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- , lewis m. grist, proprietor.j ^ti Jnbcpentienf ^antilj ftetospaper: Jor tjje promotion: of tjje political, Social, Agricultural anir Commercial Interests of % Soutlj. jteems?$3.00 a year, in advance. VOL. 31. YORKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, JANUARY 14, 1875. NO. 3. rt 1 ^ i* 4/iman/l A^1 lilm jto original jdotg. j Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. zanita, The Circus Girl.! i BY MRS. HENRY DEAS. CHAPTER IV?Continued. Carrie returned to the play, which had been interrupted by her mother's entrance, and she i and Estelle continued for some time to fill j their respective roles of daughter and parent; to their mutual satisfaction. At last, getting tired of this, Estelle jumped up and went off* ; to the window, where she stood looking out ! with her small elfish face pressed against the . pane. "It looks so nice out in the sunshine," she remarked presently. "Maura Dinah, don't | you think we might go out nvwf" "Certainly not, chile," sharply replied the old woman. "Didn't you hear Missy's ma tell you both 'spressly to keep in doors?" "But it's a great deal warmer now." "I don't care ; warm or not, you must do as j you're bid. Look how satisfied Missy is,! blessed little creetur! Pity you weren't as good as she is!" "I am as good as she is," pouted Estelle. "No you aiu't, nor never will be, neither," muttered maura Dinah, solto voce, as she turned to poke the fire. "Jest look at this fire, how it's burned down," she continued, "and not a stick of wood up-stairs. Where's that goodfor-nothing nigger, Sary Ann ? You Sary Aun ! Come, fetch some wood to the nurs'ry." 1 But Sary Ann, the small colored individual, < whose office it was to keep the nursery wood- < box supplied, had taken herself off somewhere, < and heeded not the call, uttered in no gentle < tone, though it was; and Dinah, muttering and grumbling, put aside her sewing and said i "she 'sposed she'd have to go herself." "Don't you do no mischief, chillun, till I i come back," was her parting injunction to the pair. No sooner had the sound of her weighty 1 tread died away on the stairs, than Estelle, running up to Carrie, seized her by the hand. "Come, Carrie, quick, quick !" she said, in 1 an eager whisper. "Let's make haste and 1 run, before she comes back; it'll be fun." "Where?" asked the little one, with a puz- 1 zled look. ' "Oh! anywhere, down stairs?ain't you 1 tired of staying up here? Come, let's go; won't you ?" "Yes," asseuted Carrie, led off by her superior energy and will, and not exactly comprehending that she was doing anything naughty; aud in another moment the two lit- j tie escaped prisoners were making their way as rapidly as their short limbs could carry J them down a back staircase, at the bottom of ( which was a door opening into the garden. "See the big cedar tree yonder, Carrie 1 Let's run and hide behind that; maura Dinah . . . ? , i won't know where to IooK tor us, ana we can j j play hide and seek ; can't we?" "Yes," assented innocent Carrie again, and i ( off they posted along the walk to the cedar tree in question, which was at a good distance from the house. Estelle's real object was to t get out of the garden through a gate which ] opened into a little lane, and run off into the ( woods for a regular frolic. She wa3 dreadfully { tired of the house, and was moreover actuated ( by a desire to set raaum Dinah's authority for once at defiance; and taking Carrie, as it were, into partnership of mischief with her, would, she thought, lighten the weightof blame j that would fall on her shoulders. She coaxed j ( Carrie to the gate, and a little way down the j lane ; but not being accustomed to venturing 1 so far without her raaumer's protection, the j ( latter came at this point to a stand-still, and | said she wanted to go back. "AV. I r>r? rlnn'i- r?n hnr?Ir t T.nolr hnw nine ' V^ll . IIV, VV,.. w j and pretty it is all along the road, and see j, the big wood yonder, with all the moss! Let's | get some moss for a cushion for Belinda's :, chair; don't you wan't to?" Belinda was Carrie's pet doll, whose stock of household furniture was in a somewhat di-; lapidated coudition. Still she was proof, against the suggestion. "I'm afraid," she answered, shaking her ' curly head. "Afraid ! you baby ! What's to hurt you ! j Look at the pretty red berries, Carrie ! Oh ! ' let's get some of them, do! Come; run quick!" The berries were a temptation, and Carrie advanced, hesitating. Estelle seized her hand ; more firmly and pulled her along. On they . trotted, hatless and cloakless, the keen wind 1 blowing their hair about their faces. Alas for ! Carrie's cold, it was certainly not a panacea for that. Estelle had pushed the garden-gate : close ; nobody could sec them?nobody seemed to be in pursuit. Presently Carrie struck her ' foot against a stone, and stumbled ; the pain, j combined with a little fright, made her cry, ; and she sat down on the ground, refusing to , go farther. , "I wantmaum Dinah," she whimpered pitifully. "I want mamma! I want to go! home!" "Oh ! Carrie, what a baby ! Do stop cry- i ing," said Estelle, impatiently. "Well, stay here if you like; I'm just going a little way ; yonder, and I'll come right back. I'll give; yon some berries when I get them, if you j don't cry." She ran off without waiting for an answer. Carrie sat still, where she had left her, holding in her hand a corner of her white cam- i brie pinafore, with which she >!owly wiped j the tears that were coursing do.vu her cheeks.; She had got some dirt on her face in falling, ! and the dirt, mixing with the tears, made cu-! rious streaks by the corners of her mouth, j This adornment, though it impaired, did not j conceal her beauty, which was striking enough ' to claim the notice of a man who, just then, came riding up the lane. He was rather a queer looking man, Car- j rie thought, as she looked up at him; not! dressed a bit like her papa, and, indeed, dif-; ferent looking from all the gentlemen she had ever seen. He had on a short round jacket, of some thick woolen stuff; a loose open collar, not particularly clean, with a scarlet neckhandkerchief ; a low-crowned, broad-brimmed ; hat, turned up at one side ; faded gray trous-1 ers, and a pair of enormous boots, reaching up above his knees. He had, however, a merry, pleasant face, and somehow it did not . occur to Carrie to feel afraid of him. The man stopped his horse as he came in front of her, and looked down at her, smiling. "Ha! pretty little maid," he exclaimed, in a foreign accent. "What are you doing out here, alone ?" "Nothing," said Carrie, gravely. "I'm waiting." "Waiting, ha!" said the man, glancing up and down the road. "Where do you live, my pretty ?" "Back there," said Carrie, pointing in the direction from which she had come. "So? and what is your name, petite t" "My name's Carrie Blandford." "Shall I give you a ride home, Carrie ? Would you like to sit in front of me, on my pretty horse ?" Now Carrie had a passion for horses, and was never happier than when her papa took her, as he often did, on the saddle in front of him, and cantered slowly with her up aud down before the house. She looked up at the raau shyly, a half-smile breaking over her tear-stained face. "See what a beauty of a horse," continued the latter, patting the animal's glossy, arched neck : "and he's as eentle and eood as a little dog! Come ; will you ride ?" "Will you take me home?" asked Carrie. "Oh ! yes, I'll take you home. Give me your little hand?there!?ah ! here you are! Now isn't that pleasant?" "Ye?yes,"said Carrie, half frightened and half pleased, as she found herself seated in a twinkling on her high perch, to which she was lifted almost unawares. "But I'm cold? I haven't any coat or hat on." "Oh ! I have something that will keep you warm," said the man, and he pulled out of his pocket a long crimson scarf, very soft and fine, that reminded Carrie of her mamma's canton-crape shawl, and twisted round her, covering her shoulders and arras and flaxen curls completely with its silky folds, so that only a part of her face was left out. She looked very odd, certainly, muffled up in this style, so that no one passing by could possibly have recognized her ; but the sense of warmth and comfort was grateful to her little chilled frame, and she cuddled up quite fearlessly to her new protector, who held her closely in his strong arm. "Go, Locust," he said, slightly shaking the bridle, and the horse instantly started off at a faster pace than Carrie had ever ridden before?so fast that her breath seemed to leave her, as trees and fences went flying by. On, 3n they went?a long, long way, it seemed to her, and yet they did not get home?they never got home! CHAPTER V. DESOLATION. Estelle stayed longer gathering berries than she had intended, and, half-frightened at last, it the thought of the punishment which might possibly be awaiting her, she hastened back to the spot where she had left Carrie, hoping to get back to the house, at least, before Mr. ind Mrs. Blaudford's return. What was her dismay, on reaching the bend in the road, where she had parted from her little playfellow, to find no one there. "She must have gone home," she soliloquized ; "and now she'll tell on me, the little good-for-nothing ! I wanted to tell first." She ran on to the gate, doubting not that she would had Unrrie either in the garden or bouse. But just as she was standing on tiptoe trying to lift the heavy latch, the gate was suddenly pushed against her, with such force is almost to throw her down, and old Dinah confronted her with a face of mingled terror ind wrath. "God Almighty! you miserable little cree;ur, where's my chile?" she panted, clutching ;he terrified Estelle's shoulder, in a vice-like grip. So confounded was she by the abruptness and unexpected nature of this address, that she was, for a moment, actually struck dumb, and stood staring at her interlocutor without attempting to open her lips. "Speak!" almost shrieked Dinah, emphasizing the command by a shake which made the child's teeth chatter. On an ordinary occasion, she would not have ventured to treat her so unceremoniously, but excitement and fright blew her self-coramaud to the winds. ?io t_ i tin ?. \r*. o a _!a. -i- - :,i opeaa : u neres missy r .run i sue wiu you, out here ?" "N-n-no," stammered Estelle; the word being shaken out of her, as it were, by main force. "In the Lord's name, then, where is she?" gasped the dismayed nurse. "She ain't nowhere in the house." "I don't know where she is," said Estelle, more boldly ; fur in that moment she rapidly revolved the situation in her mind, ond decided that if it were possible, by a profession of total ignorance, to divest herself of her share of the blame, she would not scruple to tell any untruth for the attainment of this end. "Where did you last see her?" was the next question. "She was in the nursery?and?and I ran out here 'cause I was tired of the house?but I didn't mean to do any harm?" "Didn't she come with you ?" "No," said Estelle, at a venture, not knowing whether she was forwarding her own interest in making the denial, or not. Should the falsehood be proved against her, she could get round it by saying that Carrie must have followed her, or by some similar prevarication. T^lnnK lfrnittnrl Ia Vino r ri/\ mnro Kllf rncltnrl frantically off to pursue her quest in another direction. Soon the whole place was astir, all the domestics joining in the search, and great was the commotion caused among them by the knowledge that "little