Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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. ?? lewis >?. grist, proprietor, j A? |nitej>eniient Jfantilf Uetospper: Jfur tfjc IJruntuftun of fjie ljulitieal, Social, Agricultural antr Cummcrcial Interests uf t|e SSunfj}. |terms?$3.00 a year, in advance. VOL. 31. YORKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, MARCH 35, 1875. NO. 13. r: : : ? . i f elected ftoftrg. DON'T STAY AFTER TEN. BY EMMA LKE. I have just a word to say to you, When me you come to see? You know that none in all the world Is half as dear to mo. "Tis this I would request of you, That when you come again To see me in'the evening, You won't stay after ten. For after ten, as moments fly, I tremble o'er and o'er. Lest papa's visage I should see Come peeping at the door. He's there to execute his threat; He said he'd surely come. If ever you stayed so late again. And tell you "to go home. And when I down to breakfast go Papa will frown at me, And say, "My child, that beau of yours Is going to hear from me. This sort of thing I will not have; So, when he comes again, I'll just go down and show him out, If he don't go at ten." And so, though your society Makes heart and pulse throb warm, I heave a sigh of vast relief At your retreating form. You know that you are welcome, aye, O! best beloved men ; But many a scolding you have caused By staying after ten. JU (Original ftovn. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. UNCLE BRAINERD'S WILL; OR, The Fortunes of Alice Lynn. CHAPTER X. A FAMILY COUNCIL. "I don't see how under the sun it can be managed," querulously said Mrs. Fielding, a high-featured, sharp-voiced dame, who was just then engaged in darning one of a huge pile of socks and stockings that occupied a basket on the table near her. It was Saturday evening, and the family group was assembled in the back parlor, the usual rendezvous , at the close of the day's labors. The latter, today, had been more than usually irksome, and their effect was visible in the added degree of acerbity which rendered the voice, manner and looks of the mistress of the house a trifle less agreeable than usual. "Well, my dear, I reckon it can be managed, some way or other," slowly responded j Mr. Fielding, a quiet-looking, easy-tempered ' personage, whose mild face and deliberate : speech presented a strong contrast'to the too brisk demeanor of his better haif. "Some way or other! Yes, that's always your way of talking. But when it comes to the managing part, it's generally I who have I to settle the ways and means of fixing it. j Just look at the thing in a common-sense ! ^ 1 ^ iX'J* imrvAcciKlo Prvr j JlgUL, IUJU SCC 11 lb am b iicai/ iu nupuwiuiv .v. us to take the child?with ten of our own to provide for, and not too much to give them either." "My dear, we are not rich, but we always seem to get on pretty well, I think. Our children want for nothing that is reasonable or necessary." "And who have you got to thank for that, Mr. Fielding?" asked his wife, sagaciously nodding her head. "If the children, poor things, had a less careful mother to look after i them, they might want for a good deal that, they wouldn't get. If you just had a thriftless, wasteful wife, you'd see how you'd get on then." "But I don't think that's either here or there," said Mr. Fielding, rubbing his hands together with a perplexed look. "I'm not denying my blessings, Caroline, nor am I, I hope, ungrateful; but what I was sayiug was?" "Bob and Fanny, if you don't stop that noise, this minute, I'll pack both of you off to bed!" interrupted Mrs. Fielding, sharply raising her voice to quell the tumult arising from a dispute among some of the small fry in a distant corner of the room. "Ma, Bob's taken my biggest apple, and tore my apron, pulling it away from me, and he won't give it back!" "Ma, she said she'd give me a piece of the apple, and she wouldn't, and her old apron was tore before ; you know it was, miss." "Sh?sh, children," said Mr. Fielding, reprovingly. "'Tain't right to quarrel?come here, Fanny!" Fanny came, hanging her head, with one finger on her pouting lip. "Look here, little one, did you promise Bobby a piece of your apple ? Speak up now, fair and true !" "Yes?yes," reluctantly murmured Fanny. "But he oughn't to take it, pa." "Then she oughtn't to be so mean and stingy, ought she, pa?" inquired Bob, standing on the defensive. "And you oughtn't to be so rude and unmannerly, my boy. "Let's see the apple here." The apple of discord was accordingly produced. Mr. Fielding's huge clasp-knife was brought into play, and the tempting looking, rosy-cheeked fruit speedily divided into two fair halves, one of which was given to each litigant. Robert retreated contentedly to his corner again, while the little girl remained leaning against her father's knee. Somehow Mr. Fielding had a happy knack of settling their disputes, and his judgment rarely failed to give satisfaction. "Well, when you've got through with the children, may be you'll pay some attention to what I am saying," said Airs. Fielding, impatiently. "Certainly, my dear," was the mild response. "Then, as I was asking you, how can we settle about this plaguey child? I suppose we can't keep the folks too long waiting for an answer." "No?surely not," said Mr. Fielding, thoughtfully stroking little Fanny's curls. "I'd best answer the letter at once." "But the question is, how are you going to answer it ? I want to know." "My dear, I really don't see how we can refuse." "And I really don't see how we can agree to do it." There was an uncomfortable silence. At this juncture the door was opened, and an old gentleman of infirm appearance, leaning on a thick knotted stick, entered the room, and took his seat in a vacant arm-chair by the fireplace. "We'll ask uncle Braincrd," said Mr. Fielding, in a low voice. His wi",- pcrsed up her lips, darned away vig .i.