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lewis m. grist, proprietor. J |nbepeniitnt ^amitg ftetospapcr: -Jor tjje ^romation of tjje |lolrticaI, Social, ^.gritultaral anir Commercial Interests of t|e Sontj). | TERMS?$3.00 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE. "VOL. 21. YORKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, OCTOBER 15. 1875. 3STO. 41. Original foctrn. THOUGHTS AT PARTING. BY WHO? Farewell my love, if we must part; And should we never meet again, Remember you have stole my heart, And in its place left naught but pain. Yet at this theft I'll murmur not, For that would grieve you much I know; Still by thy charms I'm sure 'twas caught, Whan baflied reason let it go. <'1 Then pitv me, while here through time, Alone 1 wander from your view Without a heart, and give me thine, And then my own may stay with you. Oh ! that would give a thrill to life, And make new joys for me to know I had an angel for my wife, Compared with others here below. A being of superior worth? A perfect model in every way, No one more perfect, on the earth, Yet growing better, day by day. With voice as sweet as music's chime, And ever happy as she's gay; An iiu>?rnuHnn nil nuhlime? A paragon in every way. A guiding star for all the earth, Who by her love and purity Adorns her life with modest'worth? Strong faith and ardent piety. Who's presence brightens every scene, And joy goes with her every where; An angel for life's troubled dream, And a specific for despair. I've wandered far beneath the skies, And have seen much that gave delight; But no other being I could prize Like her?who's always right! Then is it strange, that I should start, And shrink back with shuddering pain, To meet the hour, when we must part, Never, no never, to meet again ? Say, can you, will you, not consent To give me your'hand and all your heart, And live in love, till life be spent, And death our blended beings part? I ask no other boon but this; I crave thy heart and naught beside, Except it be the nuptial kiss, And after that to call thee bride! Ah ! that would heighten all thy charms, And render them more dear to me; While circling round thy waist my arms, Should bind inc, heart and soul, to thee.' Oh! yes, I'd ever cling, a friend, Adda, still true in heart to thee, > Till time with both should have an end, And then throughout eternity ! Greensboro, N. C. ?rijjwal ^totg. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. Sleepy Hollow. CHAPTER IV. A CURE FOR MELANCHOLY. Next morning Dr. Wardlaw bade us farewell ; and it was with a dreary feeling that I turned into the house, after watching hiui ride away from the front porch, and went about my household duties as usual. These were simple and few enough, for my father would not have me trammeled by domestic cares, and our servants were numerous and admirably trained. I paid a daily visit to the store-room, where I held a consultation with old Auut Patty, the cook, and gave out a sufficiency of flour, sugar, eggs, etc., for culinary purposes. Sometimes I tried my hand at a pudding or a cake, or experimented (often unsatisfactorily) on some new-fashioned recipe in a French cookery-book with which I had provided myself; and this, in addition to the charge of a jingling bunch of keys, which was sometimes in my pocket, sometimes in a drawer, and occasionally on the floor or in possession of the cat, constituted the chief part of the responsibility which rested on my shoulders. On this particular day, having annoyed Auut Patty by expressing my total indifference in regard to the dinner, and dimissing her to her own devices accordingly, I took a fancy to pay a visit to the chamber Dr. Wardlaw had occupied?the guest chamber, as we called it?just to see, as I told myself, whether the maid had put it in proper order. Everything looked trim, and\ieat, and deserted. Who does not know the feeling o) going into a room which a friend has occupied, after his or her departure, and missing the presence which iuvested even the dumb furniture with its own charm ? Here, on the day after Dr. Wardlaw's arrival, he had received us with an invalid's privilege, while he lay on the sofa, feeling too languid to go down stairs. A book he had borrowed from the library was on the table; I took it up, and turned over the leaves lingeringly, recalling passages here and there which we had discussed together. The past week, which had glided by so quickly, seemed to me to be fraught with the events of a year. I felt chauged,and older, as if ray past frivolous,giddy self had given place to another being; and when I looked in the glass, though its surface reflected no outward alteration, I could hardly realize that I was the same careless Rosamond who had prepared so joyously for her birthday celebration, a few short days before. I was turiug away from the dressing-table, after petulantly throwing out of the wiudow some flowers I had placed there in a vase on the previous morning, when I espied lying in a nofnor a atrial) nuoo T K?rl nnt nhaprupfl hp. fore, evidently containing a picture. I opened it, aud saw that it was a miniature?the likeness of a youug and very pretty girl. I looked at it long and earnestly. The face was bright and sweet in its expression, with a brunette complexion, vividly, yet delicately colored, laughing brown eyes, full red lips, a childlike chin, deeply dimpled, and dark brown hair clustering in short curls about the low white brow. Could it be s likeness of Dr. Wardlaw's dead wife? Il did not look to me like a face that would have written itself lastingly on his heart. 