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lewis a*, grist, i?ropx-ietor.| 5U fitbepenbrnf Jamiljt ftetospnper: Jfor fjje |jromofion of t(je ^political, Social, Agricultural aitb Commercial Interests of tjje JSoutji. {TERMS?$3.00 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE. VOL. 30. YORKYILLE, S. C? THURSDAY, MAY 14, 1874. NO. 2Q. Jin (Original jltcmr. Written tor the Yorkville Enquirer. HOLLINGWOOD HOUSE BY MRS. HENRY BE AS. CHAPTER V. "Ofall ungrateful, disobedient, aggravatii girls, Elsie, you're just about the worst. W there ever," cried Mrs. Deaue, lifting h hands and eyes appealingly to the ceiling, ' widder woman so tried as I have been ? M own daughter, as I've raised up from infanc and nourished in tny bosom, to turn like viper and sting rae in the end ?" Elsie had led, for a tortnignt past, a sui ciently harassing life to rob her cheeks their peach-like bloora, and give her a droo ing aud dejected air, which, to a poetical min would have suggested the comparison of bright little woodland flower, that hung i head in the scorching rays of the mid-day su But Mrs. Deane, being of a practical and ei inently un-poetical nature, saw in her daug ter's deportment only the evidences of a si len aud disobedient frame of mind, and w resolved on winning her back to the rig path, which, according to her version of tl phrase, meant entire submission to the mate nal will; and therefore returned to the charg day after day, and hour after hour, with pertinacity which nothing could shake. Tl continual dropping of water will wear a ston and Elsie, having a very tender human heai felt very sensibly the effect of this never-ces ing flow of argument and reproach. Had h conscience been perfectly clear she might ha' been able to bear it with more equanimity but self-reproach was added to her distress her mother's anger, making her feel, at time as if it were her duty to atone for her fau by yielding entire obedience, in the future, all her wishes. Mrs. Deane was one of th class of individuals who never relinquish project while there is the faintest chance ultimate success. Her project, in this cas was to reinstate Jem Sterling in the charact of Elsie's suHor, and she was bent upon e froof-incr ? nrr.mise from her daughter to a - r o cept him, should he again propose. T1 promise she had not yet succeeded in obtai ing; but on this particular day, Elsie was oppressed and miserable that she longed to i gain peace at almost any cost; and it wi therefore, upon the not very coraplimenta comparison to a viper with which she was 1 vored, that her barriers of defense broke dow and bursting into tears she exclaimed? "Oh! mother, don't call me such nam* I'll do anything if you'll only not be ang any more. I know I've been undutiful; bul never meant to be wicked. Please don't so hard and stern." "Hard and stern !" repeated her moth< "I've only acted reasonable toward you, Eh Deane, and as your conduct merited. Ho ever, if you are willing to mend your contr ry ways and be obedient in the future, all can say is, I'm glad to find that you've con at last to a sense of what's befitting for you do. You might have been the parish ta now, for your doings, if I'd not been so caret to let naught of the matter leak out; so yi may thank me for saving your reputatic ^wAopin oUnnf mv Ai mil V 1 III UUt UUO \.KJ ^uocip t*uvuw and be forever publishing ray troubles, li some silly folk as can't keep nothing to th< own selves." After this there was a truce, for which Els was thankful ; for she was weary of conftii and wanted rest. She had heard a day or t> before, from the little boy who had broug her the note, that the gentleman who had se it was goue away. He had left no messa for her?no explanation of his leaving. Pt haps, then, her mother had been right aft all?he did not care for her; yet as she rei and re-read his note through blinding teai it seemed to reproach her for the thought, was so tender, so earnest in its tone. He b her be true to hira, and said everything wou come right iu the end ; but?he was gon A hopeless feeling took possession of he she could not trust his vague promises, \vh appearances were so strong agaiust their si cerity; iu spite of herself her mother h; succeeded in shaking her faith. Would it n be better, if it were indeed true that he h; forsaken her, to marry Jem, and be an hom ed aud prosperous matron, than to lead a su tary and lovele$3 life, embittered by her mol er's displeasure, and, may be, pine away li poor Ann Drury, the tailor's daughter, wh< sweetheart had gone to sea and never coi home, aud be compassionated, and pcrha even scorned, by folks who might, some d* get an inkling of her story. Jem was ve good and kind, and loved her very much; s had been fond of him once, aud might get be fond of hira again when she had gott over this grief. At any rate, she must yie to her mother's wishes now ! It might be t best for her welfare in the end. When she had come to this dcterminatic the feverish restlessness that had troubled 1 appeared to be partially dispelled. It is tri she still felt unhappy; but her mind was son what trauquilized, and almost any defin line of conduct seemed preferable to bei tossed on such a troubled sea of doubt a unrest. Mrs. Deane speedily found means to Jem know that he would be welcome at I house whenever he chose to come; and, ( cordingly, with a heart fluttering with hoj he presented himself, on the first opportuni after receiving the intimation. Elsie, w had not expected him so soon, flushed a then grew pale as he entered the room ; s would gladly have run away, but Mrs. Deai coming forward, said in her loud, decid tones? "Jem Sterling, I'm heartily glad to see y back. Elsie's told me all about her fooli behavior to you some time ago, but I reck she's thought better of it now, and if you1 willing to let bygones be bygones, she'll cc duct herself more sensible in the future." This was really too bad! it was as good Tom tlmt <hp bad wanted to rennll bi and between shame and vexation she did n know which way to look. Mrs. Deaue, sat fied with having accomplished her purpo walked out of the room, leaving the pair themselves. "Elsie!" said honest Jem, his voice trem lous with strong emotion as he took her j luctant hands in his, "is it really true? Ha you changed your mind at last?" "Mother sent for you," said Elsie, fair crying with irritation; "I'd never have flu myself at you this way." "But you don't mind, Elsie? You doi mean you're uot willing?" pleaded the anxious I lover; and Elsie, remembering her promises t and resolutions, constrained herself into murmuring something that he was only too ready c i to accept as a confirmation of his hopes. 