemanliness, and all the match-making mothers and silly daughters had tried in vain to capture_ him. Mrs. Weston and Helen had been among the notable exceptions, treating him; with ordinary politeness, hence he took espe-j cial pains to make a favorable impression. ' There was one vacancy. It was a small, school about a mile from the village. Thc^ walk, he presumed, would be the greatest pbjjection, but it would be his duty and pleasure j to send her a carriage whenever it was neces-1 eary. j "I do not object to the walk, and shall be glad to take the school, if I can pass au ex?"" amination. I am sure of the multiplication table," Helen said, after Mr. Clive had elab^ orated the plan, and presented it in all its] bearings. \ : "We can easily dispose of that," he said,.! and proceeded to ask a few simple questions^ which Helen answered, feeling all the time asf if she were standing up in school with pina- J fore and pantalettes ; and that Helen, the 1 real Helen, who so loved dress and gaiety, was a myth. "I will call with your certificate to-morrow: evening," said Mr. Clive, bowing himself out with an inimitable backward movement, and, upsetting Johnny and Laurie, who were in the 1 hall peeping around the side of the door. There were a few "oh's I" and "ah's 1" ftnd 'look-a-here's," and Mr. Clive drove off in 3ne direction, while the boys scampered away in another. Mr. Clive called again and again. There 1 tvere rainy days, when he went after Helen in his carriage, or sent a driver, and then called to see if she reached home safely. There were: < pleasant days. He went after her to tajy-Trl i " . .... i ' tofearyiug.' It was v^ery 'delighiftr^- NBCu-'fj ried the monotony. The fresh air and chjfcge >f scene quieted the nerves that every night were quivering with the day's vexations, the 1 petty annoyances that sting like so many bees, 1 singly, insignificant, but formidable in the aggregate. 1 "Do you know what the gossips are saying, 1 Helen," Mrs. Weston said, one evening, when her daughter came in from a ride. "No, mother, and I have not the slightest 1 curiosity on the subject." ' "Butyou should have; I mean'you should avoid giving occasion to gossip." "That is quite another matter. What have . [ done ?" Helen said, sitting down and folding her hands in mock humility. "I think, my dear," Mrs. Weston replied, gently, "that as you are expecting to marryt Mr. Thayer, you ought not to receive such marked attentions from Mr. Clive. You have taken a number of rides with him, and he has sent you books and bouquets. If he had been your intended husband he could have done : little more." Helen had refrained from interrupting her mother, though with difficulty. ! "I should like to know who has any right--' to dictate my course of conduct. 1 have done nothing improper, and nothing more than I shall continue to do. I do not even recognize Kenwood Thayer's right to deprive me of the only enjoyment I have." "You forget that you are speaking to your mother and of your future husband. Your happiness, my child, should be in making yourself worthy to be the wife of a good man, and in doing what you can to aid yourself. Now that we have decided to return to the Ridge, I feel extremely anxious about vq,u, |> WKot ?.;il vm, rlr* without. vour home and ' mother?" Helen tried to keep her lips firm, but they ( quivered with emotion and her eyes filled with I tears. She threw herself down by her moth er's side and laid her head on her knee: . 4 "I don't know, mother. I wish I could go j with you. I get so tired and nervofis,K&l^ the children don't learn anything. I just: wish I was ?" "Hush!" interrupted Mrs. "VYeston. "1 was only going to say that I wished I, was married and out of my misery." "You can go with us. You might teach ar small class, and earn enough, in that Way, for I your outfit, even if you were obliged to post-! pone your marriage." "No. I suppose I had better finish here. j then when I come home I cau sew, and have time to help you. Poor Mary, it seems to me 1 that she is not as well as usual. I ought to 1 relieve her more. I know the children tor- J ment her." "Mary is not 6troug, but I hope when she j gets rested from being up so much of nights 1 with your father, that she will be better." j "Am I selfish, mother?" Helen asked, #.Uv> ruptly, and looking up earnestly. The mother looked at the bright brown eyes and delicately outlined