-iy at an immense hole, and said nothing. "Eh ?" said the old man looking up sharply as he sat down. "Did you speak to me ?" "I was saying, uncle, that we'd like your advice on a certain point," said Mr. Fielding, gently putting Fanny aside, and moving his chair closer to that of the new-comer. "My advice, eh ? Well, uephy, let's hear what's it's to be about," said the old man, in a high, cracked voice, fixing his eyes, at the same time, on the discontented countenance of Mrs. Fielding, who continued to pay resolute attention to her work. "Well, sir, I received, to-day, a letter from some folks in Columbia, stating that my halfsister, Mrs. Lynn, had recently died at their house, and begged them, on her death-bed, to write to me, asking me to take charge of her little girl, who's left alone in the world." "Your half-sister dead ! Why, you never heard she was sick, did you ?" "No, sir; you know I've seen mighty little I of Alice, since she was a child?poor thing. She didn't marry well, either, I'm told," said Mr. Fielding, with a melancholy inflexion in his voice. "It seems she was greatly reduced and was on her way here, when she died." j "On her way here, was she? And how 1 about this child; who's taking care of her now ?" j "These people, Mr. Shaw and his wife, at , whose house Alice stayed. They want me to send for her right away, as it's inconvenient ' for them to have her on their hands." "And you mean to do so?" j "We were just speaking about that, sir, ( HliCll J uu V.UIHVV III. ! "Hum," said uncle Brainerd. "What does j Caroline say ?" Mrs. Fielding colored at this address, and i answered, nut without an unusual degree of I hesitation? f "I was saying, Uncle, that with such a I large family as ours, I don't see how we can undertake to provide for a stranger." The old man smiled lightly, and putting the ; tips of all his fingers together, looked contemplatively at the fire. His smile was not a pleasant one, and, somehow, it made Mrs. Fielding's color deepen. "A fatherless and motherless child," he murmured,presently. "Hum?hum! I suppose she can find somebody to take care of her, can't she, nephy ?" "I'm afraid not, sir," said Mr. Fielding. "She appears to be quite friendless; poor little thing!" "Very unfortunate," said uncle Brainerd. j "But she can go to the poor-house, or the or; phan asylum, I should suppose." j "I must say, sir," said Mr. Fielding, elear! ing his throat, "that such a view of the case is not at all an agreeable one to me. Caro| line, my dear?won't you say anything?" "No, Mr. Fielding," said his wife, in some I excitement, "I've said my say, already, and I believe I'll let you decide on this matter mn Finn t nnnciilt inn nnv mnrp if nibiiwuu .11^. v ...~.~, .. you please." "But, really, my dear, I am always desirous of consulting your wishes, as you know; and, especially in this case, which concerns you as nearly as it does me. I think, myself, it's plain and easy to see where our duty lies ; but I'm a peaceable man, and I don't want to make it the occasion of any falling out betweeu us. So I do wish, my dear, you'd think the matter over reasonably, and try and come to my way of thinking." "I'm very unreasonable, I don't doubt," said Mrs. Fielding, plying her darning-needle with trembling hands. "I suppose I don't toil and slave, and walk after the children from morning till night, and sew my fingers to the hone to keep them decent?Oh, no! And it's very unreasonable in me, no doubt, not to want another one to work for, and she none of my flesh and blood neither." "Well, well, Caroline! don't fret," said uncle Brainerd, whose countenance had assumed a most peculiar expression during mis outbreak. "Make yourself'easy about this child; she shan't be brought here to worry you. Nephy Simon, I've thought of a good plan; I'll move down to Columby and take a little lodging of some sort there, and take this little girl to live with me; and we'll manage very well together, I dare say." So saying, the old gentleman rose up and hobbled out of the room. If a thunderbolt had fallen among the group he quitted, it could scarcely have given them a greater shock than did this unlooked-for announcement. On Mrs. Fielding, especially, it appeared to have a most subduing effect. "I don't believe he can be in earnest," she i murmured, at length. "I don't know," said Mr. Fielding, with a grave face, but in his usual calm tone. "What i uncle Brainerd says he's going to do, he's 1 pretty apt to do, I think." i "Pa," said little Fanny in a wondering tone, "is uncle Brainerd going away to live ?" "Hold your tongue," said Mrs. Fielding. "You young ones may as well goto bed at once; 'tain't far from the usual time." There was a chorus of expostulation ; but their mother, apparently desiring a vent for i i? . i.i p i: i ,i ner nisiurueu reelings, uure uunu ujiuu mc lesser ones of the group and swept them out of the room like a whirlwind. Two remained behind; Carry,a gentle-looking girl of twelve, and Charley, a lad of ten. The two elder boys, Maurice and Joe, were at present away at school. I "Father," asked Carry, coming to Mr. Fielding's side, "is the little girl coming here to stay with us ?" "Mav-be so, my dear. Nothing's settled yet. May-be we'd better not talk about it just at present," said Mr. Fielding, gently, i The good man was sorely troubled in his heart. Conscience clearly pointed out to him ' the path he ought to pursue ; while, on the other hand, a natural repugnance to irritating his wife, or imposing additional work upon her, made him hesitate in his decision. But when she reentered the parlor, a few minutes ; later, he found, to his great relief, that the tide had unexpectedly turned. "I suppose," she said, abruptly, as she resumed her seat and her work, without lookingup, "you may as well write that letter at oneo. anil be done with it. We tnav as well ! agree to take the child, first as last." "Thank you, my dear," said Mr. Fielding, | his honest countenance beaming with pleasure. "I am truly gratified at your compliance j with my wish. I felt sure that on considera, tion?" "Oh ! fiddlesticks," said his wife, impatiently. "I don't wan't to be thanked; I have my reasons for what I do, and that's j enough. Write your letter at once, and you can go over to the store and mail it, before you go to bed." .Surprised at her anxiety to have the matter settled without delay, Mr. Fielding, nevertheless, asked no explanation of it, but obediently proceeded to fulfill her behest; and, 1 before bed-time, had written and despatched ! the letter, which opened to his orphan niece the prospect of a new home, and friends and protectors, in her forlorn and indigent situ; ation. Mrs. Fielding took care, also, that uncle Brainerd should be informed of' the fact at an ; early hour, the next morning; preferring, however,for reasons of her own, that the task of informing him should devolve upon her ill<Ii"lil tit' lii'INol K i It may not he nut of place here, to give the I reader some idea of the cause of her anxiet) to act in conformity with the old gentleman's : wishes, which