1 And so it was all settled, and Elsie tried to 1 feel satisfied, but her heart was very heavy t and would not lift itself up. She was con- r stantly longing for some tidings of Charles ; ] ig constantly reproaching herself for allowing 11 as her thoughts to dwell on him, yet unable to r er turn them into the right chauuel. Her de- \ 'a raeanor toward Jem was variable; sometimes j 1 [y j she would seem listless and indifferent, never t y, j rejecting, but passively euduring his demon- ja a strations of affection ; then again, when in a [ remorseful mood, she would force herself to I \ fi-; show more warmth of manner, and try to ' t of: banish the impression of her former coldness. : c p-1 Poor Jem was not very happy under this ? d, ! treatment; he could not help seeing that she ( ? a j was oppressed by some secret trouble, aud a s its > painful doubt would sometimes cross him i n. | whether her heart was really his. He dread- j 1 n-! ed any explanation, however, which might lead j i h-' to a realization of his fears, aud tried to be ! i il- J content with the knowledge that Elsie had J as promised to marry him, trusting to time to j ht clear away the present clouds, and to his own I I lie deep and patient love to awaken a reciprocal i >r- feeling in her heart. Elsie was grateful to * ;e, him for his forbearance, and became each day i a raoresensible of the unselfishness and devotion j be to which she knew she was making so poor a c ie, return. 1 t, They had been engaged about a fortnight, ! ( is- when one evening he said to her with a rather : t er melancholy face? | c re "Elsie, dear, I've a piece of news to tell you, r; | which I have beeu grieving over all day, but at' may be 'twon't make you as sorrowful as it is, | does me." ilt j "What is it, Jem?" she asked, assuming an to 1 appearance of interest. i at | "It is this," he replied, sitting down by her j a and taking her hand in his, "our foreman, | of | Adams, down at the works"?Jem was erase. ; ployed at an iron foundry?"has broken his i er leg, and will be laid aside a good while, and , x- Mr. Foster, the master, wants to put rac in j c- his place." j lis "Why do you call that bad news?" asked n- Elsie. "I should think yoq would be pleased." so "Ay; and so I should, may be, if things "e" were different. But don't you remember, I ls? told you 'tother day that the foreman was to ; rJ be sent to Liverpool to see Foster's partner, j ta" and inspect the works there; there's some j n? changes to be made in the machinery, and in j the business too, and some one who under- j BS> stands the matter has to go and learn all I ry these changes thoroughly, so as to set 'em in j ' * j order here." bej "Well?"said Elsie. "Well,'twas settled as how Adams should j go, and I was to take his place here until he iie , came back ; but now?what'll you say, Elsie, w" when I tell you that the master wants me to a* go instead!" At first Elsie said nothing. She looked 10 down, and pulled at the frill of her apron ; I Ik ! presently she rejoined, in a hesitating tone? | . . j "I should thiuk it would be a good thing ! U i for you, wouldn't it ?" 1)11 "But," said Jem, ruefully, "I'd have to be away a long time?several months at the , ^ least; Mr. Foster say's it's a very important j . commission, and must not be hurried over." Mr y Elsie was silent. . i Jem was dreadfully disappointed. He had ^ | expected, or at least hoped for, some token of j' u ' regret at the prospect of his departure ; he ! j I had, besides, a project in his mind which he i j ^ : was longing to suggest to her, but dared not ( do so unless she gave him some encourage- , ge j b ? I raent. I if | i 1 I . He waited some time, then got up and I j walked away to the window. 1 rg "It'sjust as I feared, Elsie," he said, bitter- j [ ' ly. "It's all one to you whether I go or stay? . * j unless, may he, you'd rather be rid of me than : ^ Id ! n0t". e , j His mortified tone touched her, and made j *; her sorry for her coldness. Tears filled her ' i eyes, and after a moment's uncertainty, she CU \ | followed him and laid her hand on his arm. n- ' I itj-i "Jem, don't be augercd at me! I know I j 1 ot, don't treat you as you deserve, and you are ; , -j ' verv pood and forgiving. But I?I've goj , ltd ; ~ ? ww ( , )r ; something 011 my mind that makes me unhap- i, ] py?and I don't think I can be happy as long 11 as I keep it from you, for I feel as if you ought ] ke I to know." I| )ge j "My dear," said Jem taking her hand in | j ne j both his, "I've seen all along as how some-, ! thing was wrong; but I didn't question you, , j for I trusted to you to tell me of your own free ' j will, if there was aught to tell. So if it will , ( jie make you any easier to let me share it, what-' 1 iiver it may be, don't keep it back no longer,: ( en j tut just open your heart to me and let me L ,jfj know all." jje ) He said this with a little tremor in his voice,!, looking at her tenderly, yet anxiously, as if: , )n he longed