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* ee wis m. ?rxst, proprietor.J Inbcprnimtf Jfamiljr ftefospper: Jfor fjic |)roi.:otion of fbe political, Social, Agricultural an!) Commercial Interests of % jlonfjj. |terms?$3.00 A year, IX advance. VOL. 20. YORKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, "APBIL 30, 1874. ^TO. 18. Jlu <j)rii)utal Jforg. Written lor the Yorkvillo Enquirer. HOLLINGWOOD HOUSE. BY MRS. HENRY DEAS. CHAPTER I. "I say, Charlie, let us take a stroll somewhere ; it's confoundedly slow stopping out here in front of this old inn all the afternoon. What makes yon so lazy, all of a sudden ?" "The atmosphere of the place, I suppose," languidly answered, without stirring, a slender, dark-eyed young man, who lay at full length on one of the benches outside the door of a neat, rustic-looking wayside house, his arm disposed under his head for a pillow, his straw hat tilted over his eyes to shade them from the light, and a cigar between his lips, from which delicate wreaths of smoke occasionally curled upward, as he partly opened them for the purpose of speaking. "Listen to the wind sighing through the leaves, and the babble of yonder pretty little stream ; iuhale the subtle perfumes that hover on the wings of the breeze, mingling so odoriferously with the emanations of these delectable Hav anas; and ask yourself if it be not more agreeable to remain thus enjoying the dolce far niente, than to be tramping aimlessly about over hill and dale, after the fatigue of a whole day's attempt at fishing." "Fatigue ! You are easily fatigued, if our sport of to-day has knocked you up," rejoined the first speaker, a little impatiently. "Sport seldom knocks me up, my dear boy ; it's the lack of that commodity that I find wearisome. Dangling one's legs uuprofitably over the brink of a stream for four hours at a stretch, with an August sun baking down on one's head, is, to say the least, a questionable style of amusement, don't you think so ?" "The fact is, Charlie, you are out of sorts lately, it seems to me," said the other, a franklooking, curly-headed youth, whose sunburnt countenance wore a somewhat discontented expression, as he contemplated the indoleut attitude and nonchalant air of his friend. "Nothing amuses or interests you ; I declare I half repent of having induced you to undertake this trip." "Now, Horace, I really feel reproached; do I seem so uuappreciative of your kindness? But, really and truly, I don't think I am out of sorts?whatever species of ailment it may be which that expression is designed to convey to the understanding?I am simply afflicted with a sudden accession of laziness, which you must be indulgent enough to put up with until it wears off. It won't last long; nothing does, with me, you know." "That's true," muttered Horace; "I never saw such a fickle fellow in my life. When we started, you were full of the pleasure of the jaunt, and now you don't appear to care a rush where we go or what we do. My opinion is that we'd better get away from here tomorrow." "To-morrow!" said Charles, removing the cigar from his lipsi and speaking with more animation than he had yet displayed, "why, that will be quite out of accordance with our plans. I thought we were here for a fortnigh4, at least." "Yes, but if you do not care about the fishing?" "I do care about it, I assure you ; I like it amazingly well, when the fish will bite. I think to-day they must have been uncommonly shy; I have no doubt they will gain confidence by to-morrow, and be more ready to reciprocate our overtures of acquaintanceship. Let us remain, by all means; I like this place, we get capital fare, and have pretty scenery aud refreshing quiet; I should not at all care to leave it, just yet." "Should you not?" said Horace, rather surprised. "I fancied I was proposing the very thing that you would like." "Not at all. Make yourself quite easy about me, and don't suppose that I am out of conceit of our expectation, or anything of that sort. I enjoy being here?as well as anywhere else," he added, relapsing into his former indifference. "What! are you going ?" "Yes, for a walk. Come, you may as well join me," said Horace, who, haviug risen from a recumbent position on the grass, was stretching his long legs and arras at an alarming rate. "It will do you good." "You really must excuse me, old fellow; I don't want to seem unsociable, but I declare I am not equal to the exertion." "All right," carelessly replied Horace, who was restored to good humor by his friend's expressed wish to remaiu in their present retreat, where he promised himself much" sport in the niscatorial line. "I'll eo aud survey the other side of that hill we were admiring from a distance this morning and whistling to his dog, a beautiful brown pointer that lay curled up on a mound of leaves close by, he thrust his hands into his pockets and sauntered leisurely away. Mr. Charles Sydney?for it is time to present this dark-eyed youth under his full and proper name to your notice?looked after him without altering his position, until a turn in the winding lane hid him from view ; then lie arose, threw away the end of his cigar, yawned, and commenced to pace up and down on the patch of grass in front of the house, which was an old-fashioned country inn, in one ol the most retifed portions of Berkshire, England. His companion, Horace Chester, the son of a wealthy merchant, had invited him to spend some weeks with him at his home in Reading, and from thence they had started on a tour through the rural districts, comprising the pleasures of fishing, shooting, sketching, and idling in general, of which young men just from college are apt to be fond. Horace was