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J .VI- GRIST, Proprietor. | Silt |nbepenknt Jamilg ftetospaper: Jfor t|c promotion of tlje political, Social, Agricultural aitb Commercial Interests of % Soufj). |TERMS?$3.00 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE. VOL. 19. YOBKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, JAJSTTJAEY 1873. NO. 1. Am Original Jdorn. Written for the Yorkville Knquircr. THE MYSTERY OF MOSSGROVE. A ROMANCE OF THE 19TH CENTURY. BY MRS. HENRY DEAS. CHAPTER I. A DARK NIGHT'S WORK. It was on a cold, murky evening toward the end of November, in the year 18?, that a heavy traveling carriage, splashed with mud, and drawn by two tired looking horses, slowly traversed the maiu street of a small and obscure country town in a retired part of the j State of New York. The carriage contained three occupants. ; On the front seat sat a middle-aged man, with ' a sinister face and rough, dark beard ; his ; dress wa3 coarse, and his vulgar air contrasted ! strongly with the refined appearance of his i companions. Of these, one was a young man ! of about twenty-tive, and the other a lemaie, t wrapped in a long, heavy cloak and hood, which almost entirely concealed her features, j The latter was, apparently, in a deep sleep, for her head reclined on the gentleman's shoulder, and the profound repose of her attitude, unbroken by the jolting of the coach, and her deep and regular breathing, seemed to denote total unconsciousness of what was transpiring around her. "Are we nearly there, Leroy ?" presently asked the younger mau, anxiously looking out of the window. "Behold us already arrived," responded the other, in an accent which proclaimed him a foreigner, by birth as well as name. "See, yonder is the house?here is the gate itself." As he spoke the coach stopped in front of a large iron gate, opening in a high stone wall surrounding an enclosure some fifty yards square. From this gate a gravel path led to a square brick house, nearly concealed by the overhanging branches of a cluster of sombrelooking trees that embowered it. Leroy opened the carriage door and alighted first; then turned to assist in the removal of the still sleeping woman. "I had better awaken her, I think," said the younger man, and gently shaking her, and raising her drooping head on his arm, he added in a louder tone, "Bertha! Bertha, wake up?we are at the end of our journey." With much difficulty he succeeded in arous ing her, and opening her eyes she enquired in a drowsy voice, "Where auil? Did you call me, Alfred ?" "Yes, you must get out now?come, come, don't fall asleep again ! Give Monsieur Leroy your hand?there, Leroy, have you got her? Hold her for a minute, till I get down." "Madame seems to be only half awake," remarked Leroy, with a smile. "Your precautions were quite effectual, moil ami." Supported on either side by her two companions, and gazing around with a stupefied air, Bertha moved slowly up the graveled J walk toward the house. The door of the latter ' now opened, and on the front porch appeared a woman, holding a lamp in her hand, which j cast its uncertain light on features as coarse j and as repulsive in their expression as those ! of Leroy himself. As Alfred Stanley?for i en^h wns the name of the voung gentleman? j glanced from one to the other of this unprepossessing pair, an irresolute look crossed his face; for a moment he hesitated, and holding Bertha firmly with his arm, cast a backward glance at the carriage, which wasstill in wait- j ing at the gate. Leroy and the woman?who , was none other than his wife?both observed ! the moveraeut; and the latter, holding open ; the door, exclaimed in a tone of affected I anxiety? "Pray, sir, don't keep the lady standing out-1 side in the cold?there's a good fire in the parlor, aud I'll make her comfortable directly if j you'll bring her in.. She's a good deal fa- j tigued, sir, I am afraid ? Perhaps she would ! like to go to her room at once." "Yes, I dare say," said Stanley, as without j farther hesitation he entered the house, half-1 carrying his drooping charge, who seemed ; perfectly passive in his hands. They were j shown into a small sitting-room, where a bright fire was burning in the grate, affording a pleasant contrast to the chilly, gloomy at- j inosphere without. Stanley placed Bertha on 1 a sofa, which madame Leroy wheeled close to j ) the hearth, at the same time loosening the fastenings of her cloak and hood, which, fall- \ ing back from her face, revealed a set of fair, 1 delicate features, upon which ill-health orsuf fering had set its melancholy seal. Long, j dark lashes shaded the half-closed blue eyes,! beneath which two deep circlets were traced j by care or fatigue, and a profusion of soft j golden hair, partly escaping from its confinement, fell in rich curling masses about her i shoulders. Although not positively beautiful, j there was a tender, child-like charm about her j whole appearance, which, joined to her appa-1 rent helplessness, must have found an answer i to its mute pleading for sympathy and protec-' tion, in any but the hardest hearts. But who, on reading the harsh and forbid- j ding countenances of Leroy and his wife, al-1 beit they were now tutored into sycophantic ; smiles, could fail to discern the grossness of! the natures to which those lineaments were the true index ? Even Alfred Stanley, youthful and handsome as he was, seemed all unfit to be a com-1 panion and protector to one so gentle, inno-! cent and fair. His cold gray eyes glittered with a steely light, and a stern, unsympathet- j ic expression rested on his symmetrical fea- j tures. In spite of this frigid exterior, howev-: er, a close observer might detect, from time to ' time, a covert shade of uneasiness on his