but feared to hear what her confes- | ie^ J sion would be. Elsie hid her face and cried ; 1 Je she had spoken impulsively, and was almost j '; ready to wish she had held her peace. Still ' jte ! she felt as if it would be a relief to have him ! know the truth, or at least enough of the ' { n(j ! truth to explain what had seemed strange in : her behavior to him since their engagement; j jej.; and if lie then should still desire to keep her < ( ier to it, she would earnestly try to put away the !' lc_ haunting remembrances that made her duty j -e ! so hard to perform, and tutor herself into a 1 ( jty i right feeliug for him. j10 j It was but a broken and imperfect outline ; ( Q(j J that she gave him, suppressing Charles Syd- j j ' ney's name and all but the main facts of the ' ( Je i case, and dwelling mostly on her anxiety to 1 ^ ej' obtain his pardon. ; t ; "Pardon!" he answered, sorrowfully; "there's , j ou ( no talk of pardon, Elsie. You wasn't bound i ] sh to rae, you know, and you couldn't help going j f on | the way your heart led you, I suppose. But , 're are you sure?the words stuck in his throat a ( m.: minute before he could get them out?are you t ! quite sure, after all this, that you're willing to ] as 1 marry me?that you can come back to your j m, j old way of thinking, and learn to care about: j iot | me again? For if you're not, my dear, I'm i ( is- not the man to keep you to a promise against j se, ( your will. j ( to j Elsie's heart gave one bound at the thought of a release, but in an instant, thoughts of , iu-1 what her mother would say?of what she had re-, resolved upon?of Jem's goodness, and of t ve j what it might be really best for her to do, t | crowded upon her. j , ly j "Jem," she said, faltcringly, "it must be for i ng ' you to say whether you wish to keep to it after | what I have told you. If?if you'll take me? j n't' and trust t<> my being better after a while?I I I enow I'm not good enough for you now?I'll ? ry all I can to make you happy." < "That's enough, Elsie," said Jem, in a voice , f >f emotion, as he drew her near him and c cissed her drooping forehead. "Never think j 'd willingly let you go; only don't let me be ' c he cause of making you miserable, through i ny own selfishness. This isn't exactly what j [ had hoped for?after loving you so long? J1 >ut I'll trust to time to make things come \ ound straight, and if being a good husband f vill make you care more about me, my dear, s ! think I can promise you that you won't have i o complain about me." ? After this explanation, Elsie felt better and i nore resigned to her fate; at any rate, she t vas freed from the feeling that she was acting j f he part of a hypocrite, and Jem's generous i tonduct went far to raise him iu her esteem. J1 ? ? " <*- * - -! i.. I , slie teit as ir, alter a time, sne migm, eume iu ; jive him the return for his love that it de-, erved. Later in the evening, Jem spoke to Mrs.1 Deane of ht9 intended journey. Elsie was lot in the room at the time, and her mother j inhesitatingly exclaimed? ! "What a pity 'twould be, Jem, for you to j jo away for such a long time and leave Elsie j jehind." : "I had thought?I had hoped"?began j fern, and then stopped. "What ?" asked Mrs. Deane. "That may be, if Elsie had been williug, we i :ould have been married before I went; but," j le added hastily, as she made a ready jesture ' if assent, "I think it would be hurrying her oo much ; I'll have to leave here by the first | if pctober." ! "Well, that's three weeks off," said Mrs. j Deane. "I guess I could have everything i eady by then." "But Elsie?" "Elsie'Il do whatever is for the best," said i Mrs. Deane. "You needn't be fearful of her ; efusing. She's known you so long and so j veil, 'tisn'tasif she had to make up her mind ' ;o go off in a hurry with a stranger. I'd ' { rust her with Jem, to the world's end." "Thank you," said Jem, feeling however, as j 1 f he would have been more grateful had it ( aeen the daughter's lips instead of the rnothir's which had made the assertion. Before ic went away that evening, the wedding day , ,vas fixed. Like one in a dream, Elsie listened { ;o the discussion of the arrangements, mechan- g cally consenting to everything that was pro- 1 Dosed by her mother, and feeliug that she was \ jeing hurried on by a will stronger than her )wn iuto an act that would decide her fate for ( ife, and leave no more room for doubt. Fer- ? laps, after all, she thought, it might be the j aest thing she could do; for when she was ? ictually Jem's wife, it would be wicked for . ler to think any longer about Mr. Sydney, ^ ind she would be better able to overcome her t weakness, knowing it to be a sin. , Mrs. Deane lay awake long that night, re- i 7olving various plans and contrivances in her , estless brain. She was, of course, delighted ? it the prospect of Elsie's speedy marriage ; i hat would make everything safe and sure, and lispel any lingering possibility of her being < ed astray by that "villain," as'she called Charles, for she never could divest herself of . ;he idea that his designs were not as fair and : lbove-board as he had represented them to be. : Mrs. Deane, in her own way, was very fond of i | i i .? i u: i ler aaugllier, una m is uiiccwuii, uumuwcu I | ,vith her hard, steru pride, made her very te- j j lacious of the slightest reproach attaching it-1 ( self to her name. Elsie had never been call- j jd giddy or light, even by those with whom ! ihe was most familiar; she had been something ! , )fa little coquette, but in a purely innocent' way ; she had never tampered unkindly with ! ler admirers' feelings, or sought to give them j j pain, and the most perfect modesty had al-' ,vays marked her behavior. It was on this i' recount that Mrs. Deane had been the more . icandalized at her recent conduct, which she ! ^ viewed much more harshly than it really de- j' <erved. "I'm so thankful she'll soon be in Jem's J keeping," she said to herself, with a sigh of! j relief, as she turned upon her pillow and composed herself to sleep. "My girl's a good girl,' but she's too soft and simple to take care of' j herself. I know she's hankering after that villain still, but when she's once married, she'll | not fret after him any more. Jem's a good i . steady fellow?as good as ever breathed?and i i ? i i _~J :v Li. _l 1.1 I ne u maae ner nappy?aim, 11 augm sm>uiu , liappen to me, I'll be eaey to know I have her ! j in good hands. Yes, yes, I'm very thankful i it'll be settled so coon." And then her waking thoughts lost them-1 selves in dreams. Once in the night she half! nvoke, hearing, or fancying she heard, a noise j jutside the house, as of footsteps, and hurried, | smothered talking ; but as she listened it ceased, and she was again wrapped in pro-; found repose. j It was later than usual next morning when j she awoke. The suu was shining in at her j window?a rare thing it was for him to find > iier still in bed. She arose quickly, and ! nulled to Elsie to make haste and comedown,1 for it was late. There was no reply. "She must be still asleep," she said to her-! self; "what's got into both of us this morn- j! ng, I wonder?" Hastily wrapping a shawl around her?for j she did not boast the luxury of a dressing 1 j jown?she ascended the narrow flight of stairs ! ;hat led to Elsie's room, and pushing the door I 1 Anlrnrl in t luva^u Aii* "Elsie," she commenced ; but the word died , ( )ii her lips. The room was empty ; the bed j ^ md evidently not been slept in that night; | die closet was open, her hat and shawl goue i 'rom their accustomed place, and various imall articles scattered on the floor, as if has- ! ,ily pulled out and thrown down. Mrs. : Deane advanced to the middle of the room, j md stared around in blank dismay?then i vent mechanically to the window and looked nit. Just below, entangled ;u a bush, someliing white was fluttering. With trembling imbs she hurried down again, went out into i lie little garden through a back door, and ! licked it up. It was a handkerchief, in one j :orner of which, so plainly written that even i ler unscholarly eyes found no difficulty in de:iphering it, was the name "Charles Sydney." |* "The black villain," she cried. "The black villain ! He's taken my child away !" And then she went into the house and locked : lie door, and sittiug down 011 a low chair [ ocked herself backward and forward, with a 1 vliite, seared face, and pitiful cries and moans. s J CHAPTER VI. 1: Six months later, a fair, pensive-looking I ;irl might have been seen, seated at the \vi low of a private parlor4 in a hotel in Par rom which she cast frequent expectant giant lown the busy street. It is Elsie?no longer Elsie Dcane?ai ihanged in many other respects, as well as iame. The rustic simplicity of the villa ;irl has given place to a more polished ai ligh-bred air, enhanced by the style of dre vhich, though not of expeusive material, 'ashionably and artistically made, while h oft brown hair, though still permitted to fit n natural curls, is disposed in a manner ;ive it a less negligent appearance, and mo n accordance with the prevailing style. Son hing of the round, dimpled contour of h ace, too, has disappeared ; its outlines see nore delicately drawn, its rose-tints fainter lue, and the large, lovely eyes, once mirthf ind sparkling, wear a softer and more slui jrous look beneath their long, heavy lashes * L__1. : i,nM ?1,; /Ill UJJKIJ UUUit. 13 W" uci rwucc, vvbi ..... ilie bends from time to time, in the intervt >f watching from the window. " lJe m'en vais, tu Ven vas, il s'en va,1 " s nurmurs mechanically, as if conning a lessc 'How I hate verbs ! I wish Charles wouldi iet me to learn them. I can never get t ironunciation right, either. 'Nous nous illon3'?I wish I could say that in truth, late staying here, it's so lonesome and du People call Paris a gay city. I'm sure i mything but gay to me ; the only nice p? if it is the opera. I wish Charles wou :ome home. ' Vous, vous en allez1?oh, dea iow tired I am." A knock at the door, and in obedience ler shyly pronounced 'entrez' it opens slight! md a brisk French countenance introdut tself. "Madame, supper is served." "Is it so late ?" asks Elsie turning rour 'My husband is not yet come in." "It is seven o'clock?the usual hour. Dc Madame prefer to wait?" "If you please ; I do not care to sit doi ilone." "Then I will keep the coffee and the ro lot, and Madame has only to ring when s lesires them brought back." "Thank you, Jean." Jean disappears, thinking what a sw< roice and charming manner Madame h: ind what a pity it is thatMonsieur leaves 1: 10 much alone. If she had other companic lis absence would be of no account; butsc ,ude is so ennuyant. Elsie leans her pretty head against the w low and resumes her watch, thinking, at t tame time, of many things?of her peacel lorne ; of her mother; of Jem, and the rner jirls who used to be her companions. Wl: 1 long, long time it seems, since she has se .hern all! She can scarcely believe that t lix months have elapsed, since she bade fa veil to thescenesand faces made familiar ;he associations of her lifetime. A brief li ;irae?eighteen years and a half; but she fe is if she were much older. Her eighteer birthday was to have been the day of her ra riage to Jem?it had found her, instej Charles Sydney's bride, in a foreign lai Her hurried, unexpected flight from home .he hasty marriuge rite performed by a m: istrate in an obscure French town?the r: idly changing scenes of their journey?I busy, bustling life of the vast city which their temporary abode?the very change s feels iu herself, all seem to put a vast c tance between her present and herforraerli and make it