Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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IfORJCW1" OLE"?E W Q 01R E R*?1 | Lgtvis m. (j-BisT, i>i,<>i>rietor. j |Ut ^nbfpcnbfnt /aroilg ^tosgagtrT^Jor tj;c promotion ?f tjte ^political, jLtal, ^gtimltotai ani> Cgmmcrcial |ntrosts cf i|<! TERMS---$3.oo a yeas, in advance. [| J VOL. 18. YOEKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, JANUARY 4, 1872. NO. 1. I * % 1 * 1 v JU ?rigiaal fmc Jdatg. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. THE OiAXHURST ROMANCE. ftv MRS. frENRY DEAS. . ^ v CHAPTER I. On tysojft summer evening, some twenty yeai* ago, tne setting sun looked in at the open window of a cottage chamber, touching with its rays the fair, head of a young girl jWio sat on a low ottoman, busily engaged in sewing. On a couch, near the windo\V, lay a pale, fragile looking woman, whose wasted form and face bore unmistakable testimony to the ravages of disease. Her eyes were fixed anxiously on the young needle-woman, and at length A 1am r. j 1 - 1- iUn n HAM tl/\n u 'vug, wcluuiou.s sign arrcsbcu tnc aticuuuu of the latter, whio immediately rose from her 'seat, and throwing aside her work, approached v, couch, overf*which she bent with-afleetionk an)irite^r * "Mamma, dear, are you suffering much this evening ?" she asked, as, with a gentle hand, she stroked the invalid's brow. "I am not in much pain, Ethel; but I feel more restless and unwell than usual," was the reply. "I have been thinking a great deal to-day, and it has unsettled me a little." "You should not think, mamma, it only tires you." "It is impoisible to keep from it, dear child," said her mother with a faint smile. "I do generally aroid, as much as possible, all harrassing thought, but it forces itself upon me sometimes?and to-day, Ethel, I have felt unusually troulled and anxious. There is a weight on my heart which I cannot throw off." "My dearest mother! Let me sing one of your favorite lltle ballads, to cheer you up." "Not now, Ithel; it would only make me more sad. Thi truth is, I have been going over my past lie?recalling some of the trials of my.early cays, and my own faults and follies, which lave risen up very distinctly i before me." i "Tour faults and follies, mamma 1" said Ik _ Ethel, incredubusly. "Yes, mine?vhy not ? you don't think me 'j exempt from eiher, do you ?" "I do not kn<w what you may have been when you were wing, mamma, but I am certain you are at nearly perfect now as any mortal can be.' "My dear, tht is because you love me so much; but I au far from perfect, and once on a time I vas a very jyicked, undutiful girl." "Mamma!" "Ethel, sit lere by me, and let me tell you \ a story of ray mouthful days. I feel as if it BT were wrong ii me to have kept you as long as I have ftaa the knowledge of a fact which it concerns y<u nearly to know; but I have always shrunc from speaking of it, because I feared it w.uld pain your young heart. Now, I think it my duty not to keep you PB ^ ^onger-iuHgrorance, for I feel sometimes that the time is viry near when I shall be called f hence, and lave you and Minnie alone and unprotected n the world." I "Mamma, )h! mamma, don't speak in that I way," said Ebel with tearful eyes. "You are no worse thai you have been lately; you have even lo<ked better, these last few days." The invalil shook her head. "My darling child," she sad, tenderly pressing her daugh tcr'shand, "itsuseless to try to blind ourselves to the truth. VXy strength has been gradually foiling for toolong a time for it to last much longer ; I feel an inward premonition that it will soon give way. For myself, I cannot regret the prospect of a release; but I shrink from the thought of your being left friendless when I am gone. Not friendless, for there ar? many who lore and esteem you, and there is, oesides, one Friend on whom you can always rely; but it would be a comfort to me to know that you could lot^forward to having a sife home with some one who had the right to guard and cheerish you." Ethel hid her face in the pillow that supj ported her mother's head, while her tears flowed fast. Vainly she tried to check the emotion her mother's words had called forth, until at length a whisper of "Ethel, my dear child, indeed you will agitate me too much? I canuot bear it," gave her strength to force back the sobs that were bursting from her heart, and rallying all her fortitude, she sat up, resolutely brushed away her tears, and said tremulously, "Forgive me, mamma, I will try not to distress you again. It was very wrong in me, but I could not help it. Will you have the salvolatile ?" Her mother took the little bottle, which her weakness obliged her frequently to make use of, and held it some time without speaking. At last she resumed with renewed composure, "Ethel, my love, I am going to startle you 1 TV* 1 1 ... il..i J very raucn. uia you Know mai your grunupapa was still living?" "Grandpapa! your father, mamma?" "Yes, my father. I have alwayiled you to believe that you had no near living relatives; but he is actually living, though, through a fault of mine, he has been completely estranged from me for many years as though he had been dead." Ethel sat silent with astonishment. "You may well look amazed Ethel; but I wish to tell you now how it all happened. I wish too, for your sake, to seek a reconciliation, before I pass from hence, with the parent who once loved me so tenderly, but whose love I forfeited by my own reckless and fatal impudence." "Mamma," said Ethel in a determined voice, "stop for one moment before you say another word. I only want to tell you before I hear anything about it, that I am perfectly sure, however, the estrangement came about, that it was his fault and not yours." "Nay, Ethel, you are wrong. Mine was the fault, though his judgment of me was norl>#ns a little