face,1 as he glanced alternately from the master and mistress of the house to the unresisting victim, j now placed in their charge. "May I see tho accommodation you have reserved for her, Madame Leroy ?" he presently asked. "It is getting late, and I must be going." "Certainly, sir," said the Frenchwoman, with much urbanity. "Probably you had better induce Madame to accompany you, at once, to her apartment; she will be glad to rest after her journey." "Come, Bertha," said Stanley; and assisting the poor girl to rise, he led her from the room, and followed his guide up a flight of stairs to a chamber on the second floor. Here, too, a fire was burning ; and though the furniture was scanty, everything looked neat and clean. A cot-bed, covered with snow-white drapery,' ! was already arranged for the night, and as Bertha's eyes fell upon it, she murmured? "I am tired, Alfred ! May I go to sleep, now?" j "Yes, yes, certainly you may," eagerly in-. , terposed the woman, adding in a low tone to j Stanley? j "You see it's all right, sir; we'll get along quite nicely with her, never fear. She'll be as quiet as a lamb all night." ; "But to-morrow," muttered Stanley, turning j aside his face to conceal an involuntary spasm i of pain that crossed it. Madame Leroy affected not to hear him, aud busied herself in mending the fire, and hanging up Bertha's cloak in a closet at the farther end of the room. "l am tired," plaintively said Bertha again.' "I would like to go to sleep." "Well, you shall go to sleep," said Stanley, ; with assumed eheerfulness: "I'll not detain! you any later. This kind lady will attend to j all your wishes. Good-night, Bertha, I trust! you will rest well after your long ride." "But you are not going, Alfred ?" she asked, clinging to his arm. "Don't leave me alone here," and she cast a piteous glance around at the unfamiliar room. "I only said good-night," he returned, husk- j ily. "I will see you again?after a while. I Madame Leroy will take care of you now." "And you will come back ? You promise : to come back ?" "Yes, Bertha, yes. Go to bed now, and \ sleep soundly." He kissed her?a traitor's kiss, pressed on j the pure, child-like face lifted so trustingly to i his ; unwound the clasp of the delicate hands | that still sought to detain him, but which, : when loosened, fell unresistingly at her side; and left the room without another backward | glance at the fragile form, the drooping face, | the blue eyes turned appealingly toward him, j the parted lips on which seemed still to linger j the echo of tHt last plaintive question?a j question that would vibrate in his ears for j many a long day, seek oblivion of it as he would? "You will come back?you promise to come back ?" A few moments more, and he was seated j again in the carriage, rolling rapidly away i through the gathering darkness of the winter's j night; and Bertha, subsiding ouce more into i the apathetic state from which she had been only partially aroused, submitted, without resistance, to the assiduous attentions of Madame Leroy, who disrobed her with her own hands, 1 and helped her into the little white-covered bed, where she had scarcely touched her pi I- ' low ere she fell into a profound and dreamless sleep. Madame Leroy, after lingering a little while to assure herself that there was no danger of her awakening, carefully extinguished the fire, barred the only window?a high narrow casement which she was obliged to mount upon a chair to reach?and left the room, carrying the light with her, ana securely iocking the door on the outside. It was late on the morrow when Bertha |1 awoke. The effects of the drug which had j been administered to keep her quiet during : her journey and on her arrival, still lingered j in her system, and with a dull, confused sense j of pain she lifted her hand to her brow, and j1 partially raising herself on her elbow, gazed i enquiringly around the room. She had no recollection of how had she been brought there, and thought at first that i she must still be asleep, for surely it was all a 1 dream. "Where am I ?" she faintly exclaimed, at j length, as she sank hack upon the pillow. Some one must have been stationed within |1 hearing of her slightest movement, for she had j scarcely uttered the words, when a tall gaunt I woman of forbidding appearance suddenly 1 showed herself at the foot of the bed. j At this unexpected apparition, Bertha ut- 1 tered a faint cry of surprise, not uumingled 1 with fear. "So, you're awake at last, are you ?" was ( the uncourteous greeting proffered by the in- j: truder. "Seems to me you've had a good I long spell of sleep. Do you feel pretty well |1 rested, now?" j' "Who are you ?" asked Bertha, disregard- j ing the enquiry. "I never saw you before." 11 "No, iuy dear, you never did, that I know 1 of," rejoined the other, "I'm your compan- j1 ion?your guardian?your servant, if you like 11 that better," she concluded in a mocking tone, j1 It depends entirely on your fancy." "My servant! All my servants are at 1 home ; you are not one of them." "Well, your keeper, then," the woman rejoined, with a laugh. "I'm the person apDointed bv the madam to keep you company, * " * ? . at any rate?just to prevent your feeling lonesome, you know." "The madam" repeated Bertha, in a bewildered tone. "I don't understand?whom are you speaking of?" i "Of the lady of the house, my dear?the i' house you're staying at; and a very nice, j pleasant house it is, and a very nice, pleasant i lady she is, as you'll soon find out. She's ] mistress of everything in the house, too, I i can tell you, from the old man down, which I likewise you'll not be long in finding out." | "And ray husband?where is he?" asked! Bertha, still struggling with the mist of be-1 wilderment that oppressed