appear as if these varied ex riences had required years, instead of rnont for their accomplishment. It is too dark for her to study any longi 5oou it grows too dark for her to distingu the faces of the street passengers, and with sigh she leaves the window, and draws 2asy chair cj^se to the polished grate, when little fire is burning, for the evening is chi and raw. Presently Jean enters with cj dies, but she begs him to take them aw again, until Mr. Sydney comes; she likes I firelight best. She sits musing, with fold bands and intent eyes, for a long time?t marble clock on the inautel ticks loud a fast, busily interrupting itself to strike t balfhour, then eight o'clock?half past eigh * % . .j 11 nine?and as she waits and listens, sun n tionIe33, the shadow of a gathering anxi( is 011 her face. Presently footsteps were heard 011 thestaii Elsie started from her dejected attitude, a her countenance lit up?but a look ofdisi pointment clouded it again, as the door op* 2d, and she perceived that Charles was n ilone. "Hallo, Elsie, all in the dark!" was his son what boisterously uttered greeting, as made an ungraceful entrance, stumbling o\ i footstool that was not in his way, and kit ing it noisily aside. "I hate these trumpe little benches and things all about?only to bruise one's shins against. Come in, ( fellow ! no ceremony here?my wife ; A Gleorge Russell?old school friend, Elsi treat him as one of ourselves." Elsie silently bowed to the individual th presented to her notice, disregarding his e ;ended hand. Something in his bold glati md easy manner offended her delicacy, a nstinctively roused her mistrust. She look ipprehensively toward her husband ; his 1 tud appearance, so different from usual, fill ler with a vague alarm; she had never 1 ore seen him so flushed, so careless, so lit ike a gentleman in his looks and deportmei "Lights, my girl, lights!" he exclaimt 'Why the devil are we kept in semi-darkues :Ias that French rascal lost his seven senses "I'll ring for l ights, now," gently repli Slsie, who already had her hand on the be 'I told him not to bring them until you can lave you had supper yet ?" she asked, in ower tone. "I've been waiting for you." "Waiting for us! now, what a shame I po ittle thing ! Only think, George, the po ihild hasn't had her supper yet! What ? >eg pardon, my love," as she ventured a i nonstrance, sotto voce, on his way of speakiu 'shouldn't be so familiar before company, el iVell, I won't. Oh ! here's Jean; Jean, y< ogue, bring supper directly, for three, heri dadame nearly starved, waiting for i Vnd don't forget the cognac, ha ?" "Cognac, Monsieur ?" repeated Jeau, wi ,n elevation of his brows. "Yes, cognac?are you deaf, coquin iVhat's the row, Russell '? What are y< lulling at me for?" "Because I think the exuberance of yoi pints is overcoming your discretion," sa Jr. Russell, with a slight smile. "Who ev leard of brandy at supper with a lady ?" "Lord! plenty of ladies drink brandy, n in- good fellow. Not Elsie though?not my wife. ; c is, Certainly not. Let it come, anyhow?no c :es harm to have its rubicund phiz illuminating t i the table. No fear of my cultivating its ac- j f nd quaintance too extensively?I'm the steadiest j g in ( fellow going, as Elsie knows. Aiu't I Elsie?" ; I Se Elsie feigned not to hear him, for she : F fld i felt too stunned and sick at heart to reply, j n ss? j That he was partially intoxicated was too ev-' h ident to admit of a doubt, and as she bad o er never before seen him in a similar condition, h >w ; she could not help connecting the circum- a t? j stance with the fact of his being in the society J re of Mr. Russell, to whom she had at first sight j r ie" j taken an intuitive dislike. Supper was t er brought, but though she had dined early and I | w - W !m ' felt the want of some refreshment, she could ! F 1? } not touch a morsel. Charles laughed and j a ul ; talked incessantly, and helped himself freely I c 111 j to everything that was on the table; Russell j ! drank nothing, ate sparingly, and spoke lit-; 1 ch tie, but kept a watchful eye on Charles, and j n lis frequently cast scrutinizing glances at Elsie,'t i who sat pale and silent, and seldom lifted up j a he ! her eyes. Most thankful was she when the ; >n. j uncomfortable repast was ended, and she could j " n't j escape to her own room, there to weep freely ; t he j over this new and unexpected trial. , c en j "Well, George, old boy, what do you think , I1 of her ?" was Charles' first question when she i s 1 was out of hearing. I 8 t's j "Why, I think she's all that's pretty and 8 irt j charming," rejoined the other. "I don't at ^ Id | all wonder at your infatuation, now that I've ^ r! seen her." | > "Ha, ha ! I knew I'd win you over to my j r to side," said Charles in high glee. "And you j > ly, haven't seen her at her prettiest, either, for |1 *es , she's out of her best looks this evening, some-; a how; seemed dull too, I thought. Didn't j j you observe it?" i \ id. ! "Why, I am hardly a judge, as I am not jc 1 .1 _?A .. . fl acquainted with Mrs. oyaney s disposition; ; >es but I did observe that she had rather a mel- j ancholy expression. Perhaps though?if I vu you'll excuse me?that was the effect of the j new light in which you presented yourself to 11a her. It was a new light, wasn't it?" he ! "Why, what do you mean ?" asked Charles. ; "I'm sure I acted very properly, didn't I ?" j "Oh ! of course?at least, I think it quite ;et proper that you should always follow your a9' j own inclinations, without consulting other ier : people's fancies?they might be inconvenient,ns ly fastidious, you know." i "Elsie's, I suppose you mean ! Look here, my good fellow; you don't know her, and you in- don't know me, if you think that she ever unhe I dertakes to control my actions in any way? ful | or interfere with anything I choose to do?or J ry ; that I would allow her to do any such thing? iat j confound me if I'd let any woman do that," /-it i .4.??