was, in fact, the true reason ol her acquiescence in her husband's plan. Uncle lirainerd was an old bachelor, whe had no near relatives but herself and hei I family; and tnere was a current traditioi | that he was "very rich though, even tlx Ficldings themselves, had a very vague and unsatisfactory notion of the amount of prop erty this term might he supposed to denote He hoarded with them for a reasonable sum and lived in a miserly way, dressing shabbily affording himself few indulgences, and nevei hestowinir on the family any presents, save o: the most trifling description. Notwitlistand ing this penurious conduct, Mrs. Fielding, hav itig full faith in the existence of the wealtl which he so mysteriously hoarded, and look ing forward to inheriting it when his need o it should he over, was most desirous of yield ing to his wishes, even though her impetuous , and stubborn spirit dearly loved to hold ex elusive sway over all with whom it came ii j contact. For this cause did she now yield j though with much inward repining, totheun j welcome suggestion of adopting into their al ' ready crowded household, a child who sh< :! considered had scarcely a claim upon them, j Mrs. Lynn had been separated from her brother since early childhood, he having lived with his own father's relatives, and was an entire stranger to his family. She had married early ami very imprudently, and being left a ; widow soon after the birth of her only child, , had struggled on for some years in poverty, unwilling to seek help from those who had disapproved of her marriage; and finally, under the pressure of want and disease, had , I resolved to seek the half-brother whom she knew scarcely more than by name, and throw herself upon his kindness and protection. I Thus it was that her daughter, the little l Alice, found herself, a helpless orphan, cast i upon the charity of strangers, at the early : age of nine years, in a small boarding-house in Columbia, while awaiting the decision of pj her unknown uncle, upon which her fate dej ponded. Her mother had led a strange and wandering life, and of her nearer relatives, I in whose care she should, by rights, have been | placed, the child knew scarcely the existence or the names. . I CHAPTER II. ALICE ARRIVES AT BERRY FARM. It was a dark, dismal March afternoon; the wind whistled drearily round the corner of the honse, and the rain pattered against the window-panes, through which little Alice Lynn was gazing out at the cheerless-looking street. It was two days since her mother had been consigned to the grave, and no tidings had come to her yet of the relative to whom Mrs. i Shaw had written concerning her. A lonely, j desolate feeling weighed down her childish i heart?a sort of dull misery that crushed out i all violent sorrow, and could find no vent in tears. Indeed, so silent and undemonstrative ! had she been, both on the occasion of her ! mother's death and ever since, that Mrs. Shaw had privately imparted to her husband her i opinion that "the child had no feeling at all." Unf she wn? mistaken. Aliee's feel in ps were ; peculiarly sensitive and strong; but she was i so overwhelmed by the suddenness of her loss ; that she could not yet realize it to its full ex; tent; and, moreover, the exceeding reserve of : her disposition would have prevented her, in ! any case, from betraying her emotion in the : presence of strangers. The uncertainty of j her prospects, too, naturally occupied her ! mind, filling her with a vague, restless anxie! ty. She longed to escape from her present i abode, where all her surroundings were un| congenial and coarse, and where her landlord ' and his wife, though not unkind to her, testi! tied a little too plainly the uneasiness they | felt concerning their charge of her, and were | more occupied with the consideration of their | own interests than with feelings of sympathy j for her sorrow. Alice had known privation j and hardships, and had experienced but few of the joys of childhood; but she had never ! fnlf the want nf nflTpptinn. or known what it was to yearn in vain for a loving glance or word. She was standing at present in the room which had been allotted to her mother and j herself; a bare-looking apartment, destitute | of carpet or curtains, for the Shaws' boarding house boasted but few comfortably furnished chambers, and those were placed only at the disposal of boarders or lodgers whose purses i were sufficiently well filled to pay a suitable I sum for the privilege of occupying them. A ' common pine bedstead, wash-stand and table, 1 and a single chair, comprised the furniture. | Against the wall stood the trunk containing ; her own and her mother's wardrobe and the few other possessions that remained to her, j and on the trunk lay Mrs. Lynn's shawl and j bonnet, the faded, worn coverings she had ! laid aside from her weary frame when she j came here to die. Alice's little hat, with its ! shabby blue ribbon, lay beside them. How natI ural and familiar the companionship seemed ; i how strange to think that they should journey no more in company together! Poor little i hat! It did not, as yet, even have the emblem j of mourning; for Mrs. Shaw had not troubled i herself to hunt up any black ribbon, because, [ as she said, "it was not worth while to fix anyi thing of that sort, while the child's frocks I were all colored ; and she reckoned her own j folks would see to all that when she went to i them. Presently, Alice saw the postman coming 1 up the street, and she watched, with anxiety, to see whether he would stop at Mr. Shaw's | door, or not. Surely, if her uncle had writ ten, his letter must have come Dy tins time. Yes, the man stopped, and took outa package ! of letters?one, two, three, Alice counted, and J some newspapers?but, after all, they might | be nothing concerning her. Perhaps, only i letters for some of the boarders. He rang the bell, thrust them into the hand of the 1 slovenly maid, who answered his summons, and hurried off, pulling his water-proof cloak | up about his ears, and bending his head to shield his face from the driving rain. Alice I turned from the window, and listened expectantly ; but no one approached her door, and after a few moments the anxious, waiting look on her face faded away into the old settled despondency and listlesness of expression, as ! with a sigh she resumed her melancholy survey of the prospect without. A quarter of an hour might have elapsed, j when she heard some one coming along the passage, and directly Mrs. Shaw, without cer! emoiiy, opened the door and walked in. She ! lipid mi niip.n letter in her hand, which she j l t -- ' placed before Alice. "You may read that, child," she said, "and : see what your uncle says. I'm glad he's ar! ranged to come for you ; and if you take my advice you'll see about getting your things ready at once, for he'll be here in the morning, and most likely you'll leave by the afternoon train." He was coming for her, then ! Alice experienced a sensation of relief as her eye ran over the neatly written lines: 'j "Mas. M. A. Shaw, Columbia, S. C.?Dcur ! .Vm/m/i.