face with its soft, pjnk flush, and her mother-heart responded, i "No, my darling. Why do you ask ?" "Because I am so different from you and! Mary. You both spend all your time fordothers. And, after all, I believe you are hap-! pier than I am." "Mary's misfortune has made her patieat. You have never had a severe trial." "Must we have trials before we are good?" "We ought not to need them. The 'goodness of the Lord should lead us to repentanoe,' but, like wilful children, we yield only unoer chastisement," "0, mother, what a world it is! Eveiy ' thjtg is just what it is not. Good is evil, and 1 I pi<isure is pain, and life is death! I am tired ofits contradictions." Helen arose imparity ? i i 'Wait a moment, my child," Mrs. Weston sod. The world looks confused and contra(Jctory to you, because you look through a f|?e- medium?simple, personal enjoyment; rfdfl fear you are selfish, my dear. Every < 1 tlfog in life, 'good and evil, pleasure and pain,'! | vil be helps instead of hindrances, if you ' r/le them rightly?as a means of self-improve^uent, of g od to others, and of glory to God." : | "Yes, mother," Helen said, kissing her ; "but it all sounds so much like a book, that I cunit fully appreciate it. Don't look griev- j ed. I will think it all over. I know I am Selfish, and am very sure I am not happy, jfttwithstanding I am so near "the consum-! hjftjion devoutly to be wished.' Good night," and, with assumed gaiety, she ran out of the , rflrorii, trailing her mother's white crape shawl j .over the carpet. !" sighed the mother, and a tear j 'flapped 011 the sewing in. her lap. Then | fyary came in, and the two stitched far into ?he night upon bridal ruffles and tucks. I Mr. Weston slowly regained his strength, full'hot his elasticity of spirits. Always uncomplaining, he walked about the neglected garden, lightened in many helpful ways his wifirs labors, and sat in his arm chair with Johnny and Lawrie on either knee, instructing and amusing them. He was ready to do, or to go, or to be whatever, or. whenever his wife wished ; but to plan for himself he had j no heart. Mrs. Weston was yet full of cheer- i ful courage. She could notgive up the strug-1 gle,'with a disheartened husband and helpless i children relying upon her. Every unneces- j won onlH t.n nnv i Baiv tti vii/io \ji luiAui/uiv -w I?j , debts; Mr. Weston went through the form of j giving his note for the remaining indebted-} Hess; and one sultry August evening found ! them in the desolated house at Clayton Ridge. ! "Ready to begin the world anew," Mrs. j Weston said, as she surveyed the dusty, tired i faces, and the confusion of boxes and bundles.1 "You remember, don't you, John, our first to house-keeping, and how formidable the 'settling process' looked ?" "Yes, I remember," Mr. Weston said, arousing from his state of abstraction. To excite his interest in things around him was his wife's constant endeavor, for it had become his habit to sit or stand for hours looking straight-forward; and, apparently, either thinking with great intentness or not at all. With Mary's assistance "order was soon brought out of confusion," and they were ready to devise some plan of support. It was finally decided that they should occupy but three or four rooms, leaving the rest of the house to be rented to some family or families; and, that in one of these rooms, whether sitting-room or parlor, its nondescript garnishing made it impossible to decide, Mr. W&ton should receive a class in Latin or rp^old. As for Johnny and Lawrie, they uced never be idle so long as they could find sticks to whittle, or stones to "fire;" and, besides, they helped keep the parents' hearts whole by giving them something to work for, and fere a daily discipline of patience to their cousin Mary. In a few weeks Mr. Weston's class numbered ten, and Mary had all the sewing she could do. Mrs. Weston managed the slender finances with wonderful skill, and though there was little, if any prospect, of paying their debts, they were so much more comfortable than when they were in the great house and living on credit, and the days went by in such a peaceful routine, that a pleasant contentment settled down over the whole household. Their quiet was interrupted by the uuexpeci?d arrival of Helen. "T * 1 il 1 M 1 "l wa9 oDiigea to give tne cuiiaren a vacation for picking hops," she explaiued, "so I thought I'd come home