Missy" had disappeared. In the midst of it all Mr. and Mrs. Blandford returned from their drive, and their distress and alarm on receipt of the astounding news may be better imagined than described. At first they could not be persuaded that the child was actually gone, but were quite sure that she must be found somewhere about the premises, where the negroes had not had the wit to think of looking; but when every chamber and closet in the house had been explored, and every nook and corner in the yard and surrounding fields visited, they were forced to accept the conclusion that she had, by some mysterious means, really and truly vanished from the place. It was impossible that such a little creature could, unaided and alone, have wandered very far ; and when every expedition in search of her had proved fruitless, the heart-rending conviction forced itself upon their minds that she must either have been stolen away, or come to her end by some fatal accident. The first conjecture seemed most impossible, the last was too horrible to be realized ; yet. what ; other solution of the mystery remained to ' ; them ? The well aear the house was emptied, , , the pond was dragged, the woods for miles , arouud were thoroughly explored, but in ! : vain. Could the river, which ran a mile from I ' their house, have disclosed the dark secret, . from its cruel depths? Alas for the little . one, had she fallen in there! The deep and i J rapid current would soon have swept her far ! away, beyond all hope of rescue or discovery. ; When finally they were constrained to accept the conclusion that their precious child i j was irrevocably gone from them, a profound j and despairing gloom settled in the hearts of | j the forlorn parents, and over the whole housei hold of which she had been the sunshine and j delight. Old Dinah, the faithful nurse, tor raented by a feeling of remorse and self-re-j proach for having left the child for an instant j 1 during the absence of the father and mother, \ I even to go on a necessary errand, literally fret- | j ted herself to death ; for the misery of thinking herself in a measure the cause of the ca-! j tastrophe (a feeling which her kind mistress ; in vain endeavored to dispel) joined to her | intense grief at the loss of her petted charge, I threw her into a low fever, from the effects of j which she never recovered. A few days before her death, as Mrs. Bland| ford, having come in to administer some raed| icine to her, was sitting by the bedside, the old woman unburthened her heart to her mistress in regard to a subject on which it had long been sore. "Missus," she said solemnly, "I wants to j say a word to you 'fore the Lord calls me j away. I wants to warn you in time that j you've got danger and trouble ahead of you, | unless you send that strange child out of your i house." "What strange child, Dinah ?" "That Estelle, missus, as you calls her. I I tell you there's evil in her; and I b'lieve in ! ray soul she was the cause of my blessed j chile's goin'away. I've always thought so, I and I think so yet. I b'lieve she 'ticed her off | somewhere, and then she got lost, or some accident happened to her." Mrs. Blandford wept bitterly at this mention of her darliDg ; but she was not convinced j T^inoh'fl vnnvnonn f nf mno | wj JUiuan o totiiianuuo, "I think you misjudge Estelle," she replied, ! gently. "I know you don't like her, Dinah ; | hut she is not a bad child. I never saw her i do an unkind thing to?to my poor little lost j angel. Carrie was fond of her, too." "Missus, I tell you there's no good in her. She's underhand and 'ceitful in her ways. I wouldn't trust her a pin's length out of my reach. You think old Dinah's a fool, maybe, or bad-hearted, to talk in this way; but I love you, Missus, and I don't want to go out of this world thinkin' you'll come to trouble? fresh trouble, I mean, for the Lord knows you have had enough already?if a word of mine could make you watchful against it." Mrs. Blandford repeated this conversation to her husband afterward; but they both agreed in attributing Dinah's ideas to a strong natural prejudice against Estelle, now perhaps increased by sickness and trouble of mind, | and attached no importance to them. { Carrie's old niaumer died and was buried, ! and Estelle felt that she had gotten rid of an ! enemy, and took no part in the grief which ! everybody else in the house felt for her loss, j No real part, that is. She did, indeed, profess sorrow, feeling, instinctively, that a neglect to I do so would retard her advance in the favor ' ? 1 i <- P? .1 L:J l I i ot lier acioptea parents; ior mey uiu uei j now consider them as her parents, and call ; them by those sacred names which, hitherto, j they had heard only from the lips of their i own children. "Uncle" and "aunt" were changed to "father" and "mother," a little va! riation from the tender, childish appellatives | which must still belong, exclusively, to the j memory of their lost Carrie, yet seeming to ; draw them together in a closer bond than if J this outward form of relationship were neglected. "It seems a providence of God," said the bereaved mother, "that we should be allowed to keep no children of our own ; therefore it I must be that this poor orphan has been given L 4-LsnCm nlrt/iA ?o no 0V1 n nnn ? j I/O US III Sll|l].liV INCH lliakc no lai i?o ojiv uiu j and I feel that it is our duty to treat her in i all respects as though the relationships be; tween us were a real one." "We may yet have other children," rejoinj ed her husband. "Still, even in that case Es| telle shall retain the position in which we ; have placed her." I "I dare not desire to become a mother," j said Mrs. Blandford mournfully; "for if I I have other children, it is likely that they, too, will share the fate of those