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i^Ewis m. CtRist, Proprietor, j An $nbcjpbent Jamil}) fUtDspaper: Jor tjje promotion of t|e |)a[ifital, Social, Agricultural anb Cumntcrcial Interests of t|e Sout(i. | TERMS?$3.00 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE. VOL. 18. YORKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, MARCH 7, 1879. . JSTO- IP. |U ?tiginai frfee taw. Written for the Yorkville Enquiror. THE OAKHURST ROMANCE, BY MRS. HENRY DEAS. CHAPTER XIV. It would be difficult to describe the minglet and confused emotions which overwhelmed in a torreut, the heart and mind of our younj hero, as he listened to Dr. Crosbie's story, anc found himself, at its conclusion, so fondlj claimed as the nephew of his kind friend, Mrs Mansfield. They were too overpowering foi his still weak nerves, and he had scarcely en deavored to murmur a faint response to hi: aunt's exclamations of happiness and grati tiiHe wlipn ho Inst consciousness of everything around him, and fainted away. When he came to himself he found that h< was lying on the" sofa with Mrs. Mausfielc supporting his head, and his face plentifully besprinkled with cold water; while Dr. Cros bie looked on with his brows gathered into t frown, which contrasted oddly with the soft ened expression of his eyes and mouth. "What do you mean, sir, by fainting awa) in this absurd style?" he exclaimed, trying t( speak in a gruff tone, but failiug signally ir the attempt. "Any one would think yor were a mawkish girl, instead of a man. Come sir, collect your senses and act like an individual of some strength of character, as 1 think you have proved yourself to be, Mr Albert Beaumont." The doctor took a benevolent pleasure ir repeating the name, so long lost, so strangelj recovered; and to the ears of the nameless exile how sweet diu it sound. No longei -1 1 ? MA lftn KnroP nameies^, 110 longer uuiucjcao, uu iuug? u>.>v. of social ties, with what a grateful heart die he bless the Providence who had led hire hither, to restore to him his birthright, anc make him feel himself once more honorec and happy upon earth. Cecil, when he heard the tale, was wile with delight. "Don't you see, now, I was right in saying Cousin Richard?" he exclaimed ; "only it ii Cousin Albert, instead; a much prettier nam< too, I think. It's the jolliest thiDg I evei knew in my life!" From his auut Albert learned that botl his parents were long since dead. They hac returned to England soon after learning the supposed fate of their child, and his mother, i few months later, died at Mansfield Park His father's family were broken up and scat tered abroad, and of the Harcourts his auni alone remained. She had but one child, s son, of whom little Cecil was the sole living representative and name-sake. There was no property of any consequence on the Beaumont side for Albert to inherit but there was a fine old place in Essex thai had been left to his mother in her own right which had been for many years let to stran gers, and this he was now entitled to claim "You must take Cecil with you some day dear boy, and run up to look at it," his aunl said. "I want you to see whether your Eng lish inheritance will compensate you for the loss of your Virginia home." That dear Virginia home! how eagerly did his thoughts turn toward it now ; how anxious was he to impart to the dear ones there the news of his prosperity. He was undecided at first whether to write at once or to go without writing, and give them a happy surprise. Finally he resolved upon the latter. "You must spare me awhile, Aunt," he said to Mrs. Mansfield. "I want to run off tc America to see all that has gone on there since my absence." "Go, my dear child," she rejoined. "1 would not be selfish enough to wish to keep you from them, for you must feel as if yoi belonged more to them than to me. Onlj you must promise to come back before ver) long." Albert promised, and with a joyous heari commenced making preparations for the voy age. He felt as if he would give worlds tc have wings wherewith to fly across the broat Atlantic, instead of going in a tedious, tire some ship. He was full of new-born hope; and doubts. Should he find them all as h< had left them ? What might not have hap pened during the period of his absence! Would Ethel still be there, and if so?anc , then he almost feared to frame in words the bright dream her image called forth. His heart bounded with the reflection that al! barriers to their union were now removed provided only he could be sure of one little important item?her consent! Did Ethel love him, was now the coustani question of his heart. And then he woulc chide himself for thinking that it might be so; what right had he to suppose that she would have given him her heart unasked ' Still, the future was before him, and hop* nestled joyous in his breast. Sometimes the thought of Clare came intc his mind, but he knew that he was bound bj no allegiance to her. She had been the be trothed wife of Brooke Eversham, not of A1 bert Beaumont, and since the former no Ion ger existed, it was not for the latter to tak< his place. It may be as well to give a thought t< Clare, and see how she has fared all this time It was soon after Albert's visit to London when he saw her in her friend's carriage fron the confectioner's store, that a summons wa sent to her to return home, on account of tin illness of one of the family. The invalid wa a younger sister, who had taken a cold fron exposure to a storm while returning from ai evening party, the result of which was a se vere case of pneumonia, from the effects o which she was laid up a whole winter. Mrs Ransorae deemed it the duty of her eldes daughter to be at hand to share the hom< anxieties and responsibilities, having no idea as she said, of any