and rest a little. It is so dull where I board. Mr. and Mrs. Reeves are so prosy. They sit and doze; the big, black cat purs, and looks at me with its great green eyes that never wink ; and the Dutch clock ticks ; and that is all I hear from j four o'clock until nine." "Why don't you read," asked Mrs. Weston, taking off carefully the jaunty little traveling hat, and fastening the loosened braids of hair. "You have a new hat," she added, shaking out the ribbons and blowing off the dust. "Yes. Mr. dive advanced some of my money. But about reading at Mr. Reeves'. Why, mother! They have not a book in the house but a Bible and Almanac, and some agricultural and congressional reports. If it hadn't been for Mr.dive, I don't know what I shonld have done after you came away." i "You might sew. You will be very busy j by aild by." "I know it, but I don't feel like sewing after j school; and, then, I haven't a particle of; 'gumption' about cutting out and planning." | i 'yfty Helen, do remember. Do not! receive any more attention from Mr. dive than is absolutely necessary, without being rude." "Please don't talk about Mr. dive, mother. .Where is father ? I saw Mary as I came through the hall, and heard Johnny and Laurie sUmetime before the stage reached the gate." _ j ~ "He has gone out to walk with the chil- \ dren. It keeps them out of my way, and ( they enjoy being with their father." We are getting along very nicely, Helen? J very comfortably. "I am glad," said Helen, looking about the room ruefully. "I do believe you wear rosecolored spectacles, mother." "I wear just the cheapest and best kind, then, Helen." It fras quite a gala time. Helen's vivat.iouB ways, brightened the dingy rooms. Mr. Weston laughed for the first time in months; Mrs. Weston and Mary exerted themselves to j prepare a nice tea and keep the children quiet, j and Johnny and Lnwrie rovelod in the almost' forgotten sugar cakes and preserves of former days*"*' * The next raorniug Johnny brought a letter to Helen from the post office. It was from Kenwood Thayer enclosing a joint-note from Lizzie and Frederic Lee. Learning from Helen's last letter, that she was to spend a week at home, they were intending to drive out and call upon her some pleasant morning. Helen's momentary look of pleasure was succeeded by one of consternation. "What shall we do, mother?" she exclaimed, handing her the unfortunate letter. "Receive them," laconically replied Mrs. Weston, glancing over its contents. The coolness exasperated Helen beyond the power of verbal expression, so she sat down and cried hysterically. "My dear child," Mrs. Weston said, anxiously trying to soothe her. "Do not feel so. They are your friends. They will understand the circumstances, and love you just as well. Don't cry dear." But Helen cried uutil she could not speak, or, rather did not speak until she stopped crying. "But it i9 so mortifying, mother. All of us huddled together in these few rooms, and two other families in the house! Then the furniture is so shabby. Oh, dear! I wish I hadn't told them I was coming home!" "But, as you did tell them, and they are cominer. we must make the best of it" O' "If I only knew just when they were coming, it would be different; but now they may come when we are all in confusion and the children looking like frights." . The children need not be seen. Father can hear his class in the kitchen, and every morning you can be in full dress, and keep watch for their arrival in the parlor. I will bake a little pound-cake, and there is one bottle of wine left that was sent to your father, so that we can give them a lunch." "You are a wonderful manager, mother," Helen said, brightening. "It is not so bad as it might be. I don't care for the looks of things on Kenwood's account, nor Lizzie's; but Frederick Lee is so particular. He is so exquisite himself, that he expects every body and every thing to be so too." For three days the household air was? "The Lees are a-coming, oho! oho!'' &e. Then they came. There was so much to be said, and the oull was so short, and Mrs. Weston's pound-cake and wine so nice, that Helen passed through the ordeal with but little mortification. Lizzie was just as kind as before their misunderstanding; Frederic was affectionate and brotherly; and Kenwood, was, if ???