-?"Your favor is duly received, audi write to thank you for tlio information you are kind enough to impart, though I am most truly grieved at the reception of such sad news. I will 1 leave hero to-morrow night (the Kith) and bo with * "? tw.vt itim-miwr wlinn T shall tako charge of tbe little girl, my niece, and relieve you of all 1 further responsibility of her. I shall fetch her home to live with tue, and regard her in future i as oneoftny own children. Please say so to her , with ltiy love. With thanks to your husband and self for kindness tothe child, and also to her 5 poor mother, I remain, Madatn, r "Very respectfully your obdient servant, 5 * * "Simon Fihliiino." f. The last clause of this document, had Alice been in an analytical mood, might have caused > a slight feeling of wonder in her mind ; but it p gave Mrs. Shaw much satisfaction, and quite i confirmed the complacency she felt regarding j her conduct toward the little orphan, which I she had placed, in her letter to Mr. Fielding, - (Mr. Shaw, not being expert at his pen, had . deputed her to write it) in as favorable a light , as possible. It created, indeed, such a kindly ,' feeling toward Alice herself that she was : prompted to show her an unusual mark of f sympathy, viz: a pat on the head, followed - by a kiss upon her forehead, a demonstration - quite unlocked for, and scarcely more weli coir.'e than expected. ' Poor little dear!" said the landlady ; "I'm f surs I'm real thankful, for your sake, that I'vedicard such good news. Your uncle will ? take you to live with him, and he and youi - aunt will be just like your own pa and ma, I t have no doubt." , As if any one could ever be like her own -' mother! A feeling of resentment at the sug-1 gestion rose up in Alice's mind, but according j1 to her fashion she said nothing, only handed 1 the letter back with a heightened color to its owner. Another night passed, spent by Alice in broken and restless slumber, haunted by uneasy dreams, in which visions of her past and ,; future were confusedly blended. At one time she was with her mother in the home they , | had last inhabited, pursuing some familiar occupation ; then they were traveling togeth' er, now on the cars, now on a steamboat; then the scenes of the past week came forcibly bei fore her, renewingjall the agony of illness and suffering and the bitter death-bed parting; | then she saw her uncle, looking quite familiar I and natural, as though she had known him , j for a long time, and she was with him in a I new place, among a crowd of people whom ' she had neverseen before, and who jostled her ' I and looked at her with curious eyes. Then i aeain she was sliding down, down with fear ful rapidity on an inclined plane, with the queerest shapes and colors of all sorts whirling about her; and below, was a black, yawni ing chasm, into which she must surely be plunged. But just as, with dizzy brain and half-blinded eyes, she reached the brink, the dark abyss suddenly gave place to a beautiful, smiling meadow, where flowers were blooming and birds sang; and her mother, with a beaming face and words of happiness and love, received her in her arms. The clasp and the tender tones were so real, that Alice awoke with a start, feeling as if all her sorrow must be only a dream, and that it must, indeed, be her mother's voice she had heard. But her eager glance revealed only the forlorn chamber, with the early dawn struggling in through the open window, and brought back the full comprehension of her situation, and the load of dull, blank grief she had temporarily laid down. She rose up at once and dressed herself, and then, with quiet, busy hands, began to put together the few articles that had been taken out of the trunk, and re-pack them in readiiness for her journey. Poor little creature ! A hot tear fell, now and then, on some garment or ribbon which her mother had worn, and on the gold brooch, the one ornament she had never parted with, which had clasped her collar. It had Alice's hair on one side, and on the other a darker lock, a memento of the father Alice but dimly remembered as a vision of her earliest and happiest days. The faded shawl, a pair of threadbare gloves, even the well-worne shoes, were carefully stowed away ; for to the child they were sacred relics, which would be profaned by the touch of strange or careless hands. The bonnet?Alice did not know what to do with that. She could not bear to leave it, and she could find no room for it in satchel or trunk. At last, she folded and pinned it carefully in paper. It was not such a very large parcel, and she thought she could manage to carry it in one hand, and the satchel in the other; or, perhaps, her uncle Fielding would take the satchel for her. At all events, it should not stay behind. She pictured to herself Mrs. Shaw, or one of the maids, handling it?perhaps ridiculing it, or tossing it contemptuously aside?and shuddered at the idea of such desecration. When everything was put away and the trunk locked, she stationed herself at her old post by the window, to wait until she was called to breakfast. It was still early; but she had no idea at what hour the train would come in, and her uncle arrive. The clouds and rain of the previous evening had vanished. The sky was beautifully blue and clear ; and the broad street, with its rows of trees, looked cheerful and pleasant enough in the morning sunshine. Even the straggling plants and flowers in Mrs. Shaw's neglected strip of * 1 l-_ .