spvprp. TCnf. von filial 1 hear and decide for yourself. I have never told you, have I, that he very strongly objected to my marryiug your father ?" "No." "When I was about sixteen years old, your father came into our neighborhood. We were |y living on our old family place in , where ' your grandfather is living yet. How well I remember the house, the trees, the garden ri sloping down to the river bank, the meadow 1 :re we used to play as children, happy ineut children, my brother Frank and I. I^iow, in the last few days, that far off seemed very near. Well, its I was V 1 saying, ray childhood's days had passed, | j peacefully and happily, in that pleasant spot; j there were only'us two children beside your i grandfather; mother had died when we were j very young. He was rather a stern man in | | his ways, but kind to us, and fond and proud i j of us both?especially of Frank, who was his , i favorite. Frank was three years ray senior;' , he was off at college when Edward?your ! papa?first bought Maybank, the place next : to ours, and came there to live. "I don't know precisely how it was, but ray ' father and Edward never seemed to fancy each other from the first. Your papa was hasty, and rather selfopinionated, and father had a way of laying down the law to young people, that Edward somewhat resented. Of ' - i-t-t I course, being sucn a near neiguuui, uj i frequently to come to the Grange; and he j hadn't been visiting there very long when he : began to pay me marked attention. I was, as II have before told you, very young, and had | been very little away from home; and I was J naturally flattered by his notice, for he was j ; clever and handsome, and had a winning, i persuasive way that was hard to resist. ! "When father found out how matters were going on, he was worried and displeased. One day he sent for me in his study, and said to me very gravely, 'Kate, I am sorry to see | that Mr? Fraser is so attentive to you, and I that you encourage him. It does not please i me that he should come here so often.' 44 'But, father, I can't help his coming here,' ! I rejoined. I was secretly vexed at his speak! ing about it, and was moreover bent on fol| lowing my own fancy in the matter, as I j thought I had a right to do. " 'You can help letting him see how pleased ! you are at his visits, at any rate,' said father, j sharply. 4Your intimacy with him annoys me ! exceedingly, and I tell you now, once for all, ' that I won't allow this sort of thing to go on any longer. You may go now, and I advise you seriously to consider what I say to you.' j 4,I left the study, inwardly chafing at father's words, yet afraid to manifest my displeasure. Upon Edward's next visit, I could not forbear pdviner him a hint of the state of af O o fairs, and from that time he became more guarded in his behavior toward me, and came seldomer to the Grange, though when no one was present he was more devoted to me than I ever, while my own affection for him increased ! daily, and I became more persuaded than ever of your grandfather's injustice, j "Some time passfed, and my brother Frank finally returned from college. Almost ascoon as he came, it appeared that ray father spoke to him privately on the subject of your papa's attention to me; for that very evening, he took me aside, and told me that he had heard of it, and hoped I would not encourage anything of the kind, as he would be very sorry to see me the wife of an unprincipled spendthrift like Edward Fraser. "Upon this I flared up, and asked him what I grounds he had for speaking of Mr. Fraser in i such harsh terras. I " 'I know a good deal about him,' he anj swered, and I entreat you, Katie, not to throw i away your happiness by allowing him to en' snare your affection.' j "I burst into tears, and told him that it was very hard that he too should turn against ! me, and try to get up a quarrel just as he had ! returned home. ? 11 nInef imii V lio vnininoil 'Whv i. U1U agaiUOb ^VIV UV * VJVIUVS.. .? mm J J 7 #?y~ilear gister, I am speaking entirely for i your own good ; and as for quarreling, I had ! not the remotest idea of such a thing. But I ; had no idea your feelings on the subject were ! so strong.' j "Peace was accordingly made between us, | and I became more guarded than ever in my I conduct to Edward. It was scarcely two j weeks after this, however, that he made me ' a formal proposal of marriage, and I unhesi| tatingly accepted him, in utter defiance of my | father's and brother's wish." j "But mamma," said Ethel, "were they not ; very unjust, or was my father really that sort ! of person ?" j "Unfortunately, their judgment of him was j correct, though I did not know that until af: terwards. It pains me deeply, my child, to i be obliged to speak thus to you of your own j father, but I am compelled to do it in order I to justify your grandfather's conduct to me. "Your father proposed to me to keep our 1 engagement secret, and I, putting implicit i confidence in him, and fearing the consequences I of a disclosure a#*well, agreed to do so. It ! was discovered at last through a letter which J was picked up in the garden?a letter I had ! carelessly dropped out of ray pocket while S walking there. It had no envelope, and on | the page lying uppermost was writen 'My j dearest Kate' in yo ir father's hand, which was i peculiar, and therefore could not be mistaken. ; It was Frank who found it, and he carried it j at once to my father. Presently I received a ! summons to the study, where I perceived that 1 a storm was gathering. " 'Kate,' said my father holding up the letter, 'your brother has found this, and brought | it, very properly to me. The first line, you saa, in phtm? ncrtancrthtrr irord of its contents | has been read, but I desire you now either to permit me to read it throughout, or else let mp hum if.: and inform me vourself of its coil ! tents. Remember, I trust implicitly to your honor not to conceal anything from me.' "Frightened at the alternations before me, I chose the least terrifying of the two, and begged hinf to destroy the unlucky missive. He held it to the flame of a candle, and allowed it slowly to cousume before he spoke again. ' " 'Now, I am ready,' he said, 'to learn from I you by what right Mr. Edward Frazer presumes to address my daughter in such terms.' 