her, and striving to ; preserve her composure through the terror j that was gradually gainiug the mastery in i her mind, at the strangeness of the position i in which she found herself placed. "Your husband?la! my dear, how should I know ? People's husbands, aud other relations, don't have much to do with them after they are once in the madam's charge?she j takes such good care of them, and don't like j much interference, you see. Come, ain't you : going to get up now ?" she added, laying , her hand on Bertha's shoulder. "It's high : time you were dressed, I should say." But the mingled surprise, terror and dismay j which had been slowly reaching a culminating point in the victim's trembling heart, now found vent in a loud, wild shriek, as she recoiled abruptly from the offending touch. "Go away!" she cried, shrinking back to; the farthest limit of her narrow couch, glar-1 ing with fear and abhorrence at the repulsive j looking creature who thus ventured to address her. "Go away! I don't know you ! I j won't have you near me ! Go away, I say, j and leave me alone ! I won't let you touch j me!" "Won't you, my lady? If you come thai j dodge on me, I'll soou show you who has j most power," said the woman coolly ; and grasping Bertha's hands she held her with a pressure of iron. "As long as you are quiet and pretty-behaved, we'll be good friends; but' if you take to screaming and quarreling I'll have to exercise ray authority. Those are ray j orders ; so no offense." "For God's sake," panted Bertha, in a | scarcely audible voice, and nearly fainting i with terror, "tell me where I am and what is . to be- done with me ! I don't know how 11 came here?I don't know anything about it! Are you going to kill me?" "Kill you ? Certainly not?we bring people here to cure them ; not to kill them," was , the reply. "To cure them ? But I am not ill?why should I be brought here ? Is it a hospital ?" asked Bertha, with another fearful glance. , "A hospital?not exactly, though you might, j I suppose, call it a hospital for the mind," | said her tormentor. "It's folks' minds, not j their bodies, that we undertake to cure." Bertha listened with panting, heaving J bosom, dilating eyes, and a face over which , an ashen pallor was slowly spreading. "Do you mean," she asked in a low, hoarse voice, which sounded strangely to her own ears, while, as the perception of the fearful truth began to dawn upon her, every drop of blood seemed to be receding from her heart "do you mean?that?I?am in?a madhouse t" "It's an ugly name, my dear." said the woman ; "but if you choose to call it so?" Bertha heard no more; her eyes closed, consciousness forsook her, and she sank back in a death-like swoon. Over the scenes that followed her awakening from that merciful stupor?which lasted sufficiently long to arouse the apprehensions of the whole household?pity bids us draw a veil. It would be too harrowing a task to delineate the hours, the days of anguish that ensued; the long nights fraught with such terror, that the visions they conjured up wellnigh crazed, in truth, the poor, weak brain that had needed only tenderness and watchful care to strengthen and restore it to its former clearness, partially clouded over by ill-health, anxiety and unrest; the sickening, impotent struggles of the victim to escape from the thraldom that bound her?the piteous protestations, met with silence and contempt and disbelief, feigned or real, on the part of her gaolers; the slow, gradual conviction that grew upon her, of the necessity of submission and quiescence, of the utter folly and impotence of all efforts to resist the iron rule under which she writhed; the knowledge that she was cruelly betrayed, deserted?forsaken, deceived by one she had loved and trusted only too well. All this, we say, came upon her by slow degrees ; and in that process 01 torture, her strength, physical as well as mental, grew less and less ; her failing limbs, her attenuated frame seemed advancing to decay, as her reason grew ever feebler, until at last the culminating point was reached?the mind, in truth, deserted its tottering throne, and she became in reality, what she had been falsely i asserted to be, a maniac. Did Alfred Stanley, in his hours of solitude, ever indulge in retrospection of the past ? Did memory ever carry him back to the days when he had wooed and won, a gentle, confiding bride, who little dreamed that it was j her wealth, and nut her heart, that he had coveted for his own ? Did he see her as she i had stood then at his side, timid and trustful, with blue eyes upraised to his, as a tender flower twines aboutastrong tree, little fearing that its support will ever fail, or its frail, clinging tendrils be rudely torn away ? Did he recall his own false vows, her unreserved faith in his lightest words; did he see again the happy joyous light that had ever kindled on her face at his approach, the blush that had mantled her soft cheek, ere coldness and incipient neglect, and unkind words had dimmed that light and blighted that rose, aud brought the plaintivelook of anxiety and I care to usurp the beaming smiles and glances | of affection and happiness on the tender, trusting face ? Did he see her as she had been, even theu, meekly submissive and unreproachful, patient in her sorrow, striving by every " 1" * ?