*.1 garden were iresnenea ana revived uy me rain, and on the branch of the elm tree by the gate was perched a little bird which chirped a loud and merry tune. Milk-carts and bread-carts rattled by; newspaper boys were going their rounds; and market folks, on foot or in wagons, conveyed their stores of fresh vegetables and fruit from neighboring farms and orchards to their place of traffic. Everybody seemed busy and cheerful. Alice did not discover one sad face among them all. But the life and bustle of the awakening town did not impart any lightness to her own sad heart, which seemed all the sadder and more desolate in contrast. After a while the breakfast-bell rang, and she stole timidly down and took her customary place. Before the meal was over, the carriages and omnibusses which had been to the vm'lrnnd station, cama rattlincr bv. and OllC of them stopped at the door. No one got out but a plain looking man, in a farmer's dress, who was shown into the parlor, and presently Alice was summoned to meet him, for it was her uncle. Mr. Fielding's kind heart was yearning to his little niece, as it yearned to everything that was sorrowful or desolate, and he was | prepared to give her a father's greeting when she entered. But the child's manner was so different from what he had expected?so different from anything he had ever seen in the manner of a child before?that he found it difficult to make the advances toward her that he had contemplated. She came into the room quietly and composedly, her little ' paleface resolutely set agaiust betraying the ; agitation she felt, and going directly up to j him, held out her small hand without raising j her eyes to his face. "My dear Alice?my poor little motherless girl!" he said, in a husky voice, and then he j stood holding the hand 111 nis, uncertain wuat to say or do next. If she had wept, or given i way to any natural expression of grief, he could have taken her in his arms and comfort: ed her, as he would have done his own Rosa 1 or Fanny ; but this self-contained, undemoni strativc manner puzzled him, and, to say the truth, disappointed him, too. He stroked her hair, silently, noticing with pain, as he did j so, how thin and shabby her clothing looked, j and resolved to have her completely fitted out with a comfortable wardrobe, as soon as : possible, after they reached home. Then lie turned, with relief, to Mrs. Shaw, who came i into the room to ask him if he would not take i some breakfast, without further delay. "Will you come to the table with me, Alice?" he asked, kindly; but she told him ' that she had finished her breakfast, and then slipped away up stairs by herself again. Ncar, | ly all day she keptaloof from him, though he ; tried to win her to a nearer acquaintanceship. She could not open her heart to him yet, though she felt secretly drawn to him, and was sure, reading his face with a child's un! erring instinct, that in him she would find a i kind and true friend. At last the hour for their departure came, ;; and she found lierselt witn mm on me ours, i being whirled rapidly in the direction of her new home. He had provided her with some , j fruit and a package of sweets to beguile the ,: tedium of the journey; but of these she scarcei ly partook. She sat beside him, silent and ,1 quiet as ever, listening with apparently but little interest to the various items of informai tion he gave her concerning the members of the household she was about to enter. "There's your cousin Rosa, Alice; she'll 1- - ? 1 oorntm ?I /\n ?.ului'a lllftt IUUKC y U11 U ll'ill ni^o \>WIH|>U1I1UI1 uiivu about your age and size. Fanny's younger, but she's up to all Rosa's plays; and Carry i i isn't above joining them either, though she's ; twelve and a half years old. They are a [ I inerry set, as you'll soon find out. They won't , let any one feel lonesome or dull very long. .; And you'll go to school with them, you know, and have all the books and amusements they 11 have; and you'll soon be just like a sister to them, and they'll be just as fond of you as ;; they are of one another." 1 1 Alice mentally wondered what sort of per son her aunt might be, but of her he said never a word. Early in the morning, they arrived at the station where they were to get out, and where a light wagon was in readiness to convey them to the farm. A half hour's drive brought them thither, and Alice saw a low, picturesque looking house, surrounded by trees and fences, with a garden in front and an orchard and some fields in the rear. Children of various sizes appeared to be swarming at all the doors and windows, and one little curly-headed girl ran out to meet her father, and sprang with boisterous glee into his arms. Mr. Fielding led the way into the house, and as his wife advanced toward the door, he drew Alice forward and placed her hand in hers. "This is our new daughter, Caroline," he said, cheerfully. But Mrs. Fielding's greeting was not warm, and the brief touch of her lips on Alice's brow sent a chill of disappointment to the little stranger's aching heart. CHAPTER III. ALICE GETS ACQUAINTED WITH HER NEW RELATIVES. "I suppose you're both ready for breakfast," said Mrs. Fielding, when the various greetings had been exchanged. "Lay your things down on that table, child ; you can take them up stairs by and by. My ! How white you look I" she exclaimed, as Alice, removing her hat, afforded a full view of her face; "have you been sick ?" "No, ma'am." "She's tired and used up, I reckon," said Mr. Fielding, laying a kind hand on her head. "Country air and country fare will soon bring roses to her cheeks again. Come in to breakfast, little one, and let's see what appetite you can find for your aunt's biscuits and corn-cakes. They're worth eating, I can tell you." Alice silently followed into .the next room, where a tempting-looking meal awaited them. Mrs. Fielding was a capital house-keeper, and prided herself on her cookery ; and though there was a sable genius who was supposed to preside over the culinary department, the mistress' active spirit would not suffer her to leave it entirely to her care. White, puffy biscuits and breads of various descriptions, fried chicken, and crisp, curly slices of bacon, " ' i v...