one "shirking their dut^ in life." Clare had 110 desire to shirk her duty, bu it was not a cheering reception after her pleas ant visit abroad. Minna Ransome was a fret ful invalid, and her mother seemed to consid er herself, in some way, injured by the can that had fallen upon the household. ?V?f tU of T on nnnco waii orn milMl nf 5 nurse, Clare," she said, "but you can lielj wait on Minna and be with her when she want: company. Grace keeps house, and I have s< much on my hands, in various ways, that ] need some one to assist me in bearing the bur den. And Mrs. Ransoine, while talking plain tively of the burden, managed cleverly to sli] it almost entirely off her own shoulders, am transfer it to those of the younger ones, whicl she deemed so much fitter to bear it. 4 j CJare set herself very patiently to fulfill j ' : the task before her. She was beginning to . -1 understand something of the necessity of dis- j ; cipline in daily life, and to accept it without [ struggling. Much of her old worldliness had j ' i melted away, and in the striving after better | ! things the nobler qualities of her nature were | ! beginning to develop themselves. She found ! : it very irksome at first to sit for houi-s at a J 1 j time, in her sister's chamber, which was kept, j ?: for the most part, uncomfortably warm and > ' close, for Minna's lungs were delicate, and it i ' j was considered necessary to take extreme pre- i r; caution with regard to her catching fresh cold, j [ She was not dangerously sick, by any means, | "j but just sick enough to be prohibited going ! " | about, and well enough to be full of unreason- j 5 j able fancies and caprices, which sometimes j ' | tried her sister's forbearance to a considerable j > | extent. Her.mother, too, worried her. Mrs. Ran1 some had never overcome the shock of the ' broken engagement, which had so completely disconcerted all her plans for her daughter's settlement in life, and found it rather hard 1 that no other brilliant match should present ' itself, and her way of talking about it annoyed Clare exceedingly, though she generally managed not to make any reply. To make mat4 ' x? ?- nKnoo f rv nn. | lers worse, tjiiiutr, me scvuuu vhuom tu v>. 1! gage herself to an almost penniless young 1 physician, who had just graduated, and had ? nothing but his profession to depend upon. "I am doomed to be disappointed by my ^ children's conduct," the poor lady bitterly complained. "I always thought that Grace had too much dignity and good sense to place I herself in such a position. The idea of enr tering upon an engagement which may last J ten, fifteen or twenty years!" r "Scarcely so long as that, mamma," Clare j II auswered. "Henry Bostwick is considered j ' ' very clever and energetic, and graduated with 1 ! great distinction. I have no doubt he will ': rise rapidly in his profession." '! "If he does, do you suppose he will be able, j i under several years, to support a wife decent- j i ly? Grace has been accustomed to every j comfort and luxury, and I never should con' I sent to her leaving her home to enter upon a I Ufa nf nnuerfv nnrl f1isf?nmfort." I v,A ? v ' j "If she loves Dr. Bostwick, I have no doubt J she would willingly give up these comforts i ! and luxuries for his sake," said Clare, quietly, j j "though I do not think she will be called , j upou to make the sacrifice. I dare say he t j will be able before long to provide her with a j pleasant home." "Very pleasant, no doubt; with a scanty j. purse to keep house with, and marketing bills t always looming up before her. But I forget, p such petty details as these are not to be ' thought of where love is concerned. I sup4 pose love will sit in the kitchen and see that the fire burns properly and the meat is cooked, [ if, indeed, such a vulgar thing as appetite is not quite destroyed by so much sentiment. ' With which biting sarcasm,suggested possibly by a vague recollection of the ancient ditty which asks if "the flame that you're so rich ' in will light a fire in the kitchen, or the little god of love turn the spit, spit, spit," Mrs. , Ransome, finding in Clare an unsympathetic listener, wouud up her discourse. I Grace took it all very quietly. She was of a tranquil but resolute temperament, and had , made up her mind that whenever Henry Bostj wick should tell her that a home was ready ( I for her, she would be ready to enter it, let the oppositiou at home be ever so strong. The next thing was, Mr. Ransome had an , j attack of rheumatism in his knee. It was his (. first experience of the ailment, and being ? quite unused to suffering of the mildest desnrintinn tip war nrnnnrtinnatel v cross and iin- i , v,?.[ , I 1 ? [ J patient, and a most difficult subject to manage. , j He discovered that Clare had a knack of rub, ! bing his afflicted member more easily than r j other people ; Grace bore down on it too hard r | and his wife rubbed in little uncomfortable J jerks, whereas Clare's touch was light, smooth 11 and steady, and her hand as soft as velvet. . j The consequence was, whenever he had a > j twinge Clare must leave whatever she might i I ! be doing and fly to his succor ; and as this j .; took her away from Minna oftener than was I 3 i agreeable, the latter began to grumble. "It j ; was very hard mamma couldn't rub pappa's - leg to suit him; it seemed to her he most be ? very fussy. They might leave Clare to her; I she needed her the most of the two." > Minna was gradually improving, however, 3! and Clare heard with thankfulness the doc| I tor's opinion that when spring fairly set in j j she would be able to leave her room. 31 One day Mrs. Ilansome came to her hus{ band with a face full of importance. II "My dear," she announced, "isn't it fortu[! nate ; the house opposite to us has been taken ?i by