^ cn i saiu \^iiaries. iu sumc caciicujc-lil. ( ut I "Not even your wife?" asked Russell, with re- a slight sneer. ' by ; "Not even my wife," said Charles, bringing fe-1 his haud down upon the table, and adding j els ! with an oath, "and she knows better than to 'th attempt it, too." ar- "When do you thiuk of returning home ?" id, | carelessly enquired the other. id. I "Haven't thought about it; there's plenty ? j of time to thiuk about it, I suppose?no par- ^ ig-; ticular hurry that I know of." ip-1 "I'm glad you are able to take it so easily, ;he Charlie. For my part, I wouldn't like to be i is | in your shoes when you do go, if you put it off ihe much longer." lis- j "Fudge! Any one would imagine I was a fe, schoolboy who had played truaut," said 1 pe- Charles, with rather an uneasy laugh, hs. "Well! Of course I dou't wish to be ofHcious ; but I thought I was merely acting the -r; | part of a friend in letting you know how sh i much your prolonged absence seems to annoy a vonr familv. Thev are. of course, unwilling , I" ? - * ' " ? i an ; to lay any especial injunction upon you ; but ( a a ; it did not require much penetration to discover Hy | that they thought your long delay in return- J in- j iug rather peculiar, as you could give no defiay j nite reason for it." .he j "As I told you this evening," said Charlesj led . impatiently, "I'm willing enough to go, only he 1 for this matter of ray marriage?you see I ^ nd i haven't broken it to them yet." he | "Yes?so you said." t? j "Well, what's the matter? What are you { io-! drawing down the corners of your mouth that j' sty | way for?" j i "You are very observant of my counte* L '8; nance," said his friend, smiling. "To tell the , e nd j truth, I was merely thinking what an unforip | tunate affair this is of yours, altogether?un- ! j in- fortunate for you, I mean." iot j "Hang it, man, drop all that for the pres- j | ent," said Charles in a peevish tone. "I've j ie-| heard enough of it for this evening; don't j ^ he , harp on the same thing all the time. The j c ^er | thing's done, I suppose, and can't be undone, j ( ik-: so there's an end of it." iry j "There's an end of it, by all means, if you I fit j desire it," said Russell, amicably. Come, I >ld | shall we have cigars ?" \ \ H. j Charles agreed, and they sat smoking un-11 ie; til a late hour, when the guest finally took j j 1 leave, and his host, who was by no means ac- j ? ius ! customed to dissipation, retired to bed with a j a )x- headache, in no very pleasant frame of mind, j j ice j He felt considerable compunction the next | a l'd . morning at the sight of Elsie's sad face and j \ e(I | heavy eyes, and without openly expressing j t i,r j his regret at what had occurred, he tried to ! ^ ec^ make amends by being especially affectionate I je' i and attentive to her. He devoted an hour to I | helping her with her French, praised her im-:?' ! provemeut, and said so many fond and pleas- j 0 j ant things that at last he quite succeeded in 1 3 ?; banishing her melancholy mood. j n ? j In the course of the day she asked him who tl ed j Mr. Russell was, and how long he intended II. j to stay in Paris. : h >e. j "Oh ! he'll" be knocking around for some ' " i a ! time, I expect," was the careless answer. h "He's a capital fellow?I was delighted to ; h or | meet him. He's from my own State, you ' n T't.A IrnAinn U t rv\ o fnon?. trooro " I ? vi i hllUW j JL vc ivuuuu 111111 a ^v/uu uiauj a 11 He did not add that it was an intimacy ! s 'e* j which had always caused his own family J S>; much uucasiuess, and that it was the hope of ( 1' breaking it off that had been one of his fath- j li 3U er's principal inducements to send him abroad, w 33 i George Russell was a thoroughly unprincipled w ls*( character; he had made it his aim from boy- p hood to secure his own interests, totally re- h gardless of any injury or pain he might; a , thereby inflict on others. Where Charles was j o < , selfish aud weak, he was selfish and cruel; : c JU the one would have shrunk from deliberately fi ! committing a wicked action ; the other scru-, h ur 1 pled at nothing which could promote his ; ri id ! ends. j o er' Two or three weeks passed, fraught with b much disquietude and unhappiness to Elsie. >y I Charles was constantly absent from home, fu distantly in Russell's society ; and she per-11 eived, with an aching heart, that his manner f o her was gradually evidently growing less 8 ond and more constrained. One source of p ;reat annoyance to her also was that Mr. e lussell, ignoring her scarcely concealed re- s (Ugnance to him, persisted in showing her! oarked attention, frequently paying her visits,! e ringing her presents of flowers, and endeav- j ring, in every way, to ingratiate himself into ; t ler favor. Under the pressure of all this ' s nxiety, she began to look ill and worn, and : c rean, her faithful servitor and sworn friend, 11 eported in confidence, to his fellow servants,! hat if Monsieur Sydney continued much ! } onger to neglect his wife as he was doing, the | j K)or beautiful madame would surely pine ujhv in tlpsmiir. But the worst was vet to ! r ome. f One evening she was sitting alone, as usual,! f n her little parlor, indulging in one of the 11 nelancholy reveries which had become habit- 1 lal to her, when Jean knocked at the door s md announced Mr. Russell. "Say I cannot seehim," she hastily replied. c 'Tell him that Mr. Sydney is not at home? c ill hira I have a headache, and beg to be exiused." "Pardon, fair lady," said the voice of Rus-! s ell, who, unperceived, had followed Jean up ] tairs. "It was not your husband, but your- 1 elf, that I asked to see, and ray business unortunately is important and admits