fresh from Cambridge, and Charles from a German University; they had been school? x l t-I 1? , u?r. j mines ill/ l/icsucu suiuc jcnu uciuic, mill nuic mutually gratified at the renewal of their intimacy, which had been brought about by Charles' desire to see something of the mother country before returning to his home in the Southern States. They had falleu in unexpectedly with each other in London, and Horace, taking immediate possession of him. had insisted on showing him unlimited hospitality and doing, as far as possible, the honon of his native land. With characteristic fickle ness, however, the young American was al ready beginning to weary of the method oi amusement they had chosen for themselves beginning to weary slightly, if the truth must be confessed, of his comrade also, and to wisli that he had not bound himself to remain sc long in his companionship. "He's a good chap, but awfully slow," he ! soliloquized ou the present, occasion, when ; Horace was fairly gone. "Well! it suits me exactly for him to take himself off just at this ! time, for I can have my little ramble round ( by the mill in peace, aud he be none the wiser ; for it. He'll not be back for a couple of' j hours, if he is going to climb that hill. Let' ; me see?I wonder if it is time for ray village j beauty to be on her homeward way yet." i He drew out his watch and consulted it. I "Hallo! it's not as early as I thought," he ex-; j claimed. "I must be off at once, or I shall ! have my walk for nothiug, and that won't pay, as the Yankees say. I am going on a fool's ; j errand at best, but I do not feel inclined to ! l discard the folly yet?I'll listen to Wisdom's i 1 preaching on some future day. Any diversion , 1 which serves to enliven the tedium of exist-! j ence is too acceptable not to be taken advan-! ' tage of." With this reflection, he lit another cigar, ; then walked off at a quick pace in the oppo- ' j site direction to the one Horace had taken. ! i T-j;.. lot. oloTirr ftin Krinlr nf a littlp i | ?ilO JJUIUI IttJ UilV VI IMU X/4 M ...... 1 stream, that prattled merrily in front of the i inn-door, widening and deepening as he folj lowed itscourse, until it came to a place where j it foamed noisely over a rock and plunged j j into a low, broad pool in a hollow below. On i j the opposite bank, amid a cluster of venerable j trees, stood an old dilapidated mill, long dis- j used and falling to decay; over its stained ' walls and idle wheel grew creeping plants and j vines, and through its gaping lower windows j | gaily-colored wild flowers thrust their nod- j j ding heads, contrasting strangely in their j ; bloom and freshness with the darkness and ! ) gloom of the dusty rooms, and casting a charm j j over the ruin upon which they smiled. A belt; j of low, broken hills in the background, and i clumps of oak and chestnut trees on either side, shut in the little hollow, as it were, from I the intrusion of the outer world. It was a j quaint aud lovely picture, lying peacefully in j the mellow light of the evening sky, with the j long shadow stealing over the dancing water j and the emerald grass, aud no sound to dis- j turb the stillness but the rush of the swift cas-' cade. Charles was a very good amateur ar-1 tist, but it was not his object at present to stu- j dy picturesque effects; with scarcely a glance j at the scene before him he seated himself on i one end of a rude bridge that spanned the , lower portion of the mill-stream, and strained ; his vision earnestly along the read, that led j past the mill and through the woods to a lit tie village about half a mile beyond. From j his expectaut. air it was evident that he was j lookiug for the approach of some one; nor did j he have to wait long. Presently the figure of j a girl came in view, tripping lightly down the i woodland road, a slight, youthful little figure, j j clad in a brown dress, with a straw hat on , her head and a basket on her arm ; quite iu j keeping with the character of the place, and I adding greatly to its attractiveness?at all events in the eyes of the young gentleman on the bridge, whose face brightened with unmistakable satisfaction at her approach. The girl's way lay across the stream, and he sprang up from his scat and advanced to meet her as ; she drew near. "Good evening, Miss Elsie!" he exclaimed, {smilingly doffing his hat. "On your way I home from your errand of charity, as usual ?" "Yes, sir," was the reply, in a sweet silvery voice, as a pair of dove-like eyes were raised for an instant to his face, then shyly dropped again. The look of admiration they encountered was sufficiently unmistakable to call forth a rosy blush, which added fresh beauty to a face already lovely enough to satisfy a critic's eye. It was not simply its oval contour and delicate features, large, lustrous eyes, wild-rose complexion, and framework of clus- , tering, silky chestnut curls, falling loosely , Kanaatli ki-iin hnf fltlfl ! | lightly blown by the evening wind ; but also j the purity and refinement of expression, a certain winsome grace and charm pervading the whole, that placed it, in an artistic point of j view, far above the level of the ordinary type ! of rustic prettiness, and laid claim to more i than a passing tribute of praise. "Isn't it a lovely evening?" said Charles, j placing himself at her side with the evident j intention of accompanying her on her way. "I was beginning to be afraid you were not' coming. Let me carry your basket for you ; ! it looks too heavy for your slight arm." "Oh ! no sir, it is not heavy at all," rejoined j J-llsie, smiling, however, as sheyielded it up to j him. "It was full when I went out, but it is 1 empty now." "Full of nice things