- ahaaI f i r\ fhft rtl n/tn , \>UJiJllJg W1IC IKJ ICiUOLUtCi 11C19VI4 IU UJL' |ilUtC . she had lost ? Did he see her as she was notv, j driveu by his cruelty, his fiendish and skilful- j ly accomplished device, to the most pitiable | condition in which it is possible for a human creature to exist?did he recognize the work of his hands, the result of his malignant arts,! and contemplating the wreck he had caused, j still seek his pillow with a tranquil mind, and I revel undisturbed in the possession of his ill-1 gotten wealth ? If he could do this,'then surely he was a j fiend, and not a man. Two years passed away, and Alfred Stanley ! received the following letter from Leroy, the , unblushing though not acknowledged accom- j plice of his guilt: : "Dear Sir:?I regret to be obliged to in- j1 form you of the occurrence of a most painful i and unforeseen event. Madame Stanley, your afflicted wife, notwithstanding the mo3t assiduous care and unceasing watchfulness on the ' part of Madame Leroy and myself, and the! most vigilant attendance furnished her by us, i has, by some mysterious means, effected an escape from our custody, and we are unable to gain the slightest clue as to her whereabouts. She disappeared from our establishment on j Wednesday night (the 3d ultimo) and in | Bpite of strict and continued enquiry on our | part, baffles all efforts at discovery. I need not tell you into what distress and ' anxiety of mind this sad and most unaccount- j able occurrence has plunged us. It is the i first time we have ever had to record such an ! event in the annals of our institution, and it! afflicts us the more, as your amiable wife was 1 the object of our special interest and affection, i We can only attribute it to some remarkable j and still undiscovered instance of neglect on ; the part of her special attendant, whom, how- j ever, we have never before had cause to re- j proach for inattention to her charge, or want of fidelity to her employers. f u~... i " \\ 6 Willi lur lijftirimji'iuijs irum yuu jiuw tu i proceed in this matter. With every senti- j raent of sincere condolence and profound es-1 teem, I remain, dear sir, your most obedient j servant, Augcste J. Leroy." Every effort was made to discover the un-1 fortunate fugitive, but in vain. At length a rumor was circulated, printed ; in the daily papers throughout the State, and , finally developed into a certainty. The body of a woman was dragged from a , stream about twelve miles distant from the Asylum, which became identified as that of| one of the patients of that compassionate in- i stitution. She wore the prescribed dress?a plaiu brown stuff, with a narrow standing collar at the throat; she had lain so long in her watery grave as to be unrecognizable, but there was little doubt as to her being the lost wife of Alfred Stanley, the escaped lunatic of, the Lcroys' Asylum. These facts were communicated by letter to Stanley, who had gone abroad, to banish in travel the uneasy sensations that troubled his mind. He turned over that black page of his life with a sigh of relief, and felt?or tried to feel?grateful that he was once more a free, unfettered man. Did his conscience never sting him again ? None ever knew. CHAPTER II. A SUDDEN REVERSE. Our readers mu6t now accompany us, after a lapse of five years, to the home of a wealthy merchant in Charleston, South Carolina. The gay season has just commenced, and one of the fairest of Charleston's daughters is about to make her debut on the stage of fash- j ion. The elegant mansion of iMr. Andrew j Carroll sparkles with a hundred lights; rare I flowers are arranged in tasteful profusion in the different reception rooms, and all is in readiness for the expected guests. In her dressing-room, Lucy Carroll stands before a long mirror, while her maid puts the finishing touches to her dress. Very lovely is the reflection given back to her gaze, and a blush of girlish pleasure and vanity mantles the cheek of the young heiress as her dark eyes rest on the radiant vision before her. Her long, flowing robe of simple white, falling in graceful folds around her, displays to the best advantage her slight form ; on her brown hair rests a wreath of white rose-buds, and on her neck and arras glisten circlets of pure, snowy pearls. These are the only ornaments she wears, and her fair, fresh youthfulness needs no further adornment to enhance its beauty. As the sable waiting-woman steps back, displaying her shining teeth in a broad smile of admiration at "Missy's" appearance, the door opens, and Mrs. Carroll enters. She is a proud, stately-looking woman, and moves with the air of a duchess across the room, rustling in draperies of heavy silk and lace. "So, Lucy, you are dressed," she said, with a satisfied look. "It is sensible of you to be in time. Some girls have a foolish way of procrastinating to the last moment, and put everything in hurry and confusion. 1 came to offer my assistance; but you have got on without me, I see." "I was just coming to your room, mamma, to get your verdict," said Lucy, smiling. "Plensc give it to me now." "You look very nicely, my dear," said Mrs. Carroll, with a critical gaze. "I think, myself, that your dress is a trifle too plain. A lew roses on the skirt would have improved it; but you and Miss Gray settled it differently." "She thought, mamma, that my first dress ought to be simple; but I am sorry you don't like it," said Lucy regretfully. "Yes, I do like it; it is only a slight omission, and Miss Gray i3 acknowledged to have excellent taste. She has fit you admirably, at all events. Are you ready to go down? Your father would like to see you before any one comes." "Yes, I am quite ready," said Lucy, taking up her fan and handkerchief from the toilettable ; and mother and daughter went down stairs together. Mr. Carroll, a benevolent-looking, grayhaired man, came forward to meet them as they entered the drawing-room, and a smile of pride and pleasure lit up his kindly face at the sight of his fair young daughter. "My bonnie lassie!" he said, taking her hand in his, and drawing her close to him, as he bent down to kiss her cheek, "you look pretty enough to turn the heads of all the young sparks who will be here to-night. Take