Mr. Francis Arnold, that rich old bachc3 j lor Mrs. Ellis was telling me about the other >1 day." 31 "Well, what's so fortunate about that?" t ... , . .... . | responded tier better nan in nottne most arai> | able tone, for his enemy was worrying him 1 j \ more persistently than usual that day. . j "Why, didn't I tell you that his fortune ! - was immense?" "And what of that; he won't give me any 31 of it, do you suppose so ?" "Mr. Ransome, you hare a house full of: d : girls," said his wife solemnly. "I cannot sup- J t.: pose you can be entirely insensible to the ad- i , I vantage of having such a?such a desirable j i neighbor, one whom we can become sociable j s with, and to whom it will be proper to extend j e our hospitality." s "Oh ! that's where the land lies, is it ? I | i ] should think, my dear, you had enough of i 11 making such plans by this time. Your last, i-; scheme didn't turn out well, as you may re- j f i collect." i., "My last scheme! really, Mr. Ransome, I j t do not understand you. If you will take the \ e trouble to exert your memory a litt.le, you | ,j will perhaps recall the fact that it was you ! ? | who first suggested to me the propriety of j j paying attention to Brooke i^versham, or t or whatever his true name may be, because -1 you thought he would be a desirable match - j for our daughter!" -J This was strictly true; but Mr. Ransom e \ 31 chose to ignore the reminder. "I think we'd better let the girls manage j i, for themselves iu future," he said a little snap- j ) I pishly. "Grace has done it already, and 11 s | have no doubt the others will follow her ex- i > j ample." j 11 "Grace is miserably infatuated, and I trust : -: her sisters will display more judgment than j -! she has given evidence of." ) j "Well, well, well ! trust anything you like,, 1 but for God's sake don't come so near my j i , lame leg," cried her husband, who was in no i 1 mood to discuss Grace's folly just then. I "Your skirts are as stiff as buckram, and the [ E very touch of them sets my nerves on fire. I h Ohl this fiendish pain! can't Clare come and j rub it for me ? I wish you'd go and call her." j d Mrs. Kansome had more than once an- ai uounced her determination never to trouble ti her head more about Clare's settlement in p life; but she could no more refrain from laying plans for her daughter's future than the u sun can refrain from shining, und it was im-1 p possible, utterly impossible that she could ! ft hear of Mr. Francis Arnold's intended move j ai into the neighborhood without immediately j ft devising ways and means for enticing him i ai frequently to the house, in the hope of attain- j ai iug a desirable result. w Warned by experience, however, she was j rr very guarded in her manoeuvres, and Clare, J ai whose mind was full of other matters, was for cl a long time unsuspicious, until at last she began to notice the frequency of Mr. Arnold's ei visits and the extreme suavity of her mother's manner toward him. This put her on the de- di fensive directly, and she frequently framed b an excuse for not going down stairs when his ti arrival was announced. The easy, unsuspecting bachelor had fallen readily into Mrs. a Ransome's toils; he thought her girls charm- h ing girls (except that Miss Ransome was per- a haps a little stiff) her sociable dinners charming dinners, and her house altogether a very g pleasant one to frequent in a neighborly way. h At last the desirable result was attained! p only in a different form from what had been ci anticipated. Mr. Arnold actually proposed?but not to Clare. Minna had been al- blowed to come down on one or two occasions w to the drawing-room, and her fairness and ai frailty had taken the heart of the wealthy visitor by storm. This young lady was an apt ft pupil of her mother's school; she thought of d< his handsome establishment, his liveried foot- h men and his stylish equipages, and accepted oi him without the smallest hesitation. w Clare once more breathed freely, and Mrs. Ransome was in her glory. In the height of her satisfaction, she became more gracious * m . . ,1 1 i? 1 /? !1_ ana anectionate in ine Dosom or ner mmny than she had been since the termination of It Clare's engagement. Dear little Minna was now her pet, her darling, worthy of all the w caresses that could be lavished upon her; and Mr. Arnold was the most delightful man in ^ the world. Nothing could be more eminently satisfactory than the whole arraugement. ^ How heart-sore and alone Clare felt! how ^ she longed for something better, truer, than ^ this worldly atmosphere which surrounded .. her! Si Was the dream she had once cherished never to be realized ? We shall see. . One day, a sealed package was brought to her by express. She opened it, and found ' therein a volume of poems, daintily bound in tj green and gold, with the name of Paul Owen j as their author, upon the title page. Between the leaves was slipped a perfumed card, on which was written : ^ "From one who still cherishes the memory of the past, and is rash enough to hope for the ? future." Clare kissed the card and put it by. There ^ was no date, no post-mark, nothing to give her q a clue to Paul's whereabouts, but she knew . that soon she would either see him or hear from him again. C( Her spirits rose and her eyes grew bright, and she went about her daily duties with a tj joyful alacrity that surprised her mother; and Minna one day exclaimed, ^ "Do you know, Clare, it strikes me that you are looking much prettier than usual, lately. I was beginning to think you were getting a littlepassee, but I declare you are quite youthful and nice again." Clare smiled indulgently. If Minna at ^ seventeen cho9e to coneider her passce at twenty-three, the mistake could be excused in con- q sideration of the six years' difference