1 " 'By the best right in the world,' I answered, desperately, for I am engaged to him.' " 'Engaged to him ??pshaw, child, this is ; folly?utter folly and madness,' said father, coolly; 'remember, you are still under my control, and I am not quite weak enough to ' give my consent to such an arrangement as : that.' "He then lectured me on ray undutifulness and disobedience, and finally dismissed me with an announcement of his intention to take the matter into his own hands, adding that he would soon have it settled to his satisfaction. I felt greatly exasperated at being treated so completely like a child, and though I dare not answer him, I mentally resolved to resist his authority as far as possible. That very day, Edward came to pay a visit. Father had him shown into his study, without informing me of his arrival, and an unpleasant scene ensued. Father reproached him for what he. called his base and dishon- j i oralde conduct in ingratiating himself into | my affectiou, aud making me enter into a ' secret engagement, knowing how young and i unsophisticated I was ; and told him he must consider all that at an end, as he could never | consent to our union. Edward replied that ! he did not recognize his right to interfere in 1 the matter, and that he would accept no decision but mine. In the course of the alter- > cation, father said that he presumed one of ; the greatest charms I possessed for Edward | was the prospect that I had of inheriting half! his fortune, which would be very convenient j in assisting to pay some of Edward's debts. | "Your father asked him who had told him j [ that he had debts, and your grandfather re ! plied that he had heard it from good authorj ity, as well as many other little circumstances 1 ! which did not put him in the most favorable i light. After a considerable discussion, Ed-; ward left the house, and in the garden en-: countered Frank. He stopped him and told him that he'knew well enough whom to call to account for the aspersions on his character which he had just endured from his lather. Frank replied very coldly, 'I do not understand what you mean.' Edward blazed out then, and called him by some offensive epithet, and Frank, without an instant'6 hesitation, challenged him. "All this time I was in my chamber, where I had taken refuge on leaving the study, and knew nothing of what was going on. I had indeed thrown myself upon the bed, feeling half sick from excitement and trouble of mind; and when dinner was announced I refused to go down, pleading a headache as my ! excuse. "Late that afternoon, tired of cryiug and i brooding over my misfortunes, I went out to walk in the grounds and get a little fresh air. Both, my father and Frank, were out, as I ! learned from one of the servants, so I was reI lieved from the prospect of meeting either of thera. .Presently, However, n.uwara enterea | the gate, looking as I thought pale and hag- j gard. "'Kate, ray darling Kate,' he said taking me in lfis arras, 'your father has forbidden rue to come here, but I trust to you not to forsake me. Tell me, have they weaned your love from rae ?" "'No,'I answered, 'nothing can ever do that.' " 'Bless you a thousand times for that assurance,' he replied fervently. 'They are leagued against us Kate, and there is but one course left us to pursue?we must leave here together, and at once.' " 'Leave here!' I repeated, aghast. It was sometime before I could bring myself clearly to comprehend his meaning?which was that I should elope with him, get married at the ! nearest town, and trust to time and my father's I affection for me to effect a reconciliation. So ' eloquently did he plead his cause, that I, foolish girl that I was, thinking, with my high- j flown, romantic notions of love and constan-1 cy, that it was but giving him a proof of my I devotion, and that time, as he said, would j bring my father's forgiveness of the step,! finally consented. He then told me that there ; was no time to lose, that we must reach the ! j ferry by seven o'clock, and that I must come j j without any delay. I will not deny that my j j heart misgave me as I hurried into the house, j 1 VknrtsJe? fVlO fniU flr. I [ UI1U Willi UCIilUllllg liuuua (jubBku ?>V .v.. ... | j tides I could carry in a small traveling bag; J ; I did not dare even to stop long enough to i ! write a line to my father in extenuation of! j my conduct, but hastened back to Edward, j ! who was waiting for me in a state of great j ! impatience and anxiety. We got into his ; j buggy, which was waiting, and drove rapidly j j off, by an unfrequented road, in the direction { of the ferry?I little dreaming that I was j then turning my back on my dear old home j forever. We traveled all night, and reached I a village called Goldborough in the morning;; here we stayed some hours at the house of a j j friend of Edward's, whom he took into his i i confidence, and at twelve o'clock were mar-1 1 , ried by a clergyman residing in the place, in j i the presence of three or four witnesses, and ' srbon afterwards proceeded on our journey.! j It was not until after the ceremony was per-1 formed, and we were fairly on our way toward : i , where we were to spend some months ' that your father confessed to me that he had,; ! the day previous, shot my darling brother in : ! a duel!" I "Oh! mamma." ' 1 , "Frank, as I told you, had challenged him,! i