* IaoI- in o/lm! f i An pussiuie, inure iriinu cvci iuov m .iuil>uu>.vU. He had but a moment's private conversation with his betrothed, and that he gained by being the last to take his seat in the carriage. "I do not feel as if I had seen you," he said regretfully. "I shall come alone next time." "Oh! I have enjoyed it. I don't like private theatricals," Helen answered saucily, at the same time lifting to his, her smiling brown eyes, and effacing the unpleasant impression her words had made. "I am to go to Lizzie's just as soon as school is out, and get my outdt there. Kenwood thinks it is best, but he would prefer being married here. Isn't he odd ?" Helen had given her mother the details of the call. "I think not," Mrs. Weston replied. "The most suitable place for your wedding is in your father's house, even if it were a logcabin with only one room." "I don't see what difference it makes. Liy&ie proposes having the ceremony in the gi.o yj |rftjnn> in give me f. oecepiumas a sort ul lnliuaUl'lfPn juSu ww 3Uw b?i if you and Kenwood agree, I must not dissent." "Lizzie is very kind. She can give you the reception on your arrival, and you can be married quietly at home. Otherwise, none of your family could be present." "Yes, it would be better on that account," Helen said, with a faint sigh. Mr. Clive missed his pretty protege. With no quiet walks in country lanes, no drives, no sending of flowers and periodicals, no prettily expressed thanks and bright, welcoming smiles, "Othello's occupation was gone," and with it his enjoyment. Yes! Mr. Clive, the invincible, the Achilles among marriageable young men, was vulnerable?wounded, not in the heel, but, more fatally, in the heart! Helen's absence brought him to a sense of his condition. He loved her. He would marry her. She ought to be the wife of some man who could take good care of her?such a pretty, daiuty little woman ! He was tired of boarding. His room was never dusted; his shaving-water was always cold; the coffee merely a suspicion, and as for hash and bread-pudding, the supply was greater than the demand. Helen, of all women he had ever seen, was the most worthy to be Mrs. Clive No. 2, and he decided to give her that honor just as soon as it could be done. For a week after her return to the school and Mr. Reeves', it rained almost without cessation. A drive was impossible, and a call in the presence of the Dutch clock, uuwinkiug cat and dozing host and hostess, would be, to say the least, unfavorable to-sentiment. Mr. Clive insisted upon the importance of a correspondence between subject and accessory. To woo with pathetic eloquence, all the surroundings snouia inspiretenaer tnougnts? the subdued hum of insects, the soft, fading sunset-light, with here and there a star stealing timidly out into the vast field of blue. But this favorable concurrence of circumstances was delayed for more than a week. When it did not rain, it was cloudy; and when it was not cloudy, the wind blew; and who would talk of love in the teeth of the wind, when one's greatest care must be to retain a seceding hat or parasol? Thus it was that Helen remained in happy unconsciousness of the surprise in store for her, until one pleasant afternoon nearly two weeks after her return. She had just brushed her hair, changed her dress, and smoothed the tired, perplexed look out of her face, when the handsome carriage, with its elegant driver, stopped before the door. "I am saglad you came for me," she said with charming frankness, as they drove away. "I have been so lonely during all this dreary weather." Then Mr. Olive expatiated upon his loneliness, not only during that week, but all the weeks before he formed Helen's acquaintance. He grow pathetic, and Helen, sympathetic. They drove on, and just as they were rolling leisurely through a picturesque bit of woodlaud, Mr. t!j , concluded his discourse with a fine peroration, and was about to add the "application," and ask his listening companion to share and brighten his loneliness, when they met another carriage, and?Kenwood Thayer. There was a hasty recognition, a look of surprise, on Mr. Thayer's face, of embarrassment and surprise in Helen's, and the carriages passed each other. "A stranger in town !" commented Mr. Clive, keenly noting Helen's attempt at an indifferent composure of manner. "Yes; a gentleman from New York. I am ! ft little chilly, Mr. Give. Don't you minis j we had better go home?" i "Certainly. It is unpardonable in me to have kept you out