for the poor old sick ! dame, I suppose," said Charles. "How is she 1 this evening ?" "Very poorly, sir; she's suffering a great * i .? i i i i A r i! deal,' said tnc gin, ner Dngni race ciuuumg i over as she spoke. "She does nothing but j groau and complain, all the time." "Poor soul!" said Charles, in a sympathetic \ tone; while Elsie thought it very kind in j such a handsome, well-dressed gentleman to take so much interest in old granny Dixon ' and her rheumatic pains. "But I am sure ' she must feel the better of your visit." j "I don't know aboi\|. that, sir." j "Well, she ought to, I'm sure," said , j Charles. "The sight of your face alone is | enough to do any one good, I think, and } , make one forgot everything disagreeable. I ; know if I were sick, and you should come to , ! see me, it would cure me at once." , j "I think the doctor would cure you much j , I more easily, sir," said Elsie, with an arch little j j smile. "I never heard that looking at any- j ! body could make a sick person well." i "I am afraid you would not be willing to let; me try the experiment. Would yor come i and see me, Elsie?Miss Elsie, I mean?if I; were very ill ?" "I don't know, sir, I'm sure," was the do- j mure reply. "I am not a good sick nurse." I "Oh ! but I should like to have you take ' j care of me ! Don't walk so fast, please; you are not in haste to get home, are youT' "Not particularly, sir." "Then let us sit down here a little while i j and talk." j "Oh ! I couldn't !" said Elsie, hesitating, j however, as if uncertain whether to accede to , the proposition or not. "Please do! can't you trust yourself in my ! i care for a few minutes?" "Yes sir?but?" j "But what?" f "I shall get home late, Mr. Sydney, and ; mother will be wanting me. I must go, int deed," said Elsie, gaining resolution from this ; i last reflection, and moving forward. r > "Must you ? Then of course I ought not to j i try and detain you. But won't you drop that i formal sir when you speak to me; I dislike it so much, and it seems to put such an immense distauce between us. , I don't look so very venerable, do I ?" "No," said Elsie, laughing and blushing, "but it seems more natural." "It seems very unnatural to me. Please be more friendly and unconstrained; I did hope you were beginning to look upon me as ; your friend. Was I mistaken? Why do,: you not answer?" he continued, as she turned i .1 away her head without speaking. i "Because," she answered in a low tone, "it 11 seems strange for a city gentleman, like you,11 to care to be a friend of a plain country girl." j "But I do not cousider you a plain country < girl. There are plenty of city ladies whose friendships I would not value a hundredth ' part as much as yours." "You'll not be here loug," said Elsie, still j looking away. "What would be the use ofl< our being friends for a little while, and then never seeing one another again ?" "Should you care to see me again ?" , | T? mro tlmk! r\ r\ rnnlv ' I "Because," continued Charles, in a low J tone, bending down to look into her face, "if; you did care, I would be very ant to come ; back again?just as soon as I possibly could, j Must I come back ? I'll have to leave here ; j for a little while, pretty soon, but I can man- ( age to return, if?must I ? Tell me." i, "I?don't?know?oh ! please, Mr. Sydne}', j | give me my basket uow ! I must hurry home, ! < and you ueedn't take the trouble to bring it' i any farther. ; i "Now, you want to get rid of me," said \ Charles, reproachfully. "Are you tired of, | mv com nan v already T \ { ""No?but?" ' | 1 "Let me walk just a little farther with you.1 You have not answered my question yet." "What question, sir ?" ji "The one I asked you just now. Won't I i you answer it, Elsie? You cannot think i i how much I care to know." The little hand he took in his fluttered like j an imprisoned bird. Elsie's olieeks were ' 1 crimson, her brown eyes filled with tears ; her , i heart was throbbing so that she could not: speak. She was frightened, happy, glad, ! t sorry, all at once; she did not know what had ; e come over her, giving her such a bewildered | feeling, taking away her voice?almost taking r away the power of thought. I 1 "Must I come back?would you like me i ? to ?" said the soft tones again, and almost be- 1 j fore she knew it, a tremulous half-whispered ; "yes" dropped from her lips. She wished to ; , recall it, as soon as it was spoken ; she longed i , to ruu away, and wanted to release her hand, j e but it was still held fast. ! c "Then I will come back, Elsie?I promise j c you I will. So you see we can bo friends?can ; i we not? You will agree to that, now." i 9 Again Elsie said, yes ; this time with less j s difficulty than before, and then the hand was j s carried very gently to his lips. They walked j on for a minute in silence. \ "Oh! there's the village," said Elsie, suddenly. "Please don't come any farther now, s ? Mr. Sydney." " j t f!li'irles was not unwilling to Ston. for lie i 1 ? ? ' I had not intended to accompany her the whole ; way. "Must I say good-bye, now ?" lie asked, j 1 "Shall I see you to-morrow evening?" c "Perhaps so?at least?I go to dame Dix- t on's every afternoon, you know," said Elsie, a feeling as if she were doing wrong in making the concession. 11 "Yes, I know. I will come to the bridge,! t then. Auf wiederschn, my sweet little friend." j \ "What does that mean, sir?" jc "It means 'till we meet again,' or perhaps j a better rendering would be simply 'we meet: ] again." 