who have gone bei fore. It is God's will that I should be as j Rachel; but I must strive not to murmur, ! though the cup is a bitter one indeed." j She did turn for comfort, when the first j keenness of her loss had been somewhat sofj tened by time, to Estelle, her adopted daugh-1 ter, fondly hoping to find in her affection and j j teuderuess a balm for her wounded and deso- j lated heart. And Estelle seemed to give her j ; what she craved. She manifested extreme ! fondness for her, and appeared solicitous iu every way to please her. She was a remarkably bright and quick-witted little creature, and learned with wonderful rapidity to adapt ; herself to the tastes and wishes of those whose j favor she desired to win. It was this adaptii bility to circumstances, perhaps, that poor old j Dinah, with a clearer insight into her nature than any one gave her credit for, had called ! "'ceitfulness," viewing it with anything but j approval or admiration. Uncle Richard, in his beautiful home, at! ; "Silverlake," felt poignaut sorrow at the news j of the calamity which had befallen his broth- j i er's household. Carrie, as has been told, was j I an especial pet and favorite of his ; and he j had contemplated leaving to her nearly the ! ; whole of his valuable property, having no j ! children to inherit his estate on his death. "Well, it will have to go to John, himself,! ; instead," he sighed ; "but it always pleased j me to look forward to that sweet child being ] mistress here, when she was married to some | ; good man, and her old uncle dead and gone.! Please God, she may yet be found?though I, fear there's but a slim chance of such a joy as j that being in store for us." And as weeks and months, and years passed by, and still no tidings of the lost one ever j reached those who had loved her, all lingering ' hope that she might not be irrevocably gone, < j vanished from their hearts; and she became j as truly buried to them as though her name j had been written on that stone which marked ; | a spot in the churchyard, where four tiny i green mounds blossomed side be side. "Ar- [ j thur," "Richard," "Clara," "Emily"?these j were the names it bore. And their places ! were vacant forever; for no other son or daughter ever smiled in their parents' arras again. Estelle was their all now. How did she repay their love and care ? Time will show. CHAPTER VI. TWELVE TEARS AFTER. "Estelle, pull that curtain down ; the light i hurts my eyes?they are fearfully weak to- \ day." "Yes, uncle." And Estelle Blandford, as she is called?a tall, slim young girl of seventeen or thereabouts?steps lightly across the room to fulfill the command, somewhat fretfully issued, of uncle Dick, who lies, sadly aged and altered, upon a bed from which he will never rise ? T -a - JaaamiUa li/\w no oka afnnrlo Kt? again. JUUt us uwtiiuc uci ao out* obunuo vj the window, striving for a minute with the cord of the curtain, which has got into a knot and is not easily undone. In stature she is a little above the medium height, not yet fully developed, but with much lissom grace in her movements, and the promise of completer beauty of form and limb when matured, than the still too slender outlines now present. Her face is perhaps more striking than handsome. It has not sufficient curve or coltr for the essential charm of youth ; yet there is undeniable beauty in the deep dark eyes, with their sweeping lashes and pencilled Italian brows, and her features are regular and well-cut. As to their expression? well, it is not easy to describe that, or indeed even to define it satisfactorily to oneself or to others. People differ in their opinions respecting it; some thinking that a world of sweetness lies in her eyes and smile; others fancying a lurking something, it may be a shade of pride, or disdain, or uncandor?no one knows what?which mars all its attraction. In truth it is a face which varies; yet scarcely from impulse, or the too ready betrayal of intf -xa+liAv* OTnrOCQPQ CK t. Will waiu U Ilil/tlUlJi JLli labuvi VAp? ?.? ..... whatever degree of pleasure, or regret, or tenderness, or fear, or solicitude, its owner is anxious to manifest. A face that is under perfect command, and neither smiles nor is sad out of the right time and place. A face that artists would delight to paint, and yet would never feel that they had faithfully portrayed; a face sometimes alluring, sometimes repellant, but always a little puzzling to those who strive to read it aright. Its expression now is one of extreme gentleness and earnestness, as she carefully arranges the light to suit the invalid's wishes, and then approaches his bedside to minister, in some other way, to his needs. She smooths his disordered covering, lifts his head, and substitutes a fresh, cool pillow, for the heated one she removes, then opens a bottle of cologne and saturates a soft handkerchief, with which she bathes his brow. "Is your head easier, uncle? Has that pain left it, which you complained of a little while ago?" "I can't say, child. I have a queer, conflised feeling, to-day, different from usual. I believe, on the whole, I'm rather worse." "Oh ! uncle ; don't say so !" "I think so, truly." Estelle pressed his feeble hand in hers, and bending over him, lightly touched her lips to his brow. "Dear uncle," she whispered below her breath. The old man raised his eyes to her face, and looked steadfastly at her. "Estelle," he said, presently, "you've been a good child, a devoted child, a faithful, kind nurse to me. I believe you will be a little sorry, when I am gone." "Don't speak in that way?please, please don't," she rejoined, earnestly. "I cannot bear to hear you." "You are fond of me, child, are you not?? well, well, I won't ask the question; I know you are. You have proved it in many ways; and I