care, Lucy?take care you don't do too much mischief. Don't try too many experiments, my dear!" "No fear, papa," said Lucy, laughing, and well pleased with the compliment. "I am not quite as dangerous as you seem to think." At this moment a step was heard in the entry, and directly a young man entered the room, with the air of being perfectly at home. "Good evening, uncle and aunt!" he exclaimed gaily. "Well, Lucy, so you are all ready?armed for conquest, I see!" "Nonsense, Edward," she retorted. "I am not armed for anything; I am simply prepared to amuse myself and have a delightful time. Do I look well?" "Tolerably," he rejoined, mischievously, while his glance betrayed a far deeper admiration than his bantering tone. Bending forward, he murmured something in her ear that brought a deeper flush to her cheek, and a dimpling smile to her lips; though with a half pout she turned from him in affected displeasure or deprecation of his words. Andrew Carroll watched them with an amused, wellsatisfied look. He dearly loved this handsome nephew of his, and it had long been the earnest wish of his heart that his Lucy, his pride and idol, should place her happiness in the keeping of one whom he considered every way worthy of her, and who had, from childhood, cherished the dream of making her his wife. Mrs. Carroll watched them with a colder glance. She, too, loved and admired Edward ; but she was worldly, and had more ambitious views for her only child than to see her united to a merchant's clerk. Young Carroll possessed a haughty, .though generous spirit. He was aware of his aunt's sentiments in regard to his attachment to his cousin, (an attachment hitherto only tacitly acknowledged,) and though he took care to treat her with marked deference and consideration, never could feel an entire cordiality toward her. Hence there seemed to be always a fine, imperceptible line of reserve drawn between them ; while with his uncle and Lucy, his bearing was always boyishly frank, gay and unrestrained. Of her sentiments toward Edward, Lucy herself was scarcly aware. They had been so constantly together since childhood, she had learned so completely to regard him in the light of a brother, that if any warmer emotion had begun to dawn in her heart, she did not pause to analyze its nature; and while the young man cherished an ever increasing and ardent attachment for her, an unconscious timidity, quite foreign to his nature, a fear lest a spoken word might rudely break his dream of happiness, kept him silent on the subject, and prevented his discovering what he most desired to know. Often he felt a secret pang of jealousy while watching her in gay, sportive conversation with others, and marking the glances of admiration frequently bestowed on her; for although not yet fairly "out," as it is termed, she had alrendy mixed sufficiently in 1 society to form a large number of acquaint-' i ances, and among these, not a few unmistakable admirers and aspirants for her favor had begun to hover around. Although not yet eighteen, Lucy possessed J much gentle dignity of manner, and while a ( playful ease and vivacity characterized her j deportment, it was marked with sufficient reserve to check anything approaching famil- j iarity, or an undue expression of admiration, . or too near an advance to flattery, from which j her sense nnd good taste- alike revolted, i i There was no coquetry in her nature; and. while she fully enjoyed, as all girls will, the homage paid her by the "sterner sex," she 1 made use of no arts to win it, nor ever feigned . in return a sentiment she did not feel. But in our dissertation on the character of | our heroine, we are neglecting to attend to j the newly-arrived guests, who now began to flock into the handsome and gaily-decorated rooms. Soon a band of music began to dis- j course enlivening strains, and manly and j [ graceful forms mingled in the mazes of the stately quadrille and floating, dreamy waltz. Lucy, of course, was the cynosure of all eyes. With her radiant color and sparkling eyes, she looked more than usually animated and beautiful, and her bright smiles and silvery tones revealed the joyous lightness of her innocent heart. "Lucy," whispered her mother, during a pause between the dances, "you have already twice danced with your cousin Edward. You | will make yourself conspicuous if you do it again. People already remark his attention to you, and seem to fancy that there is something special in it; and I do not wish such an idea to gain circulation." Lucy flushed deeply, and could not forbear a slightly reproachful glance. "Oh, mamma," she returned, "you would not have me rude to Edward? I could not refuse him the dances he asked me for, and I have promised him one more. Must I break my engagement ?" "I will arrange it for you," said Mrs. Carroll; and turning to her nephew, who just then approached, she said with a smile? "My dear Edward, I am quarreling with Lucy for allowing you to engross so much of her time. She must dispense her favors with greater impartiality. I have been assailed by several malcontents, who complain that they cannot obtain a place on her card, and on looking over it I find that your name is three times recorded. The last of these you must now allow me to efface;" and as she spoke she drew a pencil across the name on the card which she had taken from Lucy's hand. A frown contracted the young man's brow, and a look of anger for an instant sparkled in his eyes; but a beseeching glance from Lucy checked the hasty words that rose to his lips, and with a forced smile and a slight bow he rejoined? "If my cousin desires to be released, her ...? ~ L 11 Ua aUaita/I onrl 11? i f h a WlSUCd OllUll tci Uklllljr UC UVCjTCU 9 OUU if ivu m more stately air than