'Tis better than 'good-bye'?I hate j t that word. Can you say it after me? Auf\ wiederschn." I \ "Auf wiederschn?" . < "Mcin lieber Karl." ! t "Mein?I don't know what that means, sir." ; ? " 'Sir' again ! don't forget our compact! I j ^ must teach you German some day, and you ] must promise strictly to follow my instruc- j s tioiis. But 5 won't detain you any longer 1 r now?good-night." They parted, and Charles j returned slowly toward the inn. 1 r "What a lovely little creature she is," he ( mused, as he walked aloug. "Fresh as a daisy,! and innocent as a lamb. What eyes she has ! , \ She likes me, too; I can make her desperate-; i ly fond of me, if I can only get opportunities ! c enough. If that blunderhead, Horace, were ! s out of the way! Well, I must devise somo 1 expedient?I can't take him into my coufi- i deuce; he is so confoundedly punctilious, he ; \ would preach against the whole thing. But! this Elsie! she has bewitched me, I think. I 11 am really getting soft-hearted over her. If I 1 could just metamorphose her now into a little s aristocrat?wouldn't I take her over the roll-; i ing ocean aud transplant her into American , 1 soil ? But then, she'd not be half as piquante c and charming as she is now ; she has just! 1 enough rusticity to be captivating, without the 1 \ slightest touch of coarseness or clumsiness.'? Clumsiness! She is grace itself, a perfect; fairy. Not one of those German girls I used \ 1 to think Drettv. can comnare with her?ex-1 r J, cept, perhaps, that little witch Kiitchen ; she c had magnificent eyes, but not Elsie's complex-!' ion or figure. And then her voice ! and that' I shy way she has of glancing up into one's face ' 1 and then dropping her eye-lashes again, when i she answers one. I don't know whether she ; i is all simplicity, or deeper than she seems. 11: believe, though, I must give her credit for . t being perfectly artless. It is so refreshing to j meet with such unsophistication. After all, |; it is worth while having come on this expedi tion, though I was beginning to vote it a bore. (' If Horace will only be obliging enough to ; i keep a little out of my way, and devote him- j 1 self to his fishing, I can find time and occa-1 I sion for the exercise of my powers of fascina-! 1 tion. j l "Supposeshe really falls in love with me?" | ] Well, it won't be the first time that a vil- j i lage beauty has been admired and flattered by > I her betters. She mustn't be so soft as to think ' i moon arilnrt Ttirnill/1 I L11UI SUUU auuunuuo u.vuil ctuj uii.ub. MVM.v. | give rather a zest to ray homeward voyage, i | though, to think I had left a tender little :; heart pining for me; I should just feel agree- ( ably sentimental about it, and treasure up | j the memory of the little romance as a picas-: ] ant episode of my foreign tour. ; ] "I wonder if Kiitchen ever thinks of me 1 now ? But of course she does not; no doubt 1 l she has taken up long ago with that snub-; i nosed Schultz, or that English fellow?what's ] his name ??that she was so fond of playing off j t against me when I made her angry. She was I f always an arrant coquette. Now I fancy Elsie would be very tender and true." As Charles carao in eight of the inn, the , figure of Horace appeared emerging from the I trees. "Hallo !" he exclaimed. "I thought you were too tired to stir a step. Where have you been to now ?" "Only a short distance," said Charles. "I found my self-imposed solitude a little irksome, 30 I thought I would take a stroll. There's i a pretty spot not far from here?an old mill, | and a bridcre; it would make a nice little, picture for my sketch-book." "So you've been in pursuit of the beauties jf Nature," said Horace. "Yes," said Charles, stroking his moustache. 'I am fond of natural beauties, you know." ! "Any fish down there, do you suppose ?" "In the mill-stream ? decidedly not; the current is too rapid." "Oh ! well, I don't care about it, then," said Horace. "Come, let us go in ; I have a jolly i jood appetite, and I ordered some of those trout for supper." ? I CHAPTER II. Elsie hastened on through the widening ! path until it merged into the village street, : then gradually slackened her pace, and it was j ivith a slower step than usual that she ap- j proached her own dwelling. Standing in the j loor-way of the neat, unpretending white cot- i :age, was a brown-visaged, hard-featured ; tvoman, evidently watching for her arrival. "Well!" she exclaimed in an impatient j .one, as soon as she was within hearing, "I do ,hink you've taken your time this evening. Was the old dame worse, that you stayed so ong?" "She seemed pretty bad, and I had to do j nore for her than usual," replied Elsie ; truth-. ally adding, however, "but she did not keep j ne any later than I generally stay." "Then you must have idled by the way," j aid her mother, "or the clock's gone forward : lalf an hour. Supper's been ready this good j vhile." "You shouldn't have waited for me, moth- j :r," said Elsie, as with a heightened color she j mtered the cottage. "Stuff; do you think I care to sit down by nyself? Come, take your things off down j lere ; you've no call to go up-stairs. Why, | jracious mo, child, what's the matter with j 'our face? it's as red as fire." "I?walked fast?and it's so warm," murnured Elsie, turning reluctantly back at her nother's bidding, for she had been anxious to iscape for a few moments to her own little diamber to give the unwonted flush a chance if cooling off. It seemed to burn more hotly i ban ever beneath the scrutiny of Mrs. Donne's j harp eyes, and to avoid further questioning, J he commenced, as soon as they were seated j it table, to give an account of her visit to her i )oor old protegee, and to retail some bits of dllage gossip that she had heard. "Mother, Ellen Atwell stopped me as I was j joing, and told me her cousin was truly going 1 ,o be married next month, and she's to be j mdesmaid." "What cousin V' "Why, George Greene, the one who was lere in the spring, staying at Mrs. Atwell's ; j lon't you recollect; we all used to think he: ind Ellen would make a match, they seemed 0 fond of one another." "That curly-pated, dandy fellow ? I don't | enow who'd be silly enough to take up with ! he like of him, I'm sure," said Mrs. Deane, ! vitli scorn in her voice. "Not Ellen, for she's i 1 good sensible girl." "She says the girl he's engaged to, Mary j Lake, is real pretty and sweet, and has a for- j tine besides." "She's got mighty little sense, according to ' ny notions," said Mrs. Deanc,contemptuously. 