* tresn eggs, ana nuge goDieis ui ueuuiuuo umter-milk, looked sufficiently appetising to tempt the weary Alice, who was really in need of refreshment; for she had eaten scarcely enough for a bird during the last three or four days, and was worn out with excitement and fatigue. Her uncle kept piling fresh supplies on her plate, nor was Mrs. Fielding deficient in her attention to her wants; and though she found it impossible to accomplish as much as they seemed to desire, she managed to make a good meal, and felt considerably the better for it. Her cousins, meanwhile, stared at her in the intervals of eating, especially the younger ones, who seemed to regard her as a natural curiosity of some sort, which had come among them. Charley i and Bob being the most expeditious of the party, finished their meal first, and slipped off into the parlor, where they prowled around the table on which Alice's parcels had been deposited, and sought, by peeping, to discover their contents, having a suspicion that their father had supplied her with something nice on the way. "I bet this is candy," said Bob, feeling one package with his finger. "Do you think she will give us any, Charley?" "If she ain't very mean, she will," said his brother. "What a funny looking bundle this is! Oh, Bob, do look ! It's a bonnet! What a queer old thing. I wonder if it's her Sunday rig." And as the paper, which was not very securely fastened, came open, Charley found it impossible to resist the temptation to "have some fun," and perching the bonnet on his head, walked up to a lookingglass which hung between the windows, to contemplate the effect. It was certainly comical enough, and the young gentleman was so delighted with his appearance, and the applause of his devoted follower and admirer, Bob, that he commenced parading up and down and assuming various fantastic attitudes, to display himself to the best advantage, and was quite unconscious of the approach of some of the party from the breakfast-room, until a shout of laughter from Bob, in which the others joined, made him look round. He caught sight of Alice in the doorway, and attempted to snatch his head-gear off, but he had tied the strings under his chin, and they slipped into a knot; and though he tugged at ; it with a very red face he could not get it ! loose. Alice stood for a moment perfectly motion: less, and her face grew deathly white. Then j in a sudden fury, she rushed forward with di) lated and flashing eyes, and struck the ofl'eni der a violent blow. She could not help it? 1 the spectacle had proved too much for her ' equanimity. To see her mother's bonnet that ! she had so carefully guarded, and brought ! away to secure it against all risk of unholy J handling, thus pulled about by a rude boy | and laughed at by the rest! Every drop of j her blood seemed to boil over at what, in the : first moment of passion, appeared to her like a deliberate and cruel insult, instead of the idle prank of a mischief-loving urchin, who of course had not the smallest idea of the tenderness of her associations with the object of his fun. "I say ! you hit too hard ; you are a mean, I spiteful thing," said Charles, as, having sucj ceeded in ridding himself of his encumbrance, | he rubbed his shoulder with a wry face But | Alice did not heed him. Trembling from head 1 to foot, she smoothed and straightened the j bent and ill-used bonnet, which was certainly not improved by the rough treatment it had | just received; and,still holding it in her hand, | made her exit by the front door, not knowing j and not caring whither she went, so as she could only escape from the presence of her tormentor. ~ "Charley, you ought to be ashamed of your! self," said Carry, who, though she had laughed with the others at first, felt very sorry that Alice should be vexed and offended on her ' first arrival in their midst. "How could you ! make fun of her things in that way ?" , "Goodness, sis, was that old thing really hers ? It was too big for me, I know. Oh ! I hope she'll wear it on Sunday. Won't the ; folks at meeting stare!" | "You had no business to meddle with it, anyhow," said Carry; and leaving the culprit | to explain the state of affairs to their mother, ! who just then made her appearance on the i scene, to inquire into the cause of the "racket," she went off in search of Alice, whom, after j some difficulty, she discovered under a tree in the orchard, where she lay on the ground with her face buried in her arms, sobbing as if her heart would break. With many persuasive words she succeeded, at length, in somewhat quieting her excitement, and inducing her to j listen to herexplauation, that indeed, Charley ! had meant no harm, that he dearly loved ! pluying tricks, and would have served any ; of their things in the same way, if he had i got a chance. "If it had been mine, I wouldn't care," sobbed Alice, whose overcharged heartfelt the j need of relieving itself of part of its burden, and could not but respond to Carry's sympathy and kindness. "Wasn't it yours?" asked the latter, in surprise. "No?it was my mother's?she always wore it?" and breaking down again, in an agony I of grief, she wept so violently that her cousin, ' almost frightened at the display of such ex cesslve emotion, scarcely knew what to say to , comfort her. "Charley didn't know?he never would have done it," she pleaded. "Don't cry so, 1 Alice! You can't tell how sorry I am.' i After a while the child's agitation subsided, I and she gradually grew calm agaiu. The i outbreak, violen.t as it was, bad done her good ; but she felt humbled and ashamed at the j anger she had first displayed, and resolved to make amends for it in the best way she could. ' So when they went back into the house, she ! advanced directly toward Charley, who, with I his hands in his pockets, was staring someI what sullenly out of the window, and said in a low tone, but without any reluctance or : hesitation? "I am very sorry I got so angry with you, ! and I beg your pardon ; I won't do so any : more." "Oh! that's all right," said Charley, awkwardly. aud coloring as he spoke with min I gled sheepishness and surprise. He had very j little notion of how to accept an apology ' gracefully, which, indeed, is oftentimes harder | than to make one. It made him more ashamed I of himself than he would otherwiso have been, but it touched him nevertheless, and gave him a kindly feeling toward Alice, whom he inwardly resolved never to plague again?if he could possibly help it. Alice quickly decided upon Carry as her favorite among her cousins. She was good| humored and pretty, and very considerate, usually exerting herself to keep peace among the juniors, and seldom appearing ruffled, even when their insubordination whs at its height and her mother's temper at its warmest. Rosa and Fanny were terrible romps, quite as bad as their brothers, and quite as formidable to the shy new-comer, who shrank from their boisterous mirth. Then came Frank, Susy and the baby, all more or less spoilt and self-willed, though not really bad or ill-tempered children, only needing a little judicious management, which their mother could not