usual he turned away and walked to the farther end of the room. Lucy's heart beat, and for the moment all her happiness was marred by the fear that he was deeply offended with her mother, and perhaps with herself; but directly her mother's dulcet tones pronounced her name, and looking up, she saw a tall, foreign-looking man standing before her. "My daughter, Mr. Stanley," said Mrs. Carroll; and the stranger's eyes rested with undisguised admiration on the face of the fair debutante, as he made a courtly reverence in acknowledgement of the introduction. He requested the honor of her hand for the next dance, and she was fain to allow him to write his name in place of that which had just been erased. Well pleased with the result of her manoeuvre, Mrs. Carroll moved away, and Mr. Stanley devoted himself with, ardor to the agreeable task of trying to make a favorable impression on la belie Lucy. At first, he found her slightly distraite; but his flowing, graceful conversation soon engaged her attention, and she was soon responding with her usual gayety to his delicately-worded compliments and well-pointed remarks. Mr. Stanley was an American gentleman who had just returned from abroad; he had spentseveral years on the continent of Europe, and had acquired, during his sojourn among foreign society, a peculiarly polished address, ease and grace of manner, and the art of adapting his conversation so entirely to the taste of his listeners, as scarcely ever to fail to please. Lucy found him very agreeable, and in the course of ten minutes quite forgot her momentary regret at Edward's discomfiture. The latter, meanwhile, watched from a distant part of the room the conversation between the pair, which both seemed to find so interesting. Mortification and jealousy rankled at his heart, and his pleasure, at least, for the rest of the evening was totally destroyed. Mr. Stanley had the reputation of being extremely wealthy, and this was a special charm in Mrs. Carroll's worldly eyes. Her scheming brain was already devising means by which a match between her daughter and himself might be brought about. She was particularly suave and gracious in her manner i to the strauger, and requested him to let her husband and herself have the pleasure of seeing him frequently at their house. Could she have obtained a glimpse at his past life, she would have been less ready to form such a plan as that of effecting a union between him and her young and innocent daughter. But in this world the surface of things alone is often read, and on the surface Alfred Stanley, handsome, cultivated, intelli- > gent and refined, appeared in every way an eligible parti. Lucy's beauty and winning manner ira- j; pressed him in turn quite as favorably as her j oaipp fttiH ho left Mr. Carroll's : lUUlllUl VUM.U UVW.kW, house that night resolved to accept the flat- j teriug invitation tendered to him, to discard j; ceremony and visit them as often as his incli- i nation prompted him. i He had scarcely made his adieus, and the :; remainder of the guests were about departing, when an event occurred which caused the! greatest commotion, anxiety and terror. 1 Mr. Carroll was conversing with some gentlemen in the ante-room, while waiting for the j i ladies to be cloaked and shawled, when he suddenly fell to the ground, completely insen- j sible, as if struck by lightning. It was a paralytic stroke. i Twice before, he had had a slight, very i slight, assault from this fearful enemy, from ! which he had entirely recovered, and had i been for several years as hale and hearty, to i outward appearance, as ever. A physician was summoned,'and the pa- 1 tient removed to his chamber. The few re-1 maining guests, with many expressions of sympathy and regret, took their departure, leaving the household plunged in gloom and grief, where all had been so gay and cheerful a few minutes before. Sirs. Carroll, Lucy and Edward, hung in ! speechless anxiety over the prostrate form of j the sufferer, who for many hours remained unconscious, despite every effort of the skillful physiciau to restore him. "Doctor, is there any hope ?" falteringly ; asked Mrs. Carroll, who, with all her coldness ; and selfish ambition, was a devoted wife. "While there is life, there is hope," said the ' doctor, evasively; but?it is his third stroke." "Oh, father, my darling father!" murmur- j ed Lucy, hiding her face on the bed. Ed- j ward's manly bosom heaved, for he loved his i kind uncle with a son's affection, and his heart bled, too, for the grief of his aunt and cousin, toward whom his brief coldness and resentment ? ? - iL. -f .i.:? i vanisneu away in uie preseuue ui una gicau j sorrow. At length Mr. Carroll's eyes opened, and j with a glance of recognition he met the tear- j ful, devoted gaze of the faces gathered around.; He tried to speak; but the power of speech j was gone. He tried to move his right hand;; but that effort, too, was in vain. Feebly he j moved his left, and motioned for a pencil and some paper. "My frieud, do not agitate yourself," said the physician ; "you are unfit to make the least exertion, and I must enjoin perfect quiet and repose." With a distressed look, the sick man persisted in his demand. At length, fearing to excite him by continued opposition, the desired articles were brought him. Slowly and painfully, with his trembling left hand, he traced a few scrawling words on the paper; but ere he had completed a sentence, the pencil dropped from his neiveless, impotent fingers. All that could be distinguished of what he had written were the disconnected words? "Ruin?madness?forgive?too late?my blessing?repent." They fancied that these words were but the promptings of a weak, disordered brain. In ' silent anguish they wept over this proof of a shattered