'But the marriages young folks make now-a- J lays pass my understanding. They just act: iccording to their fancy, instead of asking ad dee of thera as have got more sense than they ! iave. In my day, children considered them- j elves bound to abide the wishes of their pa-1 cuts and elders." "But I never heard that Mary Lake's pa cnts were unwilling for her to marry George j jlreene, mother." "It's against my belief that they should be villing," said Mrs. Deane. "It wouldn't be latural for any two people with a grain of! jommon sense between them to want such a [ ituck-up looking young monkey for a son-in-; aw. More's the pity for the girl." Not finding this a satisfactory topic, Elsie J featured upon another. I "Dame Dixon told me that Martha Crcs- i yell's youngest son was coming home." "Ilim as 'listed for a soldier? Ah ! I dare lay he's had enough of it by now. He's one I ,vho was always acting contrary to every-j iody's wishes, especially his father's and moth- [ ;r's. He'd better have stayed at home and I lelped with the farm, when the poor old man , ,vas laid up with rheumatism, and the other ion following his trade." "Martha's wild with joy, they say. He's I lcr favorite son, you know." "Yes, and she's one of your soft folks that ;an l>o twisted round everybody's little finger. There's that young scamp, now, has acted fit ! ;o break her heart, ran away and outlawed ; limself, and made her think he was dead, and j tow he'll come hack and speak fair words,' md she'll forget all his misbehavior, and be I is foolish over him as if he luid acted dutiful ilways." "But mother, the prodigal son came home, you know," suggested Elsie. "Prodigal fiddlesticks," quoth Mrs. Deane. I 'Scripture's not to he gaiusayed, of course, j and I honor my Bible as much as other folks,! but I don't consider that every parable is to j be taken as gospel truth. When people be-: bave ill, it's my opinion as they ought to feel j the consequences. If a child of mine should run away and fall into evil ways, I'd have , naught to do with 'era, but let 'era get out of ' their trouble the best way they could. As folks bake, so they ought to brew." Somehow this hard doctrine seemed to fall; this evening with peculiar unpleasantness on IClsie's ears. She saw that her mother was in j jne of her least agreeable moods?a mood that Mrs. Deane herself would call "contra- j ry"?and that no subject of conversation was likely to meet with amicable treatment at her liands while it lasted. Elsie thought it hard i to come home only to encounter cross looks md sharp tones; she was not conscious of, laving done anything to ruffle her mother's temper, beyond the trifling delay she had been i guilty of in coming home. She sat silent dti-1 ring the rest of the meal, until Mrs. Deane, having finished her iast cup of tea, left her seat and commenced to clear away the table , with great energy and rapidity of movement, and some unnecessary clatter. Elsie, too, j rose, and with a little sigh, proceeded to ren- j der her customary assistance in these household duties, during the performance of which i she displayed such absence of mind as to call , forth several rebukes from the busy, bustling j housewife. "Mercy onus, Elsie! whatever are you thinking about, putting the chaney cups on j the bottom shelf, instead of setting them in the waiter. There you go now, spilling the water on the table?your fingers are all thumbs j this evening, and your wits have gone wool- j gathering, it seems to me. You are growing j as awkward and careless as can be." She was thankful when her tasks were ac- , complishcd, and she had leisure to betake; herself to the front steps, where she sat in the : rnnnnlirrht and frftVO l)laV to the COllfused " D" " ~ I J thoughts tlmt were agitating her mind. New ! thoughts, new emotions?bewildering yet de-. lightful glimpses into a world hitherto uu-1 opened to her vision, perplexed her and yet J made her happy. She could not analyze her j feelings ; they seemed to surge over her heart i like a resistless tide, bearing away all the ordinary and commonplace things of life from her thoughts. She recalled the looks, the words, the soft tones that had thrilled her that afternoon, and a feeling of wonder that ^ she should have been chosen as the recipient of j them rose in her mind. And what did they I mean? Elsie was 110 stranger to complimen- ^ lary speeches and glances of admiration, for 1 many a village swain had fallen captive to her charms. But she knew how to deal with ' those; they met 011 equal ground, and she j could, without difficulty, ply the arts of rustic i coquetry, to attract or ward them off as occa-; sion required. Here, however, was an ad-1 mirer of a very different stamp, whose notice,' while it embarrassed her, gave her twenty : times more pleasure than all that she had ever 1 received before. And yet, thought simple WlcJn nrtuM tin rnnllir finH nnvthino* to like J a and admire in one so ignorant, so uneultiva- j ted, as herself? He, the handsome, city-bred , stranger, accustomed to the society of those so far superior to her?was