in their ages. Besides, she was too happy to be affect- ? ed by such remarks. A fortnight elapsed, and then came a note in the same handwriting as the card. It said that Paul Owen was in Richmond, and only ^ waited her pleasure to know whether he should call. "I say this," it went on, "because I cannot bear to meet you only as a friend. The hope I once entertained, though you crushed it then, has sprung up and blossomed anew. Send me a token that these blossoms are not to be again scattered to the ^ winds. Unless you can do this, it is best we should not meet, though I feel that to stand in j your presence once more would be a joy so ^ great as to compensate for these weary months and years of doubt and pain." And Clare sent him a note in reply, and ^ the only word it contained was, "Come." He came, and ray readers can imagine the joyful meeting, the explanations and confessions, and the vows for the future, that passed between the re-united lovers. Paul would have come long before, he said, but fear held him back. If he could only have been sure of her love. t "And I thought you had forgotten all about nl me!" said Clare. "Forgotten you ! When your memory haunted every hour of my days, and your sc image moved among my dreams at night! w How could I forget you, ray destiny's guiding star?" ^ ^ p, Clare blushed charmingly. "You are a sl poet, and can say whatever sounds the prut- w tiest and best," she answered. "And you have been my inspiration. My best and truest poems have been written since p( I have known you. Under your influence, I may still become famous." m "Mine is a very poor influence, Paul." But fortunately, you do not need it, for you are famous already. You can't think how proud ki I am of you, now that I have a right to be hi proud." ai Presently the candles were lighted, and Mrs. Ransome came rustling iu. Clare had Sfl enlightened her beforehand as to the object of tc Paul's visit, and she was prepared to receive him graciously. She knew he was well off, Iand she considered it quite Providential that two of her girls, at any rate, should be well j provided for. ! ct It was a brilliant idea of Mrs. Ransome's j that Clare's marriage and her sister's should | hi take place together, and so it was arranged, j n: The double ceremony took place at church the j al following autumn, and a very splendid affair j ii; it was. Both brides were handsomely dressed though Minna's diamonds outshone the pearls ss which Clare preferred to wear; and both were hi voted beautiful and charming by all who were w present. After the ceremony was concluded, they had a gay evening at Mr. Ransome's and R! the guests dispersed saying what a pleasant time they had had, and how fortunate Mrs. hi tensome was to see two of her daughters so j appily settled in life. Paul carried his wife to Italy, to realize un- j er those sunny skies his dreams of poetry j nd love. And here we will leave them, I usting their future has proved all that it ! romised to be. And now we must return to Albert, who, nconscious of the changes that had taken ! lace during his absence, was busy preparing ! >r bis visit to his former home. He took an Bectionate leave of his aunt and Cecil, the ' >rmer of whom shed tears over his departure, : nd made him repent his promise to be sure ad come back before very long, while Cecil hispered, "I say, cousin, I wish you'd find le a pretty Virginia girl for my sweetheart, < nd let me know, and I'll come over and laim her." "Can't you find any English girls pretty nough ?" laughed his cousin. "I don't know any of a nice age. I had a ' ear little sweetheart when I was in America, ut I dare say she has forgotteu me by this roe. Albert had not said a word hitherto to his unt of his own hopes, but he could not leave er without a slight hint of their possible rolizntion. "If you should see me bringing back a Virinia bride, don't be too much astonished," i e said jestingly. "I promised to write and repare you, though, ifit is to be really the . II 166. "My dear boy! do you really think it will e so?" cried Mrs. Mansfield; but he only aved his hand in adieu with a gay laugh, ad was gone. There were moments, however, in which he It far from buoyant or hopeful. Desponency and doubt would at times overwhelm is heart, and he would almost dread to think f the happiness that might be his, so fearful as he that his dreams might never be realized. I CHAPTER XV. It may be remembered that we left Ethel in >me perplexity regarding her sister's engagelent, and that not of a pleasant nature. As 1 me went on and she had an opportunity of atching the intercourse between the engaged air, the perplexity increased. Arly's man er especially puzzled her. It was grave, uiet, a little conscious, and with a touch of lyness in it she had never noticed before; ut there was nothing to indicate any warmer j :eling than usual. Minnie was more attenve to him than formerly, waiting on him 3siduously and anticipating his wants with consideration that in her was somewhat noceable; but there was no affectionate farailirity between them, nothing that could lead ) the supposition that any tie closer than 1 latofraere friendship existed. Ethel thought lem the oddest and most unlover-like pair f lovers she had ever seen. There was but ne conclusion left for her to arrive at respectjg the motives that had given rise to the enagement?and that was one which was not jmpliraentary to Minnie. Her gentle nature, owever, was not one to blame severely or inulge in animadversions on the conduct of 1 thers ; though she could not approve of her ster's behavior, or blind herself to the persption of what was shallow and worldly in her i < i? i.