and they had met in the afternoon, at a place i in the woods about two miles distant from the ! Grange. He laid the whole affair to ray | brother's charge, saying that he himself had 1 no alternative but to fight. He told me j that Frank was not dangerously wounded, ' and that he did not doubt he would recover I in a few weeks' time. This was really and truly his impression, and I was somewhat comforted by his repeated assurances of the fact; but Ethel, you may imagine my grief and horror when, two days afterward, I received a telegram from ray father announcing j his death." Mrs. Raymond paused, overcome for a i-momentrby thy recollection of tfie event that ; i had cast a gloom over her whole subsequent | i life. Presently she continued, "Your father, I believe, was truly shocked j and distressed at these unexpected tidings, ! and tried his best to console me; but I was so | overcome with horror and remorse, that I was thrown into a nervous fever, which for some | time threatened my life. When I had suffi- j i ciently recovered to bear the additional shock, j I was shown a letter from your grandfather, | in answer to one I had written him from j Goldborough, pleading for forgiveness for my j conduct, in which he sternly desired me never I to let him see my face again, or attempt to I hold any communication with him whatever, j as he no longer regarded me as his daughter, j "You may form some idea, Ethel, of how | this affected me, though you cannot realize ! the full extent of my wrethedness. I gave ray-! self up to the deepest melancholy, and my ! husband, after trying for Some time to rouse J me from my dejection, finally became impa- ' tientatit, and ceased to trouble himselfabout, me. He went out a great deal, finding his j home too gloomy to be attractive, and I had ample leisure to indulge my grief, unchecked j and unseen. "At- th*? pnd of a vaar. vnii were horn, alid , i in your innocent smiles, my darling cliild, I i found consolation, and experienced, for the j first time, since my unhappy marriage, some : | approach to happiness. Your father was j disappointed at your not being a boy; but j he was not permitted long to indulge in his ; disappointment, for he fell ill of typhoid fever 1 soon after your birth, and died after an illness of ten days. "I now felt alone in the world. I had truly loved your father, in spite of his faults ; < and notwithstanding the partial estrangement < that had grown up between us, he had continued to treat me with kindness, and had ] never appeared entirely to lose his affection for me. At the time of his death, I was not j quite eighteen, with you, a young infant, left ; on my hands, and no resources but my own exertions for a support. You were, however, my greatest, and, indeed, my only comfort; for in the weary months that followed, I should many a time have broken down, and given up in despair, but for the recollection that you, in your helplessness, were utterly depeudent on my care. I took in sewing and gave music lessons, by which I earned a support; until, at last, two years after your father's death, I met Minnie's father, and after a few months'- courtship, cousented to become his wife. In this second marriage, there was no romance. Mr. Raymond was many years my senior, and lrul few of the qualities that usually attract a woman as young as I was then ; but he was a truly good and estimable man, and I felt it no perjury to take upon myself the marriage vows, which I kept, truly and faithfully, until his death. When you were four years old, as you know, your sister was born ; and she was not quite three when I became for the second tftne a widow." The invalid paused again, exhausted by the long reeital. "Don't talk Anymore, dearest mother," said Ethel. "You will fatigue yourself too much.", mv T hovft finished. When I O.W, N-w. , ^ - am a little rested, I must get you to write a few lines to your grandfather, which I will dictate; for I cannot leave the world without a last effort at reconciliation, for the sake of my children's future welfare. It may be he will relent, when he knows how soon I shall be where earthly feuds are all wiped out, and where I trust ray sins and errors have been forgiven. God knows they have been repented of with tears !" Here a joyous voice, carolling a song, was heard outside./ Mrs. Raymond laid her hand on Ethel's arm?"Don't say anything yet to Minnie of what I have told you, ray .dear," she said ; "it will be time enough by-and-by." The door opened, and a bright-eyed, rosycheeked girl of about fourteen entered the room. _ She threw aside her hand, which swung by its long blue ribbons from her arm, and approaching her mother, bent over and kissed her cheek. "Why mamma, what a color you have this evening. I declare, she looks quite well, doesn't the, Ethel ?" "Mamma is flushed," said Ethel gravely. "I am afraid she has been talking a little too much." "Talking! that's wonderful, for you . two are generally as quiet as mice when you are alone together. Rather an Irish speech, isn't if 9 TTrttir V?nf anri r?nrk if in in hfirfi: whv don't you open the other window ?" "One is enough; the light hurts mamma's eyes." "It's delightfallyswl out-of-doors. Aren't you tired, Ethel, ot staying in here?" "She must be, I am sure," said her mother. "Do go out, my child, and take a little fresh air." "My dear mamma, I take plenty of fresh air. I would much rathdr stay with you. If you prefer being out, Minnie, you had better go and stay in the porch ; I find it pleasanter here." Nothing abashed by the reproof implied in her sister's words, Minnie accepted them literally, and taking a chair out into the porch, established herself there very comfortably with a novel she was anxious to finish. A troubled look came into Mrs. Raymond's face, and in a pained tone she said, "Ethel, that child