fear, my dear girl, that I have often repaid your kindness by being cross, and exacting, and ungrateful. But that was the weakness of ill-health, as you know. I have appreciated what you have done for me, all the same." "Uncle, how can you talk of ever being un- J grateful to me 1 Why, I owe you a debt of j gratitude that I can never repay, for all your j goodness to me through my life. But what I ! have done for you, I have done out of love, j and felt it to be a joy that I could render you j any service." "Well, child, you have done all, and more, i than could have been expected from you. j When your mother first let you come to me, I j had little ide^that you would turn out such a ; help and comfort as you have done. But; you'll see that it shall not go unrewarded." "I haue never thought of a reward, uncle." j "All right, my dear; I never supposed that j you did. I believeyou have acted from pure- | ly generous, disinterested motives. But it j would be a pleasure to me to give you some i substantial evidence of my affection, and of, the high opinion which I have formed of you." ' There was a pause. Estelle's breath came a little quicker than usual, and there was an 1 ea?er light in her eves ; but she kept her face I ? " . I out of sight, and went on bathing uncle Dick's ! forehead with a quiet, uutrembling hand. Would he say anything more, she wonder-, ed? She did notveuture to interrupt his re- | flections by word or sign, but waited?waited, i outwardly composed and calm, inwardly j burning with feverish restlesness and impatience. "You see, child," he resumed presently, \ "besides what I think are only your just dues, j I owe you reparation for a wrong I did you j once?at least, I consider it a wrong now, in ' looking back upon it, though I didn't think j so at the time. I am going to make a very candid confession to you ; but I know you 1 have too much good sense to let it create any j resentment in your feelings toward me at this late day. Do you know that I was greatly opposed to your father?that is, my brother? ! adopting you into his family ? I used all my j influence with him to endeavor to prevent ; him." Estelle smiled a little?her inscrutable; * ? 1 -. 1 - _;?! J. : i smile?and looaea at nun witnout answering, etill gently bathing his brow. "I told him," pursued uncle Dick, "that he i was running a great risk in taking you, a perfect stranger, under his care, and advised him to place you in some orphan-house; but | I am most happy now to think that he disre-1 garded my advice. Now can you forgive j your old uncle for ever having done such a j thing ?" "Easily," said Estelle, patting his hand caressingly. "That is nothing to feel sorry about, uncle. How did you know but that I might turn out horribly bad, and worry and disturb you all ?" "Just so, ray dear; it was undeniably a risk, you know. But many a time since, I have thought how fortunate it was that John was less cautious and prudent than I was. There's poor dear Emily with all her children taken from her ; and what a comfort aud help you've been to her ! I don't know how she would have got on without you." "Mother has been so good to rae, that I cannot strive too hard to show her my gratitude." "Very true. Emily is one in a thousand, and so, I may say, is my brother also. I am sure they love you, and have always treated you, as though you were their own daughter." "Yes, indeed." "And speaking of that, Estelle, reminds rae that I would like that letter written to them without farther delay. I am quite sensible that my strength has declined with unusual rapidity during the last two days, and it will probably not be long ere it fails me alO i.M. T fo A\n. logemer. OO Willie j. reiaiu aumuicui kv v.?v<tate to you what I wish to say, get your paper and pen and write at once." Estelle went into the next room to obtain the desired articles, and muttered impatiently to herself, while selecting what she wanted from a desk that stood open on the table? "There he has gone off* at a tangent again ! j Twice he has commenced talking about what he is going to leave me, and never gives me any satisfaction on the subject. Bother this letter; I am sure I don't want to write it." She came back witb a serene face, and drawing a little table near the bedside, sat, down to write. The epistle dictated by the invalid was a very short one: "My Dear Brother and Sister: "Although not ex pecting to have the happi ness of seeing either " Ti.i.s?.u .*< ?*.* dntv to a n rl in. I OI you HgclIU, ?11111111. Ib IfJJ UUl/V vvr uinu ui.u ... < form you of my rapidly approaching end; for I feel convinced,"my dear ones, that in a very short time I shall receive the long-expected summons, which will release mo from this weary world. I well know how impossible it is for you, brother, to leave your wife in her present weak health, and I do not, therefore, write this in order to incite you to any un<!alled-for exertion, but merely to bid you farewell, and to assure you of my love and affectionate remembrance of you both, which I shall carry with me to my grave, and, God willing, even into a better world. Estellc has been a blessed comfort to me, and ministers to me with untiring devotion. I thank you both for having spared her to me so long. "Farewell, dear brother and sister, and that Heaven may bless you both, and grant us the privilege of a happy re-union hereafter, is the fervent prayer of Your ever affectionate brother, RICHARD BLANDFORD." I am not sure but that Estelle shed some tears while penning this letter. At all events, her handkerchief was more than once pressed to her eyes, and her face wore a deeply sorrowful expression when she had finished it. "Don't look so downcast, child," said Uncle Dick, in a cheerful, though somewhat tremulous tone, as he affectionately patted