so long," and he turned the horses at once, and drove toward Mr. j Reeves', though not at a rapid pace. "Now, or never," he thought, and before I Helen could sufficiently collect her thoughts, I to understand what he was saying, the flatterj ing proposal was made in due form. "0 Mr. Clive!" Helen exclaimed, looking at him in surprise. "I didn't think?you didn't know ." A "katy-did" finished the sentence with its monotonous assertion and contradiction; "katy did. Katy didn't." Mr. Clive was deeply in earnest, though his confidence in the result had kept hira from betraying it; but the prize which he had regarded as his own might belong to another. "What did you not think, and what did not know ?" he asked, losing all his suavity ; in the bitterness of bis disappointment. "0, Mr. Clive, please take me home," Helen I pleaded.; AT am so tired. I will answer you | then. Indeed, I will; only please don't speak to me again until we get there." Shutting hid lips firmly together and looking straight forward, Mr. Clive drove rapidly homeward. , "I am not going in," he said, before assisting Helen to alight. "Will you answer ray questions now ?" "Yes. I am so sorry; but, Mr. Clive, I am to marry the gentlemen that we met this evening." "And I am sorry that you regret it," he replied, with a sarcastic smile, touching his hat, and bowing a "good night." "OhI if could only see mother!" Helen said, locking herself iuto her room, and sitting down on the uncaTpeted floor with her head on the low window seat. "L ara always in trouble 1" she thought, crying from self-pity. "Mr. Clive was very i angry; Kenwood Thayer would be offended, and go back to the- city without seeing her, and, perhaps wish to be freed from his engagement ; and then she could go to the Ridge and help Mary with her plain sewing." Just as she reached this climax, she heard another carriage, and, looking out, saw Kenwood Thayer. She ran down to admit him, too glad to think of red eyes and unbrushed hair; and found not a jealous lover, but a man, honest, kind and true, who received her faltering explanations and then generously dropped the subject, saying; "In a few weeks you will be safe from annoyance in your own home." Ashamed of her coqueteries and resolved to be very circumspect in future, Helen retired, but not to sleep, excepting in brief, disturbed naps; and, hence, awoke in the morning with a nervous headache and an unaccountable apprehension of coming ills. She left her breakfast untested, and went out for a walk, hoping to be refreshed by the cool September j air. At the foot of the hill beyond the school j house she met Mr. Clive. He reined up his I horses hv the narrow foot-nath. passing, to present my apologies for being so abrupt last evening." "It is not necessary," Helen answered, somewhat haughtily, and was about to pass on ; when he remonstrated. "Do not hasten. I will detain you but a moment. Am I forgiven ?" "Certainly, if you need forgiveness." "You do not look well this morning," he continued. "I fear you are not able to be in the school-room to-day. Take a seat in the carriage. A brisk drive will restore your color." Alas! for resolutions! The temptation was great. It might cure the dull throbbing in her head. To hesitate was to decide, for Mr. Clive sprang out with such alacrity, and offered his hand so confidently, that before she fully realized what she was doing, they were driving rapidly over the last evening's route. The fresh air rushing against her burning forehead was very grateful. "How pleasant life could be made! so different from the dull, plodding thing it had been to her! But, was she doing right ? What would Kenwood say! How fortuuate that he had left that rnoru! i?g Mr. Clive did not find his companion very sociable, but was quite content to have accomplished as much as he had. He was too wise to manifest anything but profound respect | and sympathy, which was balm to Helen's restless, accusing conscience. "I beg pardon, Miss Weston," Mr. Clive said, suddenly taking out his watch. "It is nearly ten o'clock. The time has seemed so short to me! But I suppose your little flock is waiting for the gentle shepherdess." "I am very sorry," Helen said, anxiously. "What excuse can I give them? Please drive back as quickly aa you can." "Never mind about an excuse. The little urchins have enjoyed it, and I know you are better able to teach than when