- i i__ xL . i i: ! smposmon, sne ien 100 Keeniy iuts luneiineaa f their position in the world to allow anyjing like coldness to spring up between them, batever might the want of congeniality in leir sentiments. Matters had gone on in this way for some eeks when Minnie came one day to her sister > unburden herself of a fresh confidence, hich she prefaced this time by a burst of enuine tears. Ethel reasoned with her, 1 )Othed her, tried to find out what the matter as, and then waited patiently for an explaation. "Ethel," said Minnie plaintively, at length, [ am very unhappy." I "Unhappy, Minnie? What makes you nhappy ?" "Everything," was the passionate reply, his was not satisfactory, so Ethel waited gain. "I am miserable," said Minnie with more naphasis than before. * "I am very sorry for you, Minnie, if that is 1 sally the case." 1 "It is really the case; but you speak so in- i ifferently, so unsympathizingly!" "I am not at all indifferent, ray dear ; on i le contrary, I am anxious to know what i oubles you, and you will not tell me." j "I don't know whether to tell you or not," >bbed Minnie. "I know you are going to i e hard on me.". I "Am I ever hard on you, Minnie ?" ? "Yes, very, sometimes. But I am so mis- ; able that I must tell you this, because I i in't bear it alone. Promise you wou't scold i ic." "I promise." "Well, then, Ethel, the matter is just this, don't believe I can make up my mind to iarry Arly." "Minnie!" "Yes, there it is; 'Minnie!' as if I had said >raething dreadful. Of course, I knew you ould reproach me," said Minnie, petulantly. "Don't be childish, Minnie; have I reroached you ? I cannot help being a little irprised, of course. I thought your mind as made up long ago." "So it was?but?things are different now." "How are they different? What has hap;ned ?" "All my feelings are different. I can't help y feelings, I suppose." "Do you mean that you don't love Arly?" "Well," said Minnie, meditatively, "I don't now about that; he is very good, and I like im as much as ever, but?my other feelings :e changed." "Please explain exactly what you mean," iid Ethel, gravely. "I cannot be expected i understand you unless you do." "But it's so hard to explain. The fact is, ?there's somebody else?" "Somebody else!" replied Ethel, aghast. "Yes. Now don't look that way, do! I in't help it, can I?" "Minnie, vou are really too trifling," said er sister, almost losing her patience. "You 1 mst tell me at once what you are talking ' bout, or I shall think you have been acting ( i a very unprincipled way." "I know you think me very unprincipled," i Lid Minnie, crying again, "but how could I 1 dp it if Harry Charlton chose to fall in love 1 ith me?" 6 "Harry Charlton! And you let him 1 Oh ! i finnie." i "Let him fall in love with me?how can you i e so ridiculous, Ethel ?" 11 "Let him tell you so, I mean. Did he not, know of your engagement ?" 1 "Yes, I suppose so?that is, I don't know, f I never told him." c "Never told him?and he told you that he 1 loved you ?" J "Yes. I don't think there was anything bad in that" * * "What did you tell him. Minnie?" 1 "I told him?I?could?not?tell. Oh ! 1 Ethel, don't be hard on me! Please help me." 1 "You let him suppose, then, that you cared 1 for him." 1 "And I do. Ethel. I really do. and I can't i help it" ? This was Minnie's formula. She never ] could help anything that happened. { "It seems to me," said Ethel, "that you have acted the part of a heartless, selfish, capricious, unreasoning child, throughout this whole matter. Minnie, do answer me a plain question, and answer it truthfully. Do you ? wish to dissolve your engagement with Arly, in order to marry Harry Charlton ?" i "Ethel, I mean this," said Minnie, solemn- ] ly. "I mean that I would give anything in < the world, if Harry only had half Arly's for- 1 tune; but he is 60 dreadfully poor." 1 Ethel's patience was not proof against this, i "Minnie, you force me to have an opinion < of you, which I find it very hard to entertain ] toward my sister," she said, and rising from < her seat she walked hastily toward the window < and stood there trying to control the indignant > feelings that were swelling in her heart. ? "No, Ethel, that was only a jest," said Minnie, quickly. "I love Harry Charlton so 1 much that I would marry him to-inorrow, ' poor as he is, if I were only free!" "Do you really mead what you say?" asked ? Ethel, turning toward her again. ' "Yes, I do, on my word of honor." E "Then there is but oue course left open to 1 you?to tell Arly candidly the state of the ' case, and put an end to your engagement at ' once." Pni. flio flraf lime Inup 1 xUIUUIC wan SllCUt. x VA vaav uiwu had been truly awakened in her heart, and a * struggle was going on between this newly- J born affection and the mercenary motives 1 that had hitherto held dominion over it. ! At last she said, in a subdued tone, [ "Ethel, I believe I will take your advice. 1 Will you tell Arly for me ?" ^ "Impossible, Minnie. You must end the affair, as you begun it, on your own respousi* ^ bility." * "Oh! me, how unfortunate I ami" sighed ( Minnie. I do think of all people in the world ? I am the most unlucky." 