it possible that he j should desire her friendship ? And if the j thonght of something more than friendship? j half frightening her, and hidden quickly away j because of its presumption?gave a wild pul- j sation to her heart, it was little wonder, with j the echo of those low, pleading tone3 lingering in her ear, and that kiss still fresh upon her hand. Her reverie was broken by the sound of I gay voices, and a merry group of young men j and girls approached the cottage. Her first j impulse was to retreat within doors and re-1 main there until they had passed by, for she ! was in no mood fQr company to-night, and ; she had already risen from her seat to carry j out this intention when the voice of one of the j party arrested her. "Elsie! Elsie Deane! Come along and walk with us. It's a lovely evening, and we are going as far as the old bridge." "I don't think I care about going this evenincr Ellen " slowlv ronlied Elsie, as tliev oath- I ercd outside the gate. I feel too tired." "Tired ! oh ! nonsense; get your hat and j corae along, and don't stay moping there , alone. We won't go without yon." "Mother's in," said Elsie, trying to think of some excuse. "Well, my mother's coming round presently to have a chat with her; she told me so just before I left. Come, Elsie! dou't be so lazy." "Elsie is waiting for you to persuade her,! Jem," laughingly exclaimed another of the I girls to a stalwart young fellow, who kept a ' little aloof from the others, leaning against j the fence. "Elsie knows well enough whether I wantj her to go or not," was the reply, given in a i tone of suppressed eagerness, as if the speak- j er were unwilling to betray the extent of his i anxiety on the subject. "Yes, but you mustn't let her take it all for : granted. Come, Elsie, here's poor Jem dying ! for you to say yes." "And he may, and welcome," said Elsie, j tartly. "How can you talk such stuff, Susan ! Clayton ? I'd keep a less forward tongue in my head, if I was you. I'll not come at all ; it I am to be bothered." ! "May be you would rather stop at home | and have Jem stay and keep you company," j said the provoking Susan, "while we take our ' walk." "Oh ! come Elsie, dear, never mind her ' nonsense," said Ellen, persuasively. "It's a ' shame of you. to plague her, Sue. Run and J get your hat, Elsie, for the dew is chilly ; we'll : wait for you, out here." Elsie, finding that there was no escape, and i fearing farther bantering if she delayed, went | off for her hat, and Mrs. Deane, emerging from the door, addressed some gracious re- j marks to the party, having apparently recov- j cred her good humor in the interval since : supper. She was especially friendly to the I young man, designated as "Jem," to whom < she addressed herself so particularly as to ; bring him forward to answer her, and it thus j happened that when Elsie returned he was standing close to the gate,??and as he opened it1 to let her pass through, the others moved off, leaving him to follow with her as a matter of course. Elsie was vexed, and mentally re-j solved to escape from the tete-a-tete as soon as she could, and in the meanwhile to have as; little to say to her admirer as possible. She, j therefore, tried to hasten on to join the rest of the party, but Jem lagged so resolutely that j she could not, without absolute rudeness, ac- J complish her purpose. "Seems to me, you're in a terrible hurry to-; night, Elsie," he said at last, in a half-offended ; tone. "Do you wish me to stay behind ? Be-' cause if you do, I'll go home again." "You need not go home," said Elsie, pctu-1 lautly, "but wo arc not at a funeral, I suppose." "We're not walking any slower than the j others are." I "But they arc ever so far ahead of us." | "Well, they left us ; we didn't separate our- j selves ?rom them. It is not our doing at all." ! "They had no call to leave us, I'm sure," i said Elsie. "They are always trying to plague me." "Why should it plague you, Elsie ?" asked Jem, managing to bestow a tender pressure on the little hand that he had drawn through j his arm. "They did it out of kindness to me, i I think ; but if it angers you, I wish they j hadn't thought about me." His deprecating tone made Elsie regret her pettishness ; perhaps it was with an irrepressible touch of coquetry, too, that she au3wered in a softened voice? "I'm not angered at you, Jem." "Nor at them neither, I hope," said Jem. "It shouldn't be such a hard fate for you to have to walk a little way with me alone. When I'm with you in a crowd, I can never find a chance to say the half of what I want to say to you." "I am sure," said Elsie, "I don't see what you can wish to say to me, that you couldn't say as well in a crowd." "Many, many things, Elsie," said Jem, "and I think you are not quite sincere in saying that you think the contrary. May I tell you what some of them?the chief ones? are ?" "I don't care about hearing them now," said Elsie. "Look, Jem, at the moonlight shining ou the leaves of that tree at the corner of the fence; doesn't it make them look exactly like silver?" "Yes. Bnt I am not thinking of the tree now," said Jem, whose voice had grown very earnest. "Elsie?why do you keep trying to turn off from what I most want to say?" "How should I know what you want to say ?" "You might not know, perhaps ; but, Elsie, dear, I should think yon might guess what it is I've had on my mind this long while to tell you." Elsie did guess, well enough. Even if she had had no previous certainty of his sentiments toward her, the tremulous tone of his voice, and the close pressure of bis firm strong hand on hers, would have given her an idea now of what he meaut. A short time before, aud the knowledge would have imparted