does not realize how ill I am." "She is very thoughtless, mamma, and fancies you are better this evening." "Well, perhaps it is best so," said the invalid with a sigh. "Get some paper, Ethel, and I will dictate at once what I wish you to write." CHAPTER II. Ethel wrote at her mother's dictation as follows: "My Dear Father Forgive me for making a last appeal to your generosity. When you hear that I am dying, you will perhaps make an effort to forget the past, and the misery of which I have been the cause. "I have two daughters, the eldest nineteen, the younger between fourteen and fifteen years old, whose future is entirely unprovided for. My last marriage placed me, for a time, in comfortable circumstances; but Mr. Raymond, unfortunately, vested the greater part of his property in false securities, shortly before his death, and since that time we have been obliged to live very plainly, and to employ ourselves in various ways, in order not to trench on the very small capital remaining to us. My daughters will be left, at my death, without a protector, and I shrink from the thought of their being thrown on the kindness of strangers. Could I hope that they would find a friend and protector in you, tho bittorness of death would be removed, and I could bid adieu to the world in peace. "Father, you loved me once; I have been an undutiful child, but God knows how truly I have repented of my past erroi^, how earnestly I have sought to atone for them, how fervently I have prayed that He would bring about a reconciliation between us! For the sake of my innocent children, let the past be canceled ; and if I am denied the boon of seeing you again, at least, let me have the consolation of hoping that you will befriend and cherish them. "My daughter, Ethel, is writing this, as I ' am too feeble to hold my pen. "Yours in sorrow apd unchanged love, "Kate B. Raymond." When this letter, over which Ethel shed many silent tears, was finished, her mother Did | her direct it to "Charles Conway, Esq., Oak- j hurst Grange, county, Virginia." "Now, ray dearest child, see that it is mailed ; as soon as possible, and a weight will then be ! lifted from ray heart. I cannot think, Ethel, j that your grandfather will refuse now to grant j ray request." "Oh ! mamma, dearest mamma," said Ethel, j bending over to conceal her tears, "it breaks j my heart to think of ever having any protec- j tor but you." "Dear child, this life is made up of part- j ings," said Mrs. Raymond, tenderly, "and I perhaps it is for the purpose of making us de- j sire to enter on that better life, in which we ; shall never be parted again. We must be; thankful that we have been spared to each j other for so many years. Don't cry, my 1 sweet girl; you must try to strengthen and : < sustain me now, instead of distressing me by j i your grief." 11 With a great effort, Ethel controlled her j Braotion, and resolved not to increase her moth- j er's sufferings by her own weakness. "Shall I ask Minnie to post this letter, j mamma, or carry it myself?" "Carry it yourself, dear; it will not take j you long, and it is not dark yet, is it!" "Not yet; I will have time to get back j before it is quite dark." "Then just ask Minnie to sit in here while j you are goue." Ethel was soou equipped in readiness for ! her walk, and sending her sister in to take her place, set out for the post-office. The distance was not great, but she disliked beiDg out late alone, even in that quiet village; i and having mailed her letter, she started as rapidly as possible on her homeward way. Suddenly an immense dog bounded from a j hedge on one side o? the road, throwing itself I against her with such force that she nearly I fell. Ethel, though brave in other matters, was a great coward in respect of the canine species, and found it quite impossible to repress a slight scream at this unexpected assault Almost at the same instant, a tall, fairhaired young man stepped through the hedge, and advanced to her relief. "Pray, pardon my dog's rudeness," he said in the gentlest and most refined of masculine voices, as he courteously touched his hat; *ne had no intention of hurting you, I am sure. Down, Pedro, down !" This to the dog, a magnificent Spanish setter, who leaped on his master at the sound of his voice, overwhelming him roith pftrpospsi A Ethel, though trembling very much, tried to smile in answer to his apology, and to assure him that it did not matter at all; that it was her own cowardice which had made her so foolish. "Petro has been shut up in a railway carriage all day, and it is his joy at his release, I suppose, which makeshim so wild. Would you have the kindness to direct me to the village iun, or hotel, where I may stop for the night? I walked here from the station, thinking myself sure of the way, but have missed it somehow," continued the stranger, whose bearing and address were unmistakably those of a gentleman. "We do not boast of a hotel," said Ethel, "but there is a stopping-house on the other road, where you can get, I believe, very good accommodation. You should have turned to the left instead of the right, when you passed the village church." "I saw the church, but it was some distance back." "You need not return by that way; if you go directly across that field you will come to the west road, and a few yards will bring you to 'Vine Cottage,' as it is called." "\fnn\r tVmnlrn " said thp. vnnnor man. afain " ' "" "J 1 ? -?j o ' o lifting his hat; and with a courteous "good evening," he called to his dog, and re-crossed the hedge in the direction she had indicated to him. The advent of a stranger at Suraraerfield, the quietest and most unfrequented by visitors, of country villages, might at another time have caused some speculation in Ethel's mind, but she was too fully occupied now by graver thoughts to allow it to dwell