1 But the next moment, with a sudden re- 1 vulsion of sentiment, she threw her arras around her sister and" kissed her ecstatically, 1 exclaiming, 1 "Oh! it is so good and sweet in you not to 1 think it wrong in me to love Harry! You i have made me perfectly happy." Ethel did not know whether to laugh or cry. She could not tell whether vexation or ' relief predominated in her mind. Sisters as they were, and companions from childhood, ' she had never been able to understand Min- J nie's odd ways; and though now she could not help rejoicing that this engagement, which promised so little happiness, was to be dissolved, she was pained at Minnie's shallowness and frivolity, and the utter absence of true principles which she had so palpably displayed; "If she really loves Harry Charlton, I trust that her love may awaken the best part of her nature," she thought. "She needs something, Heaven knows, to strengthen and de- J velop whatever there is of unselfishness and sincerity in her." * As for Arly, he took it very quietly. When 1 Ethel next met him, he said to her in his usual tranquil tone, 1 "I suppose Minnie has told you thatour en- ' gagement is at an end." "She spoke to me on the subject, but I did , not knowv'that it was positively broken off." e "Yes. She was quite candid about it, and ' [ saw that her happiness was involved in its termination. I dare say it is all for the best. ( Everything is, in this life." t "Everything, Arly? Do you really feel , that now ?" for it was the first time since his t brother's departure, that he had given utter- i ance in her hearing to his favorite sentiment. "Yes, everything. Do you know, Ethel, * that the assurance has come on me with e strange force of late ? I don't know why it \ is, but I have been thinking so much about i Brooke these last few days, and it seems to me that I shall certainly see him again. I used ^ to think differently; but I am better and stronger now than I have been for some time. If such happiness is really in store for me, I shall be too thankful ever to murmur at anything again!" "Murmur, dear Arly 1 you never murmur." "Ethel, there have been times when my whole soul has risen in rebellion against God's appointments; they have seemed so uncalled for, so hard. I have felt like a miserable hypocrite for appearing cheerful and resigned, when a storm of discontent was raging in ray heart. My own personal affliction is nothing, I never think of that; but that other trial, v which seemed so cruel at first, nearly broke me down. I have learned to bear it better lately, and to think that I may yet be permit- * ;ed to see some good result spring from it, in 8 some way or another. I dreamed of my dear ^ orother only last night; I thought we were 0 little boys again, playing under the trees at <] Dakhurst." "I trust you will meet again," said Ethel ? ioftly. She was wondering what her own share in that meeting would be, if it ever did ;ake place. It was late one afternoon when this conver- t sation occurred, and Arly soon afterward bid aergood-by and went home. After the pony- L larriagc had driven off Ethel stood in the o aorch, watching the sunset glow that was al - n eady beginning to fade from the western sky. " The rich crimson changed slowly to purple, t( ;hen paled into a soft pearly gray; a light & shadowy mist rose, and hung like a veil against she dark belt of pines in the distance; and ii shen the summer twilight fell on the peaceful ' andscape, and a single 6tar came out in the P juiet sky. Suddenly a figure emerged from the wood- a and path beyond the lawu gate, by which v persons coming on foot from the Oakhurst i n oad usually approached the house. At first y sight she fancied it was Harry Charlton, aud 1! vas about to turn out into the house to sura- ? non Minnie, whom she knew was somewhere ^ ip-stairs; but the next moment she discovered n hat she was mistaken, and something in the lir and gait of the pedestrian made her heart )ound and sent a quiver all through her rame. Nearer he came, and now she could liscern his face?the fair handsome face and )londe curling hair she remembered so well, ^.rly's prophesy had come true. Before she could gather self-possession snough to come forward even a step to meet lira, he was at her side, clasping her trem)ling hands in his. "Ethel, EthelI" he cried, orgettmg in that moment 01 intense joy mat le had never before addressed her by that iimiliar name; and she, raising her eyes in nute greeting to his face, betrayed unconiciously in that one beaming glance the transport of joy and welcome her lips dared not jive utterance to. "Arly ?" was Albert's first question. "He is well, quite well; he has just left me." "And Mr. Conway?" Ethel shook her head. "Come in," she said softly, "and I will tell you all." He followed her into the well-remembered oom, where everything looked so familiar and pet so strange. He could hardly realize the lifierence in his position since the last time he pad entered it. They sat down together on ;he old chintz sofa, not a leaf or flower of ivhich he had forgotten; there was the marble dock tickiug in its usual place; the same portraits hanging on the walls, the same vases pn the mantel-piece and table, holding bojuets that looked like the very same he renembered seeing theie the day before he went iway. Ethel told hira iu a few words of Mr. Conway's death, and other events which had ranspired during his absence. "My dear, kind old friend," Albert said lorrowfully. The news of his loss sent the irst pang to his heart that had assailed it lince he had set foot on his native soil?or ather the soil that had always seemed his jirth-place, so closely was it entwined with lis earliest and fondest recollections. Then came his own story, with what a hrobbing heart, Ethel listened to the revela;ions that seemed so wonderful, so hard to relieve; while the most wonderful and incredble part of it all was that he was actual siting beside her once more, looking at her with ;hose frank blue eyes, that were all the time ;elling her a separate and perfectly comprelensive story of their own. Minnie came down presently, and uttered a little shriek of surprise at the sight of the two agures sitting there in the twi-light. She jould not believe the evidence of her own senses at first; but when she found that they were not playing her false, she gave the re;urned wanderer a hearty welcome home, fhpn ramfi a fresh. though abridged recital of svhat sounded almost too much like a fairy lale to be true; and then Albert, finding