nothing but joy to her heart; but the foolish, wavering little heart was all astray now. She cast about in her mind for some means whereby she might prevent him from uttering the words she knew were coming; but before she could collect her thoughts sufficiently to do -- O ar so, they were spoken. Plain, unvarnished words they were, eloquent in no way save with the expression of a love that invested them with all the grace of poetry, for it was a love long cherished and nurtured in the depths of a warm, honest heart. Elsie hung her head with an almost guilty feeling as she listened; she felt convicted of having encouraged Jem in many ways, and how could she tell him that she did not care about him?that all her feelings were now changed ? When he ceased speaking, there was a short silence ; then she spoke, low and falteringly? "Oh! Jem, I am very sorry?I wish you hadn't said that." "Why not, Elsie? Why shouldn't I say that I love you ? It's only what you know already, and what everybody knows." "Then I wish you didn't, Jem?I?" "Look here," said Jem, in a dismayed tone, "you don't mean to tel? me that you're going to throw me over now, Elsie, when I've loved you and followed you faithfully so mauy years, ever since you was a little lass going to the village school; and when you've always made me think you liked me better than the rest of 'em." Elsie could not answer him. She trembled and looked away, and something seemed to rise up in her heart and plead for him?but then the echo of another voice, more melodious, seemed to sound in her ear; she heard other words, more softly spoken, saw another form, how different in its elegance and grace from that of her rustic lover, and felt again that kiss upon her hand?the same hand that Jem's powerful clasp seemed to threaten to crush, so ruthless was its pressure. ''You hurt me," she said, in a low tone, and immediately his hold relaxed. "I did not mean to hurt you, Elsie ; I wouldn't give you pain, as you know, for anything in the whole world. It's ray rough, bearish way, I suppose. But speak to me, dear?only one little word, to prove to me that I've misjudged you, and that you've not been playing me false all this time." "Playing you false!" echoed Elsie, almost relieved to find something to take umbrage at, since it made her task easier to perform. "How could I play you false ? I am not bound to you in any way that I know of, Jem Sterling." "Bound! no, you are not bound by any promise ; but there are other things nearly as binding as words, and if signs are true, Elsie, you've given me many a one to show that you did care for me." "I don't know what you mean," said Elsie, not without a qualm of conscience, however, for Jem's words were true. "I am not accountable for every foolish word I may have spoken ; and if you think you cau force me into acknowledging that I've given you a hold on me by anything I've ever said or done, you'll just find that you are mistaken." "I don't want to force you into anything, Elsie," said Jem, with moie sadness than anger, for he was deeply hurt by her tone. "I ask your pardon if I offended you ; I dare say I expressed myself badly, but may be you didn't quite understand. All I raeaut was, that I had fancied, from your manner, that you wouldn't receive what I've been telling you quite as coldly and unkindly as you have done; I did think you liked me, or I would never have spoken about it. You know?or perhaps you don't know?how dearly I love you, and you'll not find another that will be more constant to you than I have been ; and it does seem hard to be spoke to as if I'd done a wrong, when I would lay down my life itself to make you happy." Elsie's heart swelled, and she felt much like bursting into tears. Jem had been constant and devoted; and up to the present evening no thought of quarreling with him had ever entered her mind. She did not waut to quarrel with him now; she hated herself for her unkind words, but she was afraid to make any advance toward reconciliation for fear it might encourage him to renew his suit. So they walked on in silence, until, as they came in sight of the bridge, where their companions had halted to rest, Jem said in a low tone? "Elsie, have you no better answer for me than the one you gave me just now ?" And she answered hurriedly, "it's the best I have for you, Jem." "Very well," said Jem, grief and mortification struggling with the pride which forbade him to show how keenly he felt his disappointment. "Then I'll soon make myself scarce in this place, and never trouble you any more. I've nought to keep me here now." Their friends were not slow to perceive, when they joined them, that there was something amiss. Susan Clayton made an attempt to banter Jem, but was effectually silenced by his stern manner, and a warning j flash of his unusually mild blue eyes. Elsie j assumed a lively demeanor during their home1 ward walk, laughing and talking persevering; ly, while all the time a weight lay at her heart. ; She thought she had acted rightly, and had : Jem repeated his experiment it would probably have met with the same result as before; ; yet she wept when she sought her chamber : that night, and her sleep was haunted by restless and unhappy dreams. With the morning light her sorrowful feel, ings vanished, and the recollection of Jem's ! disappointment gave place to the anticipai tion of the appointed meeting that afternoon, i Silly child ! she tried to still the beating of j her heart as she looked forward to seeing the 1 handsome face and hearing the low winning j tones that had acquired so great a fascination j for her. How prettily her name had sounded from his lips! She had always thought it I ugly and