find time to give them. Mrs. Fielding was always in a hurry, and accomplished wonders in the way of domestic labors and housewifery, but the real guidance of the children lay in their father's hands, and though his sway was of the gentlest, they yielded to it more readily ?? A- nn/l/lAn on/] nnnortoin I UliUl LU LI1C1I LiJULliCI a OUUUCll auu uuuv/i iu>u assaults, which were more likely to provoke resistance than incite them to obedience. All but the four younger children attended a school some two miles distant, and Alice was to go with them as soon as she should be suitably equipped. In the meantime she rei mained in the house, trying to get familiar ; with her new surroundings, and employing ! herself in unpacking her trunk and arranging her simple possessions in order, in the little J chamber which was allotted to her in common with Carry and little Susy, who was chiefly under her sister's care. Her aunt hunted up an old black dress of her own, which she said could be altered for her to wear in common, until a proper wardrobe could be provided for her; and Alice grew in her favor when she discovered that she was quite an adept at her needle, an accomplishment in which even her eldest girl was decidedly deficient. So the dress was cut out and Alice sat down patiently to work at it, satisfied to have some occupation which was a sort of safeguard from the romping attacks of her little cousins, though her tears fell silently on it from time to time as the recollection came into her mind for what purpose it was being made. With quick perception she had discovered from the first that her arrival was not welcome to Mrs. Fielding; and painful as the discovery was, it ir.s>;+os1 liar f/-> twin oa far aa loir in hpr nnivfir. 1UVIICU ilti It\J H ill Avmm V.U -??j ... J , by her good conduct, at least a portion of that lady's favor and regard. She succeeded so well, that when her uncle came in to lunch, | his wife informed him that she seemed a very j well-behaved child, and gave no trouble so far, : and she thought she could be handy about the house. Mr. Fielding was gratified at the report of Alice's behavior, but would have preferred seeing her engaged in a game of play, or out-door exercise with the othei children. However, he knew his wife's disposition too well to irritate her by any untimely suggestions, and held his peace for the presi ent, only resolving inwardly to keep an eye to ] his little niece's interests and not allow her to be imposed upon. At lunch, which was made a regular meal ; on account of the children's unfailing appe5 tites, Alice became acquainted with a member j of the family whom she had not before seen. This was no less a personage than uncle Brainj erd, who was seated in his arm-chair, in the ' 1 1 1 ---4. J a1_ _ j cnimney corner, wnen ene entereu mw ruuut. "Is that the child ?" he asked his niece, who 1 answered in the affirmative. "Come here, child," he said, addressing Alice, who somewhat timidly obeyed, for she did not like his sharp voice and abrupt manner, and advancing slowly toward him, she stood with down cast eyes in front of his chair. "Well!" he said, in the same quick way, "can't you look up ?" Reluctantly, Alice raised her eyes, and encountered a keen, but not unkind gaze from a pair of restless, twinkling little black orbs, that peered at her from beneath shaggy, grey brows. "So your name is Alice, is it ? Pretty name, too. How old are you ?" "Nine and a half, sir." I "Nine and a half, eh? You don't look it. II suppose you don't know who I am, do you ?" "No, sir." "I'm uncle Brainerd. You're no kin to me that I know of, but I'm uncle for all the rest, so you may as well call me so, too?if you choose, that is." Alice thought, secretly, that she would mnrh rnthnr tint. hilt, of course, she Said nothing. "That will do," said the old man, nodding ! his head at her, and she took her place at the table, glad enough to be released from his j questions and scrutiny. She did not know J then, that before long, she would discover i uncle Braiuerd to be one of her best friends ; | she only saw in him now a crabbed-looking 1 little old gentleman, whose manner was even more sharp and disagreeable than her aunt's. After lunch Mr. Fielding quietly bid Alice to get her bonnet and come out with him in ! the field. The other children clamored to go ; too, and so the whole noisy troop set out, ex: cept the baby, who stayed at home and tumbled about over the kitchen floor, laying its hands on everything within its reach and getting in everybody's way, until picked up and tied in a high chair by his mother, where : he sat and kicked and cried until he fell 1 asleep. Mrs. Fielding was not in an amiable mood. Sh a rather resented her husband's taking summary possession of Alice, whom she had expected to stay at home and sew, or at | least put away her work before she did any' - - ? ? II 1 .1 ? thing else, and sne nuuaiea up me "liner, 1 as she called it, and thrust it impatiently out } of sight, declaring that it was a nuisauce, af| ter all, to have strange children around ; for | they were sure to put everything out of or1 der and give one double trouble. The country was new to Alice, and her heavy heart grew lighter under the influence ' of its healthful atmosphere and cheerful scenes. Her intimacy with her uncle proI gressed, too, during the walk, and while Fanny, j Frank and Susy raced and chased each other ' about, making the air resound with their ! noisy merriment, she walked soberly by his side, holding his hand, while she answered his kind questions, and responded more freely than she had done yet to his efforts to establish I himself in her confidenae. She came home looking the better and brighter for her little ' excursion, and with a faint tinge of color in her cheeks, which had been an 100 paie oefore. At four o'clock in the afternoon, her cousins came trooping home from school, Bob clamoring for dinner, Charley and Rosa quarreling over a broken slate, and Carry serenely endeavoring to restore order among the turbulent band. Noise and confusion speedily took the place of the quiet, or rather com' parative quiet, that had reigned during the | afternoon in the household, nor did it subside until the whole party were seated at the table, 1 where they found sufficient vent for their en ; ergy in supplying tne demands or tneir ciamJ orous appetites. The meal over, the boys i took themselves off to the barn, the younger ! children assembled, with their toys, in the