that i full hour had elapsed since his arrival, itarted up and declared that he must go to A.rly without further delay. "What will he say to you for not going to lim at first ?" laughed Minnie. "I half expected to find him here," said Albert, "though I should have come here first ill the same, under any circumstances. He ivill easily forgive me." And he gave Ethel's land a meaning pressure that sent a crimson ilush to her cheek, even under cover of the larkness that hid it from his eyes. We shall pass over the meeting of the long parted brothers?for such they still were in leart, though not in name. There are moments whose happiness and measureless con;eut passes the power of words, and such was ;he moment in which Albert Beaumont held A.rly once again to his heart. So much was there on either side to ask md tell that it was long past midnight before key could make up their minds to retire. Tom?the faithful Tom?who still held the lost of butler and general factotum at Oaklurst, fell down on his knees in a sort of ecitacy and delight at the sight of his beloved naster ; and Pedro nearly overwhelmed him ,vith boisterous caresses. Soon the news ipread like wildfire through the yard and 'quarters," "Massa's come home 1 Young massa's ;orae home 1" And every negro on the place, )ld and young, sought and obtained admission, o proffer to him their glad though humble velcorae. One thing only distressed them? hat they could no longer call him by his old amiliar name. And now, how swiftly and happily did time jlide by. How like the old careless days vere those in which the re-united party gathtrollo nf tli# frrftncrfl. rittwpr tk vvj UUUV1 ViiV T?U?iW vr* vmv v - , v. vearied of recounting the past, and rejoicing n the present. Fortune, the fair and fickle goddess, who iad blessed the wanderer with her smiles after o many weary months of care, held in reserve or him the choicest of her gifts, which he :raved, yet at first dared not plead for. Now hat he had reached the haven of his desires, le trembled to sue for a blessing which seemed o him too infinite to be within his reach. He vas not a bold lover?many a time the words le longed to speak trembled into silence on lis lips. And Ethel grew shy and silent in his iresence, and sometimes even made a pretext >f withdrawing from the happy little group >f which she was the sunshine, because she eared that a tell-tale blush might reveal to lis eyes, or other eyes around, emotions she vould have died sooner than betray. "Arly!" said Albert one day, "I would give vorlds to be certain of one thing." "What is that ?" asked Arly. "Cannot you guess ? Don't you remember vhat the wish of my heart was before I went I iway ?" "Oh! that. Do you know, dear boy, I tave been puzzling myself to get at the truth if that matter for some time past. Why lon'tyou speak to her at once ?" "I am such a miserable coward about it. Suppose I find she does not care for me." "At least, you can but try." "Do you think I stand any chance ." "The best in the world." "You really think so, Arly; if I thought hat I'd be the happiest man in the universe." "You have come out in a new light," Arly aughed. "The idea of you enacting the role f a bashful man." Albert admitted that it was absurd. But e was verifying the truth of an old saying, rhich asserts that genuine love is always atended with a certain degree of timidity and elf-distrust. There came a certain soft twilight, however, a which those two stood together under the ranquil sky, and he, forgetting his fears, ?oured forth in ardent words the expression f such a love as was worthy of so fair an obect. Fairer than ever in his eyes she seemed, s she placed her hand trustfully in his, and dnspered the reply that was sweetest of all ausic to his ears. And so his brightest dream /as at last fulfilled, and Ethel was his prom?ed wife. Surely it was worth while to have one through grief and heart-sickness twice as reat as that which he had endured, to find limself at the end possessed of such happiiess as this. 'Tis near a score of summers ago that Al bert and Ethel plighted their vows to each other, beneath the blue sky that hung over the oak-studded lawn at the old Grange. Their life has been happy and prosperous; it has been spent, since their marriage, for the most i part at their English home, though twice they j have come on a visit to "Old Virginia's shore." I Arly went with them to England at their earj nest request, for they told him that their life there would not be happy without him, and he would have had but a lonely time at Oakhurst. He is with them still; he spends his life in painting exquisite pictures, and in doing good to all who come within his reach. Minnie married Harry Charlton after a brief engagement, and together they reign over the Grange. I am happy to be able to ?? '-1* Iiaw enlfiaKnocfl hoa UlirUlilUJC LliQb liiUUU Ui uui wi uuuuvww hmu vanished and been swallowed up in the cares and responsibilities of married life, and that she has proved a good wife and mother, and a useful member of society. Some two years after her marriage Ethel received a letter from her old friend Mary Lawton, announcing her intended marriage to Barton Elliott. When the sting of his bitter regret and disappointment had passed away, Ethel's words had recurred to him, bringing a ray of hopefulness for the future. Blame him not, romantic reader, who would fain have had him die of blighted love. A parsonage house without a wife is a dull and lonely thing, and Barton, when his pretty home was enlivened by Mary's cheerful presence and sunny, loving ways, could not find it in his heart to be otherwise than grateful to Providence for his let in life. And now what more is there to be told? The story of two lives, spent in good works that bring