of no de- t ay." 1 "Business!" echoed Elsie in a tone of anoyance. "I cannot imagine what business t rou can wish to discuss with me, Mr. Russell? i ny husband is the proper person for you to ; c irrange such affairs with." : 1 "My dear Mrs. Sydney," said Russell in a I j - * - 1 tknt lmmi/vlif tl\a in. ! ULHJ U1 C!?"jr luminal ikjr, tnau uiuugiu iiiv | lignant blood to her cheek, as he seated him- i elf beside her on the sofa, "you are too hasty j n your conclusions. Pray do not suppose j hat I would intrude any matter of disagreea- j )le import upon you, were it not that nccessi-! y compels me to do so. I have already seen rour husband, and it is at his request that I im here now. I am the bearer of a letter to rou from him." "A letter!?from Charles!" said Elsie in ixtreme surprise. "I don't understand?pray, jive it to me at once." Heslowly drew an envelope from his pockit, fixing his eyes at the same time upon her ace. "Before I give it to you," he said, deliberitely, "I must forewarn you that the contents . ire not of an .agreeable nature. I happen to j in omnnintaH ivilh t.tipir imnnrt. Til the first , )lace?" I "Will you not give it to me?" asked Elsie, vho was now trembling with agitation, yet < mdeavoring to conceal it from his eyes. "I prefer to read it for myself." i "But, pardon me, I must tell you?it is but ] right that you should know. Your husband , ias gone away." "Gone away!" echoed poor Elsie, in a bewildered tone. "What do you mean ?" "Simply what I say?he left Paris this afternoon by the 5.30 train." Elsie's brain seemed to swim ; she could not believe her ears. Charles gone away ! Gone without a word of warning?a word of farewell ! Mechanically she took the letter which Russell now held out to her ; it was directed in the familiar handwriting she knew 30 well. She looked at it steadfastly for a minute, trying to collect her thoughts. "Mr. Russell," she managed to say in a low tone, speaking calmly, but with a great effort, "will you be kind enough to leave me now ? I prefer reading this alone." Ilussell arose as if unwillingly. "Mrs. Sydney," he murmured, bending over her, "the contents of that letter warrant my making an offer which, under other circuruitances, would be intrusive?that of my assistance and protection. Will you promise to sal! on me for either, or both, should you re-1, }uire them, as I think you will ? You may ! rely on me as a true friend." "I do not understand you," said Elsie faintly; "I only beg that you will leave me 30W." "You will remember my offer?" he persisted. j "Yes, yes," she replied, in au agony of im- , patience to get rid of him. Taking her hand j le pressed it to his lips, aud ere she could re- , lent the liberty he was gone. s Her first movement, when the last echo of }, lis footsteps had died away, was to lock and | , louble-Iock the door, to prevent the possibility ! i if further intrusion. She could hardly gain ! :ourage to open the mysterious letter?her < reinbling fingers at first refused to do their } iffice. At last, commanding herself with a , lesperate effort, she broke the seal, drew out , ind unfolded the sheet, and read: "Do not hate me, Elsie, when you learn that jefore this reaches you I shall have left Paris. 1 lould not tell you of my intention, for the parting vould have been too painful for us both. I have icon summoned home, and must go without deay. But you must prepare yourself for further ntelligence, which will, I fear, overwhelm you as [ , ompletely as it did me. Elsie, I have unintcn- 1 ionally done you u great wrong. Our marriage, | S s we thought it, was uo marriage?the certihcate c s worthless, and the whole thing a fraud. We e vero imposed on in a shameful way. You will C eethat, under these circumstances, it is best for is that we are forced to part." (Here something vas carefully marked out.) "Forgive me, I en- ? rent you, for being the cause of so much unhap- , linens, and think of me as charitably as you can. * fou will find a purse in my drawer, which con- ? nins enough for your present needs. I cannot j, vrite more. I am in great haste and it is nearly ime to start. Once more, forgiye me! I am unstrained to write, Farewell/ "C. S." "P. S. Russell has promised to be the bearer 8 f this. You may count on him as a friend." i: And this was all?this brief, coldi epistle; <j ot even a loving word to soften the agony of! s he unlooked for blow. Elsie read, with white, parted lips and di- j iting eyes, until she came to the cruel word i farewell!" Then the paper slipped from j er grasp?she stretched out her hands, help- i j. issly, imploringly, as if for aid?an instant J o lore, and everything grew dark around her, n nd she sank upon the floor in a death-like j v WOOD. * * * * * I v I fl Darkness had gathered over the little vil- j ^ ige which was Elsie Deane's birth-place, t! dien a weary and footsore woman entered it, v 'alking slowly and painfully; she was wrap-; S' ed in s large shawl, and carried a bundle in er baud. With uncertain steps she passed long the silent street, keeping in the shadow j f the trees and houses, for the moon shone : n lear and bright, and she feared recognition \\ oin any chance passer-by. She met no one ; ti owever; the quiet community had retired to D est, and only the occasional bark of a dog, ; ? r cry of an owl from a neighboring wood,; roke the profound stillness of the night. j C| On she went, with footsteps that seemed to ' t] liter more aud more as she ueared her goal. I a t was reached at last?a white cottage with a >orch in front, overgrown with vines that eeraed neglected and running to decay. iVeeds choked up the little garden, and a genral air of desertion pervaded the place, that ent a chill to the wayfarer's panting heart. Trembling, she puehed open the gate and ntered. The front door was locked; she >assed around