commonplace, wishing that she had i been called Lizzie, or Bessie, or any other di: rainutive, rather than that old-fashioned, 'countrified "Elsie;" even the Jong lormai ! Elizabeth was better. But as he uttered it, it was musical and soft; and he said it, too, | as if he liked it. How different he appeared, from every one she had ever before seen ! ! The young squire at the Hall had often . spoken to her, in a good-humored careless I way, and once, on the occasion of a birthday : festivity in the Hall grounds, to which all the ! villagers had been bidden, she had even ! danced with a lord, thereby exciting the envy , of her companions, especially when he paid her the compliment of saying that she was ! the prettiest lass and the best dancer he had met out of London. But these experiences, ; though causing her a flutter of pleasure at J the time, had made no deep or lasting impres: sion upon her. Perhaps it was because Mr. i Sydney had come from such a far away, for! eigu land that he seemed so superior to the j others. If all Americans, she thought, were I like him, how much nicer they must be than ; Englishmen. Five o'clock came, and she sat out on her ; customary errand to dame Dixon's cottage, ' thinking, it must be confessed, less of the objject of her visit than of the interview in store I i'or her afterward. But alas for her expecta! tious ! When she came in sight of the bridge, ' on her way home, no waiting figure was to be I seen. It was no later than usual, so he could | not have already been there and gone away ; again. Perhaps he would still come?but she : could not wait for him there. With swift | steps she turned back into the wood, and | lingered there awhile, then retraced her way I to the bridge?in vain! With asinkiug heart i she slowly wended her way home. The next j evening, and the next, it was the same thing; ' then came Sunday, and she could have no I hope of seeing him. Perplexed, doubting and j unhappy, she begau to fear that he would j come no more. j On Sunday afternoon, while they were singj ing the psalm in church, she chanced to look i across to the farthest aisle, and suddenly en| countered a steadfast gaze, from the very pair j of eyes that were at that moment haunting | her memory to the exclusion of devotional | thoughts. She could not repress a little start i of joyful recognition audsurprise; a burning j blush mantled her face, and the prayer-book nearly slipped from her hand. She quickly recollected herself, however, and the fear of observation made her subdue, as far as possible, all outward tokens of embarrassment. Fortunately for her, her mother was singing away with might and main, at the top of her somewhat nasal voice, and had no notice to bestow upon her, but was gazing straight ahead, j Elsie held up her book and looked at it, but I not one word did she see tbat was before her j eyes. Jem Sterling, sitting'moody and solii tary on a bench just inside the door, had seen the start ano oiusu, uuu mm unjmiuu^ and distrust was striving in vain to Jrace its cause. For poor Jem's devotion had not been cooled by his lady-love's disdain ; on the contrary, its ardor was undiminished, and he had already condemned his own folly and faintness of heart in having so easily relinquished his dearest hopes, when a little perseverance might yet gain his cause. Elsie's thoughts were in such a whirl that she understood nothing of the sermon; she heard the clergyman's voice mixing drowsily and indistinctly with the buzzing of the insects and the chirping of the birds outside the open windows, but could not have repeated the text to save her life. When the service was concluded and the throng of worshippers dispersed, she ventured, as she followed her mother out, to glance shyly around at the va! rious groups scattered under the trees; but she perceived, with mingled disappointment and relief, that the figure she sought was not there. She would have been frightened to have him speak to her and expose her to her mother's questioning; yet she had fancied that he might, perhaps, wait just for one parting ! 7?1, I 1UUIV. i ! On Monday afternoon he wa3 waiting for J her 011 the bridge. If he had doubted the I sincerity of her liking for him, his doubts I would have been dispelled by the glow of dei light that flashed over her face as she rec'ogi nized him ; though she tried to hide it under ! a show of coyuess and reserve. ! He explained to her the cause of his abI sencc on Friday and Saturday. His friend, I he said, a gentleman with whom he had been staying at the inn, had been summoned home on accouut of illness in' his family; he had j accompanied him part of the way, and only got back on Sunday morning. j "And now, Elsie, I am not going again, for j a long, long time?not until you are tired of | having rac here, and wish to send me | away." [to be continued next week.] I Death from Glanders.?The death of i Air Wnshinorton Boslev. sunerintendent of j * *** " " o~~~ J i j j the Hall's Springs street railway, which oc| curred last Sunday, was from the singular j cause of glanders taken from a horse. The i horse, a valuable one, belonging to the rail' way company, was in their stables# on the i Harford road, and was suffering from glan| ders the latter part of last March. Mr. Bosj ley, who was very skillful in the treatment of i horses, unfortunately in this case absorbed . the virus from this animal through a piece of | broken skin upon one of his fingers. His illness at first took the form of erysipelas, but j before his death it was pronounced by the ! medical men to be an undoubted case of i glanders. Mr. Bosley's was the second death from glanders communicated from the same animal.?Baltimore Sun.