their own reward; of a love unchanging and unchangeable, save that it frows more true and strong as years go by. he storms and trials, which shook them in their youth, have but made the after-life of these wedded lovers seem all the more calm and fair, as the sun shines brightest, and the blue sky seems bluest, and the birds in the branches sing the most blithesome songs, when the rush of rain and the fury of augry winds have died away. [the end.] HOW GUNPOWDER IS MADE. How do you think you would like to live, fearing every moment to be blown up; not daring to speak loud, to jar anything, lor fear of starting an explosion that would send you in an instant to the other world ? You don'ttbink it would be very pleasant? Well it isn't; yet hundreds of men live in just that state, work, receive pay, and live, year after year, in the very sight of death, as it were; all that the world may have gun-powder. You can easily guess that those men go about very quietly, and never laugh. You know that gun-powder is very dangerous in a gun or near a fire, but perhaps you don't know that it is equally dangerous all through the process of making. A powder mill is a fearful place to visit, and strangers are very seldom allowed to go into one. They are built far from town, in the woods, and each branch of the work is done in a seperate building. These houses are quite a distance from each other, so that if one blows up it won't blow up the rest. Then the lower parts of the building are made very strong, while the roots are very ugnuy set op. oo mat u it explodes only the roof will suffer. But in spite of every care, sometimes a whole settlement of the powder mills go off almost in an instant, and every vestige of the work of years will be swept away in a few seconds. But though you feel like holding your breath to look at, it is really a very interesting process to see. It is made, perhaps you know, of charcoal, saltpetre, and brimstone. Each of these articles is prepared in a house by by itself; but the house where they are mixed is the first terrible one. In this buildiug is an immense mill stone, rolling round and round in an iron bed. In this bed, and under the stone, are put the three fearful ingredients of gunpowder. There they are thorougly mixed and ground together. This is a very dangerous operation, because if the stone comes in contact with its iron bed, it is very apt to strike fire, and the merest suspicion of a spark would set off the whole. The materials are spread three or four inches thick in the bed; tne wheel, which goes by water power is started, and every man leaves the place, the door is shut, and the machinery left to do its terrible work alone. "When it has'run long enough, the mill is stopped, and the men come back. This operation leaves the powder in hard lumps or cakes. The next house is where these cakes are broken into grains, and, of course, is quite as dangerous as the last one. But the men can't go away from this, they are obliged to attend to it every moment; and you may be sure no lon?ti nr inlrA in erer heard within its walls. j " J-" j Every one who goes in has to take off his boots, and put on rubbers, because one grain of the dangerous powder, crushed by the boot, would explode the whole in an instant. The floor of this house is covered with leather, and and is made perfectly black with dust of gunpowder. It contains a set of seives, each one smaller than the last, through which the powder is sifted; and an immense ground and laboring mill, where i.4 is ground up, while men shovel it in with wooden shovels. The machinery makes a great deal of noise, but the men are silent as in the other houses. The reckless crashing of the machinery even seems to give greater horror, and one is very glad to get out of that house. The glazing house comes next. Glazing is done by mixing black lead with the powder, to give it a black and shiny look. The powder is but into barrels, which revolve for several hours, That polishes the grains by their rubbing together. The black lead is put with them and they revolve several hours more. Of course the dust flies from all those rvrmrotmnq ?nd the workmen, silent, like the rest, look like very black negroes, working in the blackest of powder, in a room whose walls and floors are blacker than the rest, if possible. It has a very singular look to a ! stranger, and added to the horrible silence, makes one feel that the whole world has gone into mourning. Often, the gun-powder, revolving so rapidly in the barrels, gets very hot; so this, too, is a dangerous operation. The stoving house is the next on the list, and there the gun-powder is heated on wooden trays. It is very hot and no workmen stay there. From there it goes to the packing house, and is put up in barrels, kegs and canisters. Safely through all those houses, it goes at last to the storehouses. One feels like drawing a long breath to see the fearful stuff safely packed away, out of the hands of men, in this curious house. You've heard of things being as dry as a powder house, but you wouldn't think this house very dry. It is almost imbedded in water. The roof is one big tank, kept full of water. Did you ever hear of a water roof be fore ? instead of steps to go in, there are shallow tanks of water, through which every one must walk to the door In none of those powder houses is any light ever allowed except sunlight. The wages are good, the day's work is short, ending always at three or four o'clock. But the men have a serious look, that makes one think every moment of the danger, and glad to get away. Though curiosity may take a man once to visit a powder mill, he has no desire to go the second time; and he feels all the rest of his life that for once he has been very near death. [American Sp&fiman.