I met you." Helen's murmured thanks was all the conversation attempted, on her part. She was too mortified and anxious, to enjoy or participate in small talk, beyond which Mr. Clive rarely ventured. The children were playing around the school house, much elated at having time for a prolonged game of "everlasting tag." They | stared at Helen and Mr. Clive with great ! round eyes and open mouths; and for the remaining hour of the forenoon indulged in whispered remarks upon the "school-ma'am" and her "beau, the 'missioner," Ac the side of her plate that noon, Helen found a letter. She saw, at a glance, it was from Kenwood Thayer, "Jimmy Gelding fetched the letter jest afore ye came in. I don't know as you'll thank me, but in my day two beaux to onct was one too many," "I do not thank you, Mrs. Reeves," said Helen, haughtily. A vivid flush succeeded the sudden paleness that had overspread her face, and she left the r^om. The note was brief. | "Helen : I did not leave as I intended, and | should have called on you this morning, had ' I not heard of your engagement with Mr. j Clive. I have loved you with my whole i heart, and, in return, must have your undivided affection. Kenwood Thayer." "What espionage!" Helen exclaimed.? "What does he intend to do, I wonder, if the ride was contemplated ?" With this impatient feeling, the hasty, independent reply was penned, and despatched by Johnny Gilding: "Mr. Thayer : I question your right to hold me under surveillance, but will answer I yviu IjUCCklUU. jLiiv V, , .. _ . morning was not contemplated last evening. Helen Weston." That evening, Mr. Keeves brought the reply from the post office. Helen had time to think during the day, and was in an unenviable state of perturbation and anxiety as to the conclusion of the matter. She had learned to appreciate her lover's worth; and, in fact, loved him-as well i as she was then capable of loving. She opened, the note and glanced nervously at its few words, then crumpling it into her pocket, threw herself on the bed and sobbed and cried like a child. Brief as it was, it had cost the strongest effort of a man's heart, and the happiness of two lives: r mi "Good lye, dear child. It has all been a mistake. I am glad that I alone must suffer. j Kenwood Thayer." [to be continued next week.] [Copies of the Enquire* containing the prcvlou* chapter* of I thli; Story can be fiimlibed to new wwcrlbw.] THE DETRAGE COMMITTEE. The Congressional sub-cora mittee selected to inveetigate the causes of Southern disturbances, arrived on Wednesday evening of last week and have gone to work with a will. Wo are pleased to learn that some of those who have been examined before them testify to their courtesy and gentlemanly bdhring. They sit in the Palmetto House. How long they will remain is problematical?perhaps eight or ten days. .... . *{ Hon. James- Chestnut came up on Friday and was examined for -three hours or more. Gen. W. H. Wallace and Col. Joseph F. Gist from Unionville, have also been.summoned here for the same purpose. These gentlemen looked as well and cheerful as could be expected. A lively mien and happy spirits are not compatible with such thoughts as now crowd themselves into the minds of our former legislators and persons devoted to the interests of their beloved native State. A large number of colored witnesses have been summoned at the instance of the principal radicals of this town, we suppose, and are crowded into the back yard of the Palmetto, awaiting the time of their respective examinations. Detachments of United States Cavalry, under the guidance of W. Magill Fleming, S. T. Poinier, C. L. Casey or some one of their kind, have left town almost loaf wool/ tn aiimrrmn wifnMaM uanj ivi uuw ?iwu nvw? w uwu?