sitting room, Mr. Fielding went to look after out-door affairs, uncle' Brainerd dozed in his chair with a silk handkerchief over his head, Carry assisted her mother in washing up and putting to rights, and Alice betook herself to a window ip a solitary corner, whence she gazed soberly out at the surroundings of her new home, and indulged in retrospections of her past, and anticipations of her future life. I When it grew dark, the scattered members ? the family assembled, as usual, in the'jiarlor, where the juniors were required to be on their good behavior. Candles were lit, and after a light supper of tea and bread and butter, Mrs. Fielding's never-empty basket of undarned hose was produced, with which she occupied herself, tfhile her husband read the newspaper aloud. Thus the evening passed until bed time, and so ended Alice's first day at Berry T7* r ui hi. [to be continued next week.] STAY WHERE YOU ARE. One of the greatest drawbacks to Southern prosperity is the restive, roving, and unsettled spirit of the people. Each one imagines that there is an El Dorado somewhere, or that some section is more prosperous than his own, V and there he may accomplish almost anything. The idea unsettles him, and if he does not "pull up," and migrate at once, he is forever thinking about it, and neglects to improve his present home and farm. This delusion has been wide-spread since the war, and much individual disaster has beeD the result. | The curse of Reuben seems to rest upon the i people. That terrible "Texas fever," which so raged a few years ago, caused untold fami! ly misfortunes, and ruined many excellent farms and good farmers. ^ It is a great mistake. Contentment is the great secret of life. Old Horace struck the right key when he said : "Happiness depends not upon place nor climate, but upon the state of one's mind." "Rolling stones gather I no moss," and the experiment of selling out I and moving, in the hope of bettering the con| dition, often ends in bitter disappointment ! and irretrievable loss. Thousands in the South can testify, from experience, to the truth of this assertion. Better stay where you are. If you are in a good community, and your lands have bot- i torn, drive down your pegs and locate. Remember that "there's more in the man than the land," as old Jones said on returning from Texas, after terrible failures, to the old wornout homestead he had sold, and found it blooming like a garden. Right-up the old dwellings, renew the outbuildings, palings, fences, and barns; spend a few dollars in white paint, and give the premises an air of cheerfulness. Cultivate less ground, and make it richer every year. Make plenty to eat and some to sell, and let your cotton crop be clear profit. Plant fruit trees, have your rye, oats, barley, wheat and clover patches, fine horses, fat cows, and rich butter. Give your wives and daughters flower-gardens, and assist them in collecting a good assortment of roots and cuttings. Do these simple things, and, our word for it, your homes will take new hold upon your affections, and, instead of the rickety, dilapidated establishments and solemn, hungry-looking countenances so commou in our country, we will find comfortable and inviting homes, where all is love, contentment, and happiness. It will be like a Colchian enchantress infusing new juices into the veins for the prolongation of life and youth. Try it. Turn over a new leaf and begin anew. Fear God, love your neighbors, your wives and children, and don't trv to set rich in one w" ? I " " if u year. Teach your little ones to love their homes. There is a world of melody and senment in that immortal old ballad, "Mid pleasures and palaces, where'er we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." Of all the amusements that can possibly be imagined for a working man, after daily toils, or in the intervals, there is nothing like reading a newspaper or a book. It calls for no bodily exertion, of which already he has had enough, perhaps too much. It relieves his home of dullness and sameness. Nay, it accompanies him to his next day's work, and gives him something to think of besides the mechanical drudgery of his every day occupation; something he can enjoy while absent, and look forward to with much pleasure. If I were to pray for a taste which would stand by me under every variety of circumstances, and be a source of happiness i and cheerfulness to me through life, and a shield against all ills, however things might go amiss, and the world frown upon me, it would be a taste for reading. Success in Life.?To grow rich is not to make more money, but to spend less. If one is not accumulating money as fast as he thinks . > he ought, the remedy in nine cases out of ten j is not greater exertion to make money, ! but greater care to save it. Indeed, he j who saves money systematically, putting away a part, even though it be a small part, ; of each week's or each day's earnings, is rich already. His means exceed his necessities, and that is wealth always. If people generally would conduot their affairs on the principle above inculcated, there would be comparatively little business anxiety, and much ^ greater comfort and happiness in the household. Remember.?Whatever you wish your children to be, be it yourself. If you wish them to be happy, healthy, sober, truthful, i affectionate, honest, and moral, be yourself j all these. If you wish them to be lazy aud sulky and liars and thieves and drunkards < ! and swearers, be yourself all these. As the A old cock crows, the young one learns. You 1 will remember who said, "Train up a child in 1 the way he should go, and when he is old he } will not depart from it." And you may, as a general rule, as soon expect to gather grapes from thorns or 6gs from thistles as to get good, healthy, happy children from diseased, lazy aud wicked parents. + + Dishonest Means in Living.?President Lincoln used to say that the volume of people pouring into Washington, in search of "some- * thing for nothing," led him to fear that seven-eighths of our population of the country were trying to live off the other eighth. This would be a discouraging view of society; but it does seem as though a very large fraction of our people was attempting to get a dishonest living at the expense of the honest portion. It doesn't cost near as much to take a newspaper as it does to keep a yellow dog Still there are lots of people too poor to take a paper who have a dozen worthless dogs on their premises.