there long. She did, indeed, wonder briefly who he might be, and what had brought him there; but by the time she reached home anxiety for her mother effectually banished all reflections regarding the incident, which to a romantic mind might have furnished food for any quantity of interesting conjectures and anticipations. Mrs. Raymond had fallen into a quiet slumber, and Minnie sat by her side. Ethel lit a candle, and taking it to a corner of the room where it would be screened from the invalid's eyes, proceeded to employ herself on some needlework, with which she was generally engaged. Unbroken silence had reigned for some time in the apartment, when suddenly a quick, short gasp of pain from the sufferer made Ethel fly to the couch, .tier mother tried to apeak, but in the effort the red life-blood gushed from her lips, flowing in a crimson tide over the snowy pillows and Ethel's supporting hands. "Mother, Oh! mother, Minnie, run, fly for the doctor," gasped Ethel, almost powerless from terror, for in this case she knew not how to act. The minutes that followed seemed like hours, though in reality the doctor, who lived near by, came with very little delay. Restoratives were applied, and presently Mrs. Raymond lay tranquil and motionless, the hemorrhage being over, but succeeded by a deadly faintness from which the doctor could give no hope of her reviving. "Calm yourself, my dear Miss Ethel," he said laying his hand soothingly on her arm. "Everything depends on the utmost quiet and self-control being preserved. The least agitation now will be fatal in its effects." So the poor stricken girl crushed down the agony that was bursting from her heart, and set herself to watch in patient hopelessness, through the long miserable night, by the bedside of her dying mother. No sign of returning consciousness appeared, no recognizing glance of love was ever vouchsafed to her again. As the gray dawn broke, the burdened soul found release from its earthly cares, and the pale rays of the morning light shone on the face of the dead. Dr. Anthony was very kind. He took the arrangement of everything into his own hands; and it was fortunate that he did so, for Ethel crushed and stunned by the sud-1 denness of the blow, was powerless to act. j Poor child ! she sat by her mother's bed holding the rigid hand in hers, and gazing with fixed anatearless eyes upon the white, still face, that for the firfft time gave back no responsive look of affection to hers; while Minnie, kneeling on the floor with her face buried in her sister's lap, wept passionately and bitterly?all the more bitterly, perhaps, because some self-reproach mingled with her grief. To Ethel the consolation of tears was not yet vouchsafed. Mrs. Anthony, the doctor's wife, a kind, motherly woman, who came over to do what she could for them, told her husband that it cut her to the heart to see the poor young thing sitting there like a statue, with j that stony look in her eyes. The funeral took place on the following I morning. It was very quiet and uupretend- j ing, followed chiefly on foot by the villagers, j who had all loved gentle Mrs. Raymond. For some years she had been a schoolteacher among them, until her weak health obliged her to resign the occupation; and many of her former pupils now gathered mound her grave and dropped tears of un feigned sorrow on the freshly-turned, sod. i Many, too, were the glances of pity directed toward the orphans. Ethel, closely veiled, hung meekly on the doctor's arm, while Minnie's uncontrollable sobs were heard J above the solemn words pronounced by the ; clergyman, and the sad, sweet tones of the I funeral-hymn. At a little distance from the group of mourners, yet near enough to show" that he took part in the services, was a tall, fair, young man, a stranger in the village, who stood with reverently-uncovered head and a?i<-ma fana until oil wftS ftVAr. Tt was tll6 gunuuo IMVW uuwi* vft* .? ? v , - fame whom Ethel had encountered in her walk two evenings previous; but she did not notice him now, or see the glance of deep sympathy he bent upon her drooping face, as she passed close by him in leaving the church-yard. He lingered until the little j congregation had dispersed, and then approaching the sexton, who was closing up the church, asked him the name of the lady who had just been buried. "Her name was Raymond, sir; and a great loss she is to us all. Such a nice lady she was, and always kind and charitable to the poor." "You knew her Well, then?" "Bless your soul! yes, sir; ever since I have been sexton here, and that's nigh on to a dozen years. Many a kind turn sbe's done my family, and never forgot us at Christmas and New Year, though it was little she had to spare, for she was badly off." "Were those two youug ladies her daughters?" "Them in deep mourning? yes,sir; uncommon nice young ladies they are, too, 'specially Miss Ethel." "Is Miss Ethel the eldest ?" asked the young man with an appearance of great interest AMA lrtnninrt AM fV?n ~ j. ea, air, uiu tan uuc i?tuiug v>u w>v> uw tor's arm. I thought at one time she was nigh fainting. Poor thing, I guess this trouble will go nigh on to break her heart; she did love her niother uncommonly, to be sure." "And what will become of them now?" "I don't know, sir, I'm sure; it was just that very question I asked ray old woman this morning. They've got no relations, as I know of; but there's plenty bere as would befriend them, if they were willing." " "And why* should they not be willing?" asked the young gentleman, for whom the subject appeared to possess great interest. "Oh, well, sir, I don't know; they've always been very independent, and helped themselves along, and I thought may be Miss Ethel might still do the same. These are not ray thoughts I'm telling you, sir; I know naught about it, I'm sure," said the old