*mwm " and, in two or three instances, have made arrests. One of those arrested and brought to jail is charged with violating the law at the last general election by intimidating voters. The man thus charged, we learn, claims that he voted the radical ticket, which might be true and him still guilty; but how can this arrest be reconciled/jyith such a fact? Who ever heard before of a radical being arrested by radicals for intimidating voters ? We do not know that we are correct in our opinions about this proceeding, and will not venture To give them. Another man who, about three months ago, was the biggest radical in this county except one,-has also been arrested and brought to town, but we do not know that he was lodged in jail. This last named individual was the flag-bearer at the first radical' turn-out we ever witnessed in Spartanburg. He was one of the three white skinned men at the head of a column of negroes. Yet this man is arrested as a. ku-klux^ Wlacr^k the uu v y " m, ; ring Von Moltke of the radicals in this county whose strategic genius is being brought to light in this present field of operations ? Two or three others who have been arrested, we believe, are in jail, but do not. know the cause of their arrest What the accumulative proof is, so far, we know not. Certain it is that much of the testimony will bear a great deal of sifting to arrive at the truth. If the personnel of many of the witnesses could go along with their testimony it would not do Democracy much damage in 1872, among fair-minded voters. We have heard of at least one of the negro witnesses who was threatened with personal violence, by a white radical, if he did not say that violence had been inflicted upon him and that he knew and would divulge the names of parties. One negro said that a white man wanted him to swear that certain parties were guilty of violating the revenue laws, Ac. We mention these things to show the programme that is being adopted by some of the leading radicals to make their impression upon the minds of the committee, and to get the evidence wanted. The committee of twenty-one appointed l^y Congress, of which the three here are a part, was not intended to enforce or assist in the enforcement of the ku-klux Act, but to collect such data as they thought the South would furnish to make up a campaign document for 1872, and furnish a pretext for increasing the regular army to such numbers as would enable the authors of the ku-klux or enforcement Act to place bayonets at every voting precinct in the South. This is our understanding of the objects of the Outrage Committee. Spartanburg Spartan, 13th instant. ? ? 4 THE GREAT MAN-MILLINER. Of "WnrtV?" iVio Parisian "man.millinar " a correspondent writes: Ambassadors' wives and court ladies used to go and take tea wijh the fellow, and dispute the honor of filling his cup or putting sugar into it. I once went into his shop?a sort of drawing room hung around with dresses ; I found him lolling on a chair, his legs crossed before the fire. Around him were a bevy of women, some pretty, some ugly, listening to his observations with tho rapt attentions of the disciples of a sage. He called them up before him like school girls, and, after inspecting them, praised or blamed their dresses. One, apretty young girl, found favor in his eyes, and he told her that he must dream &Vtd meditate several days over her, in order to find the inspiration to make a gown worthy of her. "Why do you wear those ugly gloves ?" he said to another; "never let me see you in gloves of that color again." She was a very grand lady, but she slipped off her gloves and put them in her pocket with a guilty look. When there was going to be a ball at court, ladies used to go down on their knees to him to make them beautiful. For some time he declined to dress any longer | the wife of a great imperial dignitary who | had not been sufficiently humble toward him; i she came to him in tears, but he was obdurate and only consented at last to make a gown for her on the condition that she would put it on for the first time in his shop. The Empress, who dealt with him, sent to tell him that if he did not abate his prices she would leave him. "You cannot," he replied, and, in fact, she could not. for she st/Wf hv Viim +/? the last. A morning dress by this artist, worth in reality about four pounds, cost thirty pounds; an evening dress, tawdry with flounces, ribbons and bad lace, could not be had under seventy pounds. There are about thirty shops in Paris, where, as at this manmilliner's, the goods are not better than elsewhere, but where they cost ten times their value. They are patronized by fools with more money than wits, and chiefly by foreign fools. The proprietor of one of these establishments was complaining to me the other day of what he was losing by the siege; I told him that I sympathized with him about as much as I should with a Greek brigand bewailing a falling off of wealthy strangers in the district where he was in the habit of carrying on his commercial operations.