her hand; "Why, this is no evil that is coming to me; but great, inexpressible good. Think bow I have suffered, ray dear, and rather rejoice with me at the prospect of a speedy release from pain." To this Estelle made no reply; but the softened look remained on her face as she returned to the adjoining room to put her writing materials in their places, and this time it was not a mask. Late that evening, when the fire burned low, and the dim light, screened in a corner, scarcely dispelled the shadows that had gathered in the room, Uncle Dick recurred to the subject, in the discussion of which he had that morning interrupted himself, just as Estelle's keenest interest and anxiety had been aroused by it. "I was talking to you to-day, my dear, about ray disposal of my property, was I not ?" "You made some allusion to it, I think sir; that is?you said?" "I told you that I had made an adequate provision for you ; or at least I meant to. " 1 *1 _ ill 1 x ~ ? x~ I ou see, near, mis piacewm inivu iu gu iu my brother ; I couldn't will that away to any one not of kindred blood. Poor, dear little Carrie; I always meant it for her, you know." He was speaking in a more childish and feeble tone than usual, and seemed very weak. Estelle was conscious of a change; but she thought less of that than of the all-absorbing topic he had brought before her. "This place, uncle?" "Yes, Silverlake. Didn't I tell you? It was to have been Carrie's; it will be hers still, if she ever comes home. But alas! that is scarcely a bare possibility, after all these years. So I've left it to brother John, to be given up to her if she should prove to be alive. Do you know, Estelle, I dreamed of the child last night." "Fla^llo rlnnnhpH his hand imnatientlv. and "W*WI,V v'w"w"" r j * pressed her lips tightly together, at this indication of again wandering from the subject; but she constrained herself to rejoin gently? "Yes, uncle ?" "Yes. I saw her plainly, just as she used to look, only taller and older. In fact she was nearly grown up, but she had the same innocent face and Iight^curls, so that except for her figure she did not seem changed. I thought she came to me and kissed me, and said 'it was all.a dream, uncle Dick ; I'm not dead.' And then I woke up, half-fancying that I must really have seen and heard her, and for a moment I was sadly grieved and disappointed to find that it was not so. Well, well, dear child! I ought not to wish her back ; no doubt she is in a happier world, and there I shall meet her soon ! But what was I saying? Oh! about the will. Yes. I've left you a nice sum, Estelle; but it's no more than you deserve." "Dear uncle?you are too good, too kind." "Nonsense, child ! I've plenty of money, as you know; and I've tried to divide it as fairly as I could. Of course the bulk of it all goes to my brother. He's never been as rich as I have; but he'll have enough now. Grimby, my lawyer, was here yesterday, you know. I've settled everything finally, now, except 1 ll < * _ _ X X . putting tue seais on mat important document; I wanted it left open a little longer, that I might glance over it again at my leisure. But I don't?believe?I shall be?able to?" His words trolled off brokenly; a sort of stupor seemed to be creeping over him. Estelle was frightened, and sprang to get a light. The action roused him, and he brightened up again. "It's nothing, child?a little weakness. I have talked too much. But I was going to say?let's see?oh ! yes ; about the seal. That may as well be done at once. I shan't look at it agaiu. Get the paper, Estelle." "Where is it,dear Uncle?" "In my desk?my key?" "Yes, I know where the key is." "Look in the lower compartment." "Here are two papers exactly alike," said . Eslelle, after fumbling for a minute at the desk. "Which is the one?" "Two papers! Let me see?bring them here! Oh! yes, this one ought to be desj troyed?I made it before?there's a little misj take in it?I?I?" Again he broke down, though struggling j hard to proceed. Estelle lifted his head, | fanned him, and poured a cordial between his lips. He seemed easier, but too weak to say any more at present, and signed for her to lay him back upon his pillow. After remaining quiet for a minute or two, he said, in a whisper? "I can't. You get my big seal?do it for me." "Which one?" "The last?date outside. Burn the other." "Yes, Uncle. I will do all you wish. Try and be quiet now for a while." He closed his eyes wearily, and in a short time appeared to be ine deep sleep. * "-> imnnrtqnt dnnnments I JLJaieiiC IUUA lilic bn v iuif>v >?-. thus confided to her care, and carried them to the light. The date of each was marked outside ; one was August 20th ; the other Oc- 1 tober 13th, both of the present year. Why had he made two, she wondered? What , change could he have effected in his arrange- . ments since the first was written, in a lapse of less than two months ? Both were open, only tied round loosely with a bit of lawyer's tape. A strong temptation assailed her. Should she glance at the contents, before obeying uncle Dick's behest in regard to them ? Where would be the harm ? It would be merely gratifying her curiosity. It would be even best that she should ascertain, at once, the amount of the sura bequeathed to her, because then she would no longer feel the impatience which she could not control, for the arrival nf the time when the will should be opened; an impatience which she felt was unseemly, and prevented her giving due attention to her present duties. She was in the act of untying the tape which fastened the paper of the latest date, when a footstep down staii-s made her start. "The doctor!" she exclaimed; and quick as thought she slipped both documents in her pocket, closed the desk and removed the key, and was seated again at the bedside