to the back of the house, but >efore she attempted to gain admission here he sank down upon her knees on the threshild, pressing her hands together and crying >elow her breath? "Mother, mother, how will you receive me? kVill your stern heart relent?or will you cast tway your erring child ?" Alas, poor prodigal! she knew not what eception to expect. She rose and tried the door, but found it 'astened, and after a little hesitation, knocked? ightly and timidly at first, then louder. There was no response, and she knocked again, everal times, but with the same result. Suddenly a window above her was opened, ind a woman?a stranger?putting her nightlapped head out, exclaimed sharply? "Who's that?" The traveler hastily drew back into the hadow. "It's some one wishing to see Mrs. Deane," she replied. "Is she?doesn't she ive here still ?" "Mrs. Deane!" echoed the other in a shrill one. "Why, Lord's sake, woman, don't you mow better than that?" "I thought," was the faint rejoinder, "that his was her house." "And so it was, when she was alive. But leary me, I thought everybody knew?she's toon rloAfl ftnH htiried this six weeks acrone. /VWM *4VI"* """" *"""""" - w I'm only in charge of the house here." "Dead !" What a keen, sharp cry of agoly was that! "Yes;she had lots of trouble, poor soul, which brought her to her grave in the end. Eler only daughter, a worthless jade, ran off ind left her?went with some dressed-up .camp that persuaded her, and never came aack no more, nor I don't suppose ever will igain. The sorrow and disgrace, I'm told, Irovethe poor creature all but wild, and she aever lifted up her head afterward. The girl's sweetheart, that she was about to be married io, he took it awfully to heart too, aud went affsomewhere, nobody knows where; folks said as how he was ready to kill himself, almost. She's got her mother's death to answer for, that's certain. But it's awful late for you to be standing out there?won't you come in aud pass the night, and may be I can be >f some use to you, iu place of her you come io seek ?" "No?no! Oh ! God, no! I must go elsewhere." "But, deary me," said the woman, with jomte apprehension in her tone, "it don't seem right?are you sure you've got some place else to go to ?" "Yes, yes, quite sure! I know my way very well. I must go at once." The words were gasped forth, rather than spoken, and gathering her shawl more closely about her, she tottered feebly away, groping, like a blind person, along the fence until she found herself once more in the open street. The woman gazed wonderingly after her, then slowly shakiug her head, drew it under shelter again and closed the shutter. "SKo opoma tn hp. a nueer one." she mutter wmv vvv.MW 1 / ed. "Shouldn't wonder if she was crazy. No sane body would come knocking at folks' doors this time of night. She might have thanked me for a civil offer, at any rate?but I'm glad she didn't take it." On, on, through the silent street, stumbling dizzily over obstacles she made no effort to avoid, swiftly, recklessly, the travel-worn wanderer sped. At last she paused?where ? A modest church, with pointed spire and ivy-covered walls, stood upon a little eminence, beneath the overhanging branches of solemn yew-trees, that waved like spectral arms in the chill night-breeze. Around it was gathered the solemn community of those who slept the sleep from which the sound of belfry chimes would waken them no more. In the silvery moonlight the gravestones glison/1 u-Viifo nn manv a one hnnf/ LCL1CU LV/tU ?IIU H M? KV j VM ? ? ? ? a garlands lately wreathed by loving hands; starry, blue-eyed blossoms waved amid the grass that grew unchecked on some of the mounds marked by no memorial cross or shaft. To one of these?a fresh one, where 10 flower had sprung, and even the turf as pet was short and scant?the traveler glided with noiseless steps. She knew the spot well; many a time had she played there in childhood, and paused to -ead, on a stone now nearly emjbedded in the sarth, the name that had grown illegible with pears? "John Wesley Deank, Parish Clerk. Aged forty 3-ears and two months. 'He is not dead, but sleepeth.' " She sank upon her knees in the dew-soaked jrass, and with no watcher but the silent tars, wrestled with the agony that seemed too ;reat to be borne, crying aloud with an ex:eeding bitter cry? "Oh! mother, mother! Here upon your ;rave?the grave her hands have made for rou?your child who has murdered you, >rays to Heaven to help her to avenge your leath!" All night long she lay there, beneath the ilent stars; now crying aloud, now mute and notionless, as If dazed with grief. When the lawn began to break, she rose up and silently, wiftly sped away. [to be continued next week.] Mr. Brown and his Umbrella.?Brown tood for over an hour on a street corner the ast rainy day, holding a gigantic umbrella ver him. When any of his acquaintances lot similarly provided?who the day before trould scarcely condescend to give him a nod f recognition?happened to see him they rould smilingly salute him, inquire how he elt, were the family all well, etc., winding up y asking him if he was going up or down, as he case might be. "Yes, directly," Brown rould say, "wait a moment." After waiting ome time, and repeated nudges having failed j bring hira, the friend who was so very solic;ous about Brown's health would attempt to merge from the shelter of the umbrellu, when Irowu would importune him to wait a molent longer, asking him (after he had already aited five to ten minutes) what was his paricular hurry. At last the friend?who could ot perceive any thing so very funny in the eignborhood that should produce such a road grin on Brown?with a look on his face s though he had just discovered that he had ashed a bogus check, would dive from under le umbrella and walk off as if he was mad t something. ??