man, making a movement to depart, as if fearing he might have been too communicative. Thestrauger understood his action. "Pray, don't think I have been questioning you from mere idle curiosity," he said, earnestly; "I really feel an interest in the ladies, and wished to know if I could, in any suitable way, assist in providing for them; that is, if they are badly off, as you have led me to suppose." "Lord love you! No, sir; Miss Ethel would as soon cut her hand off', as to take help from a stranger, asking your pardon! There's enough of our own people here to help her, in case of need." "I meant no offense by the suggestion, my good friend," said the stranger, coloring at the old man's somewhat ungracious tone, "though perhaps it might have seemed uncalled for. Thanks for sparing me so much of your time?and good-bye," he added, slipping a piece of silver into the sexton's hand, thereby eliciting a good-humored smile, and a friendly "thank you kindly, sir," in return. The young man left the church-yard, and strolled slowly down the lane. "What a fool J am," he said half aloud, as he idly switched some overhanging blossoms from their stems with his cane, "to be so bewitched by the sight of that girl's face. What would Clare say, I wonder? Pshaw! What has that got to do with it ? I suppose I am not to shut my eyes when a beautiful vision comes before them, simply because I'm an engaged man. I wonder what that old fellow thought of my questions ? I wish I hadn't said any thing about helping them, though; that was very stupid in me. I never saw any thing like that pair of eyes before?when she looked up at me in the twilight, it was as if one of Raphael's Madonnas had stepped out of her frame. The expression was angelic." The absent Clare, whoever she might be, would possibly have' felt some uneasiness, could she have known how often Mr. Brooke Eversham's thoughts reverted, during the next twenty-four hours, to'the Madonna eyes of the young mourner, whose fair face had so completely ensnared his fancy. At the end of that time, he wisely took himself and his dog off again on their travels, in which it is not our intention to follow them; and the village of Sumraerfield saw them no more. It was on the fourth evening after her mother's death that Ethel was sitting by the window of her little chamber, which she still continued to occupy, in spite of the earnest invitation of Dr. Anthony and his wife to Minnie and herself, to come and stay at their house, when a traveling carriage drew up at the door, and a gray-haired gentleman alighted, in whom Ethel felt thatshe saw her grandfather. Trembling, she descended to answer his knock, and found him waiting in the hall. Mr. Conway?for it was really he?came forward and took her almost passive hand, bending on her, as he did so, a pair of very handsome and somewhat severe gray eyes. "Yonr mother ?" he said, in an abrupt tone, beneath which lurked a concealed tenderness j and anxiety, reluctant to be manifested. For i an answer, Ethel looked down at her black i dress, and burst into tears. "Then it is as I feared," said the old gentleman, in a husky voice. "My God !" and | turning away he walked to the window, and stood there, gazing out Diauxiy into tne garnering twilight, without asking another question for a longtime. Perhaps his thoughts were traveling back to the days when the daughter he had vainly come to seek had hung in caressing playfulness about his neck, before her error and his own unyielding sternness had placed the barrier between them, now broken by the inflexible hand of death. At last he turned back toward Ethel, who was still weeping. "Child," he said tremulously," I have acted very wickedly toward your mother. Can you forgive me?" The orphan raised her eyes to his face, and j touched by the expression she read there, took j his hand in both of hers and kissed it Noth-! ing more was said on the subject just then ; the hearts of both were too full for farther explanation. Presently her grandfather asked for Minnie, and Ethel went after her and ; brought her down. It was only the previous 1 day that she had revealed to her their mother's i history, and Minnie came in shyly, standing a little in awe of her unknown relative, ana 1 wondering, more than anything else, what he I would think of her. Minnie could never i quite lose the consciousness of self, and she stood now with blushing cheeks ana long lashes cast down, looking very fresh and rosy in contrast to the pale, drooping apd tearworn Ethel. T V ^ "You two are quite different," was all the comment their grandfather made, after he ^ had kissed her. His words might have implied more than they expressed, but the \ younger girl took them only in a complimentary sense. "Hike grandpapa, don't you, Ethel ?" she ' asked of her sister when they were alone that night. ' "T V.a1 tt lrnr.tr vof Minnifl " WAS the 90016 X UUi Uljf UUVH J V?J what absent reply. # i "Well, it wiQ be best for us to like him, for I we are going home with him, aren't we ?" I "I don't know." J "I do hope so?I suppose he will take us; J? he can't leave us here, can he ?" " ' "I can't tell, Minnie." ^ "But what do you think Ethel, tell me really." . . "I have scarcely" thought?Oh I Minnie, how can you talk so quietly about going away ?" "Why not? wouldn't it be pleasant to go and live in a beautiful house, and have every* thing we want ?" "And leave our dear home?and mamma's grave," said Ethel almost in a whisper. "No, I could not be glad of that, of course; but Ethel, you always contrive to make one sad?you always look on the gloomy side." Ethel said no more; her own grief was deep and undemonstrative, while Minnie's, by its very violence, had nearly exhausted itself already, only returning by fits and starts. The next morning Minnie's desire was gratified ; her grandfather spoke