when the chamber door, after a slight knock, gently opened. She rose to meet the doctor as he entered. He greeted her kindly, holding her hand for a minute in his. "You look pale from over-fatigue, Miss Estelle. This constant nursing is telling on you. Why don't you have some assistance?" "I do, thank you," she rejoined, trying to smile. "One of the servants will take my place in a little while ; but ray uncle likes to have me alone with him sometimes." "How is he this evening ?" asked the doctor, approaching his patient. "Very weak, I fear. He is asleep, now." Dr. Hartwell laid his hand on the patient's brow, then felt his heart and pulse. As he did so, a change came over his face. "He is sinking fast," he said in a whisper, turning to Estelle. "Ok! doctor." "He is, ray dear ; it is right that I should tell you. But this is 110 place for you now." "Oh! yes, yes! I would not leave him." "He will never know you again. He will probably never wake up, but pass on uncon-1 sciously in this state, which is more of a stupor than sleep." Estelle stood silent, with clasped hands. The doctor, a kind, fatherly man, sympathized with the emotion which he saw written in her face. He took her hand again. "Come into the next room," he said, gently. "I would like you to take a little rest. I myself will remain here for a while; it may be that the end is very near. At all events, if he becomes conscious, I will call you." She submitted passively. The doctor led her into the adjoiuing chamber, bidding her lie down on the sofa and compose herself, then returned to the sick room, closing the door of communication after him. Estelle sat down on the sofa for an instant, reflecting; then she jumped up quiekly and left the room by another door, which opened on a passage leading to her own bed-room. With swift steps she gained the latter, lit a candle, and having locked the door, drew from her pocket the two wills. [to be continued next week.] fflmtimm patting. FAITHFUL MEN NEEDED. We fear sometimes that in our anxiety to put a summary end to corruption in the administration of public affairs, that ourstrength may be expended in establishing a system of checks and balances, while the real source of the evil is allowed to grow and strengthen in power. While we admit, as Governor Chamberlain clearly pointed out in his inaugural, that some of the methods of former administrations were defective, in that they did not place sufficient safeguards around the disbursement of public funds, we are clearly of the opinion that they would have been found all sufficient had those who were charged with the control of affairs been both competent and honest. It is true that defective methods will sometimes render powerless a single honest officer, as against a combination of others who ! are dishonest; but the power of exposure still ! { remains with the honest officer. Our purpose is not to oppose the recomraen-! I dations of the governor in this particular, for,' as we recall them, they seem to us all good, j and, if adopted, calculated to greatly assist [ on Ann *rrvr? f aos>n rtx lirmr>Qh ornuprn- 1 I UlC piCCCllb CUUCftfUi I-v I;vvu>v uvmvw* j raent. ! The real source of the evil we are discussing ; is in the character of the men elected or ap-1 J pointed to office. South Carolina, although j | suffering greatly, does not stand alone in her j j affliction; and the evil elsewhere, as here, is ' ' attributable mainly to the corrupt political : ; bargaining of selfish and unscrupulous leaders I j whereby superserviceable knaves and ignorant j ; boobies are foisted into places of trust and i j power. Primarily, of course, this evil is i based upon the ignorance or indifference of' ] the voters of the State, and nothing but edu-1 j cation and experience can act as a permanent j 1 cure. But this is a work of time, and the ' same apathy and indifference which impels I , men in responsible positions to recommend or demand the appointment of ignorant and dis[ honest officers will retard or frustrate every j effort for the enlightenment of the people, i Hence, it is an immediate duty, resting upon 1 the representatives of the people, to stand up squarely to the expressed determination of the governor in the matter of appointments to office. ^ If he goe3 astray, let them check him, but in no case allow personal feeling, or the I desire to control a local election, or the pres 9ure ot personal irienusmp, iu ucuauu ? ...... an appointment which can only result in disgrace to his administration and disaster to the best interests of the whole people. If the men in power will but act faithfully in this regard, the reform we have talked so much of will be an accomplished fact instead of a promise, and this, too, without a registration act, or additional padlocks on the treasury.? Union-Herald. HOW NICK BOWERS WAS CAUGHT. Nick Bowers was a member of the original Christy Minstrels, and in his day, was the greatest "middle man interrogator" known in the profession. Nick used to tell, with great merriment, an incident of his boyhood. To preserve the flavor of the relation, we will record it in Nick's own langua A and only re- I gret that we cannot accompany it with his inimitable gesticulations. "My old man," said Nick, "as a general thing, was a pretty steady old gent, but once in a while he would get oblivious, and water was not the cause of it. I recollect a certain holiday was approaching, and I had been skinning around to get a little money to have a time with on that day; but the fates and purses were against me. It was but two days prior to the anticipated holiday, and I hadn't 'narv a red. Remember this, boys, when I add that on the same afternoon I came into the house, when lo 1 there on the floor, totally overcome by his libations, lay my respected daddy, and