mind; and, in truth, he now appeared to lose all consciousness of his surround- ( ings. His eyes lost their intelligence of expression and wandered vacantly around the 1 apartment; his head sank back, and it soon became evident to all that his last moments were rapidly approaching. The struggle was brief and comparatively ' easy, and ere the clock had struck the hour , of noon, the soul of Andrew Carroll had escaped from its tenement of clay to seek its better home. The grief-stricken family could scarcely realize that this sudden blow which had descended upon them was not a terrible dream. That the generous, kindly-hearted man, who a few short hours before, had stood in the midst of them, in the flush of life and health, should now be lying still and cold in his last repose; that the cheerful voice should be forever silenced; the grasp of the warm, firm , hand relaxed, never to be felt again ; that the heart that had throbbed with warm affection, benevolent impulses and kindly desires, should now be senseless and pulseless?never more to , stir and bound with life?seemed too dreadful a reality for them at once to comprehend. In the ball-room still bloomed the fresh 1 bright flowers that had beautified it for the j festival of the previous evening; in the supper- i room there lay on the table the fragments of the feast, which the distracted servants had not yet thought of removing. And Lucy, herself, in her white, flowing dress, now crumpled and disordered, felt the horrible mockery of the contrast between life and death?between the brief, brilliant pageant in which she had borne part, and the awful mystery 01 the solemn tragedy at its close! On the evening of the next day, the mortal remaius of Air. Carroll were consigned to their last resting-place. A large concourse of . friends atteuded the melancholy ceremony; 1 for in the mercantile world, and, indeed, in every circle in which he had moved, he had commanded the respect, esteem and admiration of all, for his integrity and moral worth. , Another blow was yet to descend on the bereaved family. 1 To the astonishment of every one, it was discovered that the affairs of the deceased were so hopelessly involved, that upon pay- ' raeut of the claims against it, there would be ] only a small remnant left for1 the support of his wife and child. 1 Mr. Carroll had allowed himself to become ' entangled in business speculations, which had utterly failed. The knowledge of this disaster had reached him but a short time before his death. He had devised means to extricate himself from its consequences, which, had he lived, would probably have proved successful ; but as it was, the ruin was almost complete. Now they understood the meaning of those mysterious words he had traced on his deathbed?understood the anguish of mind and heart that he must have felt, in that feeble struggle, to express his sorrow for what he had done?his prayer for their forgiveness? his assurance of his tender love?the love that would have shielded them with its dying breath from the evil which his own hand had wrought. "OhI Lucy, what is to become of us?" moaned Mrs. Carroll, to whom the loss of her fortune was indeed a grievous blow, and one, which already crushed by sorrow, she found it difficult to sustain. "What are we to do? Where are we to go ? We cannot live here in poverty and ruin. I could never show my < face again." ] "Why not, mamma ?" asked Lucy, who ] completely engrossed by her grief at the loss 1 of her father, regarded the loss of their wealth * as a very minor consideration. "We know ] every one here, and people cannot think less , of us because we are poor. It would be worse among strangers." I "Ah! you are so inexperienced?you do j not know the world," sighed the mother. | "People who are your fast friends in prosperi- t ty, turn the cold shoulder when trouble 1 comes; and I could not endure to be slighted j by those whom we have always met on equal ground before." "Those who are truly our friends will never g 3light us, mamma, aud we do not care about ^ the conduct or opinion of others," said Lucy, t with spirit. "Let us rent oar house, which I 3till remains to us, and hire a smaller one in * a less fashionable part of the city, and after we have made the change we can devise far- \ ther means of getting on." ' * For once Lucy's counsels prevailed. Their large, elegant residence was let to a family who were able and willing to pay a liberal rent for it; with the half of this they hired a small, but neat and comfortable residence, whither they removed about a month after Mr. Carroll's death. Edward was greatly delighted at this plan, which ensured his lovely cousin being still within his reach. ' He now only waited for a fitting opportunity to declare his attachment to her, which he hoped his aunt might now regard with more favorable consideration than she had hitherto done. Among the first visitors who called upon them in their new home, was Mr. Alfred Stanley. Lucy was indifferent to his attention, but Mrs. Carroll received it gladly, and welcomed him with an empressmnt that was r\ _ . ! a_ 1_ mod I naiienng to nis vanity. [to be continued next week.] A HUMAN PHENOMENON. The most remarkable specimen of physical organization we have ever seen is Mr. Geo. Thomas, a Brazilian, who has been in Port Jervis since Thursday of last week. He has been exhibiting himself in various places in the village, and has puzzled physcians and surgeons; they are unable to understand his anatomy. He can move his heart to any part of the body at pleasure, and even stop its beating for nearly sixty seconds. He has two sets of ribs, one of which he can move from its position to the front of the body, covering the abdomen. He causes a revolving motion of the bowels, both