of their returning with him to Oakhurst as a matter of course, and Ethel offered no opposition to the plan. She did indeed feel deeply at the prospect of bidding adieu to the peaceful spot where the greater part of her life bad been spent, and to the friends whiK^had been true to her in adversity as well as in happiness; but she knew that it bad beetrtbe wish of her mother's heart that the home of her youth should * i be theirs, and she found comfort in the reflection that this wish would no* be fulfilled. Her grandfather allowed them two days in which to prepare for their journey, and many were the leave-takings she had to go through, during that time. , v. "On ! Miss Ethel, what will we do withoifcr \ you ?" asked ber Sunday scholars, warm-hearted girls to whom she had closely attached herself during four years of ministry in their midst. "Dear Ethel, what will we do without you ?" asked her older friends and companions; and this was the universal feeling throughout the village?what would they do without her, the fentle, loving girl, who had so closely entwined erself in their affections ? Perhaps, none felt the prospect of her loss so keenly as Barton Elliott, tne clergyman's eldest son. Had he dared, he wouid have asked her whether he might hope, at some future day, to bring her back to Summerfield, to share the joys and trials of parsonage life, for he, too, was to enter on the ministry, and looked forward to taking one day his father's place in the village church, which the old man was getting almost too infirm to fill. But he did not dare; for besides the idea that her grief now was too fresh and sacred to admit of his intruding upon it such words as these, he felt as if he had scarcely a right, with the consciousness of his scanty means and the responsibilities as the eldest of a large family, to speak them yet. What prospect had he of suitably supporting a wife? And if even Ethel should accept him?and his heart thrilled at the very thought?how could he ask her to make him a promise for the fulfilment of which, he might be forced, perhaps, to wait for years ? So the words were left unsaid, and the merest formula of a farewell onnlran inatoo/1 Onrl Rai-tnn Tilllinti. hurried off with a pale face and bursting heart from the little cottage, leaving Minnie to exclaim, "Why, Ethel, what was the matter with Bar ton, I wonder? I never saw him act so queer.- M | ly Wore." \1 "I suppose he was sorry to tell us good- " bye," Ethel answered, simply. No suspicion of the truth entered her mind, and if it had, she would probably have dismissed it as a mere fancy; for she was not given to the encouragement of such ideas, and Barton had never acted toward her except as a friend. Ethel's last farewell was to her mother's grave, which she crowned with fresh flowers, weeping to think that other hands than hers must henceforth perform this office. Her grandfather told her that he had ordered from 4 the stone-cutter the handsomest monument that could be procured, to be placed above the grave, and also a tablet to be erected in the village church ; but Ethel, while she thanked him, felt sorrowfully that it was not in the costliest marble to make an atonement for the long years of silence and estrangement, that had laid such a heavy burden upon the patient heart that rested beneath. And now the little cottage was shut up, and the orphans entered the carriage that was to convey them to the railroad?Minnie, subdued yet hopeful and expectant; Ethel overcome by the one thought that she was going away from home, to live among strangers. The last adieux were spoken, the carriage ^ rolled swiftly off, and in a few minutes Summerfleld was out of sight Their journey lay Tby rail the greater part of the way; Minnie was delights with the novelty of everything she saw, and even Ethel was somewhat diverted from her sad thoughts ^ by the unwonted excitement of the journey, for neither had ever left home in their lives before. Toward the close of the second day they got out at a station called Conwayboro, where their grandfather's own carriage was waiting to convey them to Oakhuret, a distance of some ten miles. It was quite late at night when they reached the Grange, a large, ralkisfcl* in V?r? /la??lr_ XUIiiUXlUg UIU UUlIUUi^) SJX WUII/U an wuv unmness they could discern only a dusky outline of walls, and the lights gleaming from the windows. "Here we are," said Mr. Conway, as the carriage stopped, and he lifted the two girls to the ground. A group of family negroes gathered around, shaking hands and bowing and courtesying, as in their usual half-familiar, yet respectful style, they welcomed the young travelers to their new home. "Lord bress you, honey, you just the very picture of your ma, when she went away from here," one old woman said as she peered into Ethel's face by the light of the pine-torches that were flickering around. "Don't I think ^ I see Miss Kate back again at dis minnit?" fl "Bress de Lord, Miss Kate's chillun come to live at de ole place!" said another fervent ly. "Glad I live to see dis day." "Silence, all of you," said their master imperatively. "Isany one here to-night?" "Yes sir, Mas' Arly's here," answered two or three voices. "Is there a good fire in the study ?" "Yes, master, good fire in there on Mas' Arly's account." "Yo&had better come into the parlor, chil dren.you will find the study warm," sai? Mr. Conway as he led the way, and the two girls, marvelling that any one should need a fire on an August evening, followed him into the ( parlor, where a comfortable chintz-covered ;ofa and luxurious chairs incited them to rest ^ after the fatigues of their journey. "Now wait you here a while, until I pay my respects to a young friend of mine," said J their grandfather, "and then we will all have/ > \ substantial tea." y [to be continued next web^J < jj