beside him lay six shinning half dollars which had rolled from his pocket Boys, I've been an honest man all my life but once when a boy I committed a theft. I hooked one of those half dollars. Thinks I to myself, the old man's been on a jamboree, and won't know how much hespeDt, and will never miss it. But mark you, the next morning I and my two brothers were summoned into my father's presence. The old man's face lowered, I thought of the half dollar and I knew that a storm was brewing." "Boys," said he, "last night when I came home I had six half dollars. One of 'em's gone. Your mother didn't take it. There's been no one else in the house. Which one of you took it?" We all protested our innocence. "Boys," said the old man, "that half dollar never walked off, and I'm going to find out which one of you took it ?" Turning around, he took down from the wall an old flint-lock blunderbuss. This he deliberately loaded with powder and buckshot in our presence; then, fastening it on the table, cocked it, took a seat behind, holding the string in his hand, and in solemn tones addressed us thusly: "Boys, I'm going to discover the thief and punish him at the same time. You must each of you blow into the muzzle of that gun. wkon miiUr nno hlnwfl. off poes his head. tf ll?U HIV, gu.ivj WMV o Now then, you have a chance; will you own up, or blow up ?" "Ben," said the old inan to my oldest brother, "have you got that half dollar ?" "No, sir." "Take a blow." "Nick," (eh, boys, I tell you the chills began to roll down my back,) "got that half dollar?" "No, sir," said I, with a defiant swagger. "Blow that gun." I walked up bravely, gave a blow, and? dodged! "Nick," said the old man in a voice of thunder, "where is that half dollar?" He had me. The trutb dodged out of me. Said I, "out in the barn, pap." Hard on the Carpet-Baggers.?The Chicago Tribune thinks the government "has been already too lenient" with the carpet-bag element of Southern republicanism, and tells the Southern members of Congress that it does not become them to criticise, much less to threaten,'the Republican party or the administration, because the Northern Republicans, as a class, are disposed to hold the carpet-baggers responsible for the disordered condition of things at the South. Concluding its review of carpet-bag rule in the South, the Tribune says : "The government has borne with their official misconduct and corruption until it is impossible to bear them longer. Its warnings have been unheeded, and its leniency has been made the occasion for fresh outrage. The republican party owes no favor or advantage to the speculative carpet-baggers. As it is, they have weakened it, in one large fraction of the country have placed it in a false position, and have loaded it down with a burden of reproach and calumny for which it is not fairly responsible, but which it has had to carry. They have repelled from the republican party thousands of votes, have hampered it in its work of reconstruction, and have brought odium upon honest Southern republicans. 'Carpet-bag republicans might as well understand at the outset of their caucusing, and before they proceed any further, that Northern republicans have no consideration to extend to the frauds, corruptions, trickery, thievery, and perversion of law which have characterized Southern carpet - ? 1 ! 1 4. baggers, and that it they wish equal ngnis they must rid themselves of this pestilential curse." Something he Couldn't Sell.?A gentleman was walking with his little boy at the close of the day, and passing the cottage of a German laborer, the boy's attention was attracted by a dog. It was not a King Charles, nor a black and tan, but a common cur. Still the boy took a fancy to him, and wanted "pa" to buy him. Just then the owner of the dog came home from his labors, and was met by the dog with every demonstration of dog joy. The gentleman said to the owner, "My little boy has taken a fancy to your dog, and I will buy him. What do you ask for him ?" - - 1 - /"i "1 can't seJi dat dog," said me uerraun. "Look here," said the gentleman, "that is a poor dog any way, but as my boy wants him, I will give you five dollars for him." "Yaas," said the German, "I know he is a werry poor dog, and he ain't wort almost nottin, but dere ish von little ding mit dat dog vot I can't sell?I can't sell de vagof his tail ven I comes home at night." > ? Eating Before Sleeping.?It is a common mistake to suppose that eating before sleeping is injurious. Not at all unfrequently does it happen that people are sleepless for want of food, and a little taken either when they first go to bed, or when they thus wake sleepless, will generally be found more efficacious and of course infinitely less injurious thau any drug in the chemist's pharmacopoeia. These are the physical remedies for sleeplessness which have the best recommendation. ' As for the moral ones, there is certainly a good deal more to be said. Perhaps the most stringent of all rules are : "Avoid anxiety!" and "Don't go to bed owing anybody a 1 " i-u ? il. u:.i j _ gruoge ! ^newmg me uiuer cuu u* u vjuairel is a thousand fold more injurious to repose than swallowing a whole teapotfiil of the very greenest of green tea. ; ? 4 fi?"" Of all the love affairs in the world, none can surpass the true love of a big boy for his mother. It is a love pure and noble, honorable in the highest degree to both. I do not mean merely a dutiful affection. I mean a love which makes a boy gallant and courteous to his mother, saying to everybody plainly that he is fairly in love with her. Next to the love of her husband, nothing so crowns a woman's life with honor as this second love, this devotion of the son to her. I never yet knew a boy to turn out bad who began by falling in love with his mother. J