upward and downward, the abdomen uudulating and resembling the corrugating motions of a flag or a piece of cloth when disturbed by the wind. He can so arrest his pulse that for a short time one cannot discern that he has any. Another wonderful thing that he does is to bend an iron bar fiveeighths of an inch in thickness by striking it across his left arm. The muscles of his arms he so contracts that the flesh feels as hard as wood. Mr Thomas is certainly a wonderful specimen of physical construction, and he has puzzled the scientific men of the world. At our request he called in our office yesterday, and gave us his history, from which we glean the following: He was born in Brazil, South America, on the 4th of March 1820. His father was Ethiopian and his mother a Spanish woman. When four years old, he was taken to London, England, by his mother, and was there examined by Surgeon Kent. The latter took him to Edinburgh, Scotland, where he made an incision near the heart, and discovered that he had no diaphragm, and that the heart was not enclosed in a pericardium, but is suspended by two cords, instead of one. Some years afterward, he was given an examination in Paris by Surgeon Lois, with the same re...u xt -c .u? ?< t?., 9U1U JJ1UUC VI U1U OUiCUUUU UiCU VI uuiupc understood his structure, and they advised him to come to America, to see if our learned men could comprehend the formation. But uo one here had before seen such a creature, and could not understand his organization. "It was in 1863 when he came here, and in 1865 he went back to Europe. In 1867 he was at the Paris exposition, and was examined by several eminent surgeons, among them Professor Smith, of Baltimore. Since that year he has been in this country. His home is in England, and he says he likes that country better than this?there he is treated as a gentleman, here as a worthless vagrant. He is not married, and his parents are now dead. He has a brother who is six feet three inches in height, but who can contract himself so that he is but three feet three inches tall. This is the only peculiarity. There was nothing remarkable about their mother, but the father was apparently destitute of ribs. The latter at one time?a great many years ago?worked upon the Erie Canal and lived in Lockport George has a cousin who can throw his left hip to his right side and vice versa. The former is in good health, weighs 165 pounds, is about five feet eight inches in height, and appears to be not over thirty years old. Mr Thomas goes to Middleton to-day. He will visit Albany and return to this village in three or four weeks, soon after which he intends to bid farewell to America.?Port Jervis Tri-State Union. Von Moltke's Snuff and How He Paid for It.?Uount von JVioitxe, wmie temporarily resident at Versailles, during the winter of 1870-71, one day ran short of snuff, and failing to find any "sneeshin" of the brand he especially affects in the local bureaux de tabac, instructed one of his subordinates at the war office in Berlin to forward to him a packet of his "own peculiar" rappee, without delay. The snuff was bought, paid for, and 3ent on to Versailles with'military promptitude, and was duly charged to the account of the nation. When peace having been concluded, the time came for examining the books of all the different departments that had been spending money with horrible prodigality for nearly three-quarters of a year?when the indemnity began to drop in by small installments of ?20,000,000 a piece or so, which were at once appropriated to the defrayal of the actual war expenses?one of the officials trusted with the revision of all the petty cash transactions of the war office, came one day upon the following startling and nochnichtJagewesenes item: "For one pound of extra fine, with-of-tonquin-bean-perfurae-highly-impregnated snuff, by his excellency the Count eon Moltke, commanded, three thalere seven md a half sibergroschen." The rigid conscience of the accountant did not allow of his 'passing" this irregular, unprecedented item ; so he made a memorandum of the entry aud referred it up to his immediate official superior, with an explanatory essay, learned, parenthetical and exhaustive, going a good deal into the origin of things, and logically demonitrating that snuff could not be held to be a naterial or munition of war?ergo, that outays incurred for its purchase could not in jquity be saddled on the national exchequer, >r be defrayed from the incoming property of ;he State purchased by the lives of Germany's ions, and so forth. The demurrer thus raised was submitted by one authority to another, mriched with anotations and "opinions, the )fficial manipulation of the question lasting jome sixteen months. Eventually the crown lawyers having considered the whole case, and pronounced the snuff claim to be one that the State could not admit, von Moltke was officially addressed upon the subject, and requested, with peremptory politeness, to pay for liis snuff?a demand with which he at once oomplied. Troubles.?Some people are as careful of ;heir troubles as mothers are of their babies; ;hey cuddle them, and rock them, and hug ;hem, and cry over them, and fly into a paslion with you if you try to take them away "rora them ; they want you to fret with them, ind to help them to believe that they have oeen worse treated than anybody else. If hey could, they would have a picture of their jriefs in a gold frame, hung over the mantel ihelf for evervbodv to Iook at. And their jriefa ordinarily make them selfish?they hink more of their dear little trouble in the jasket and in the cradle than they do of all he world besides. "Why should we celebrate Washington's )irth-day more than mine ?" asked a teacher. Because he never told a lie!" shouted a boy.