1 should have fancied that he would be won by something higher, deeper, more serious in its sweetness. There was do thought on that pic turesque forehead, no earnestness of purpose about those curved, ripe lips; nothing to de note a bond of sympathy with his calm deep nature and reflective mind. Still I could nol i doubt that it was indeed his wife's likeness I recalled his words?"one who passed frorc earth unshaken by a single storm ; a flowei upon whom the wind had never blown witf rough breath." Yes, she looked like such a one. No cloud of adversity could ever have cast its shadow upon those arch, insouciant girlish features. I could not imagine a quivei of distress on that Hebe mouth, or tears ol sorrow in those sparkling eyes. "I wonder how he came to leave it here,' I reflected'; and ringing the bell I asked the girl who had attended to the room where she found that picture. "I pick it up, on the floor, Missy ; I spec he must be drop out some pocket when de gentleman was packin' his clothes. Does you know whose picter it is, Miss Rosamond ?" "No; I never saw it before." "She's a mighty pretty little gal, whoever | she is," was the sable damsel's admiring com raent, "I spec't is de doctor's daughter." "Don't be stupid?he has no daughter," I ; rejoined. "Go about your business, Jane." j "His daughter, indeed," I muttered to myself. "Any one would suppose him to be as ; old as Methusaleh. And papa spoke of him i in the same way, too. But I don't think this wife of his could have died recently. No doubt ' she only lived for a short time after their mar, riage; and probably he married very young? i twelve or fifteen years ago." i I leaned my elbows on the dressing-table, and with the picture open before me, compared it with the reflection of my own face in the glass. "As different as possible," was my comi ment. "Of course, if this is the style he ad mires, he could not think me pretty in the i least. Yellow hair?blue eyes?pinkcheeks? no curls and no dimples. Heigh-ho! I always did wish I had dark hair." I I felt an indescribable reluctance to showi ing the picture to ray father, and listening to any farther comments on it; but it was necessary that steps should be taken for its restoration to its rightful owner, so down stairs I i took it accordingly. "Papa, here's a picture Jane found in Dr. Wardlaw's room," said I, placing it in his hands. "I suppose be left it by mistake." "A picture, eh ?" said papa, adjusting his eye-glass to inspect it. "A miniature?a likeness, of course. Ah! a very pretty face?remarkably pretty. Don't you think so?" "Extremely pretty," said I, briefly. "Perhaps it is our friend's lady-love," sugi gested papa. "Though I own I should not I have suspected him to be a victim of the ten i der passion." "I thought it might be his wife," said I. My father looked surprised, "His wife!" j he repeated. "I did not know he was a married man." "I did not mean that his wife was living now," I explained. "I thought he might be a widower. I fancied, from something that he i said one day, that he had been married. Of j course, though, I do not know anything about j it. You'll Bend this after him, won't you ! papa?" I "Certainly; I shall send it to his address? | he lef^t here, somewhere, written on au en| velope?Oh! here it is, in my portfolio. You can write a neat label for me, Rosy, and I will put up the package at once, and let James take it to the post-office." "I'll copy it up stairs," said I, carrying it off to ray own room. My father called to roe to say that there was plenty of paper and pens down there; but it did not suit me to heed him. I had reasons of my own for taking it to copy in private. I wrote the address, in my very best hand, on a piece of paper, as I i had been desired; then slipped the original into j ray desk. As I had foreseen, no iuquiry was made regardiug it. It was an easy enough j address to remember, and papa, having desi patched the little package, gave himself no farther trouble about the matter. "Dr. Arthur Wardlaw, Union C. H., Union Dist., S. C." There was certainly j nothing talisraanic in these few words; but no 1 talisman could have been more carefully 1 j guarded than I guarded the empty envelope ? i on which they were written. I admired the j bold, firm handwriting, free from the affecta' ' a :_u 1 ,i u* :* .??? | tion 01 a SUlgie Iiourisu, auu uiuugm it nu I characteristic of the writer. In fuct ,1 thought ' a great many things about it that were very silly?at least I suppose they would seem so 1 to me now. But, silly or not, the envelope 1 was kept?and what is more, I have it to this day ; for I found it not long ago, in turn! ing over the coutents of an old portfolio, and had not the heart to destroy it, thinking of these romantic fancies of my girlhood which , were woven around it. The picture was sent, but we heard nothing of it for some time; for Dr. Wardlaw, it '; seams, did not go directly home from our place. At last, however, came a note from 1 him?very courteous, but very brief?in acknowledgement of its receipt. "I)kar Sir:?On my return home last evening, > my housekeeper delivered me the package kindly forwarded oy you, containing a picture accidentally left at your house. Please accept my , thanks'for vour attention. My health is quite restored, though I am feeling a little fatigued this morning from the effects of my iourney. I trust you and your daughter ' are both well. Present my sincere regards to the I latter; and with the assurance of my warm friend! ship and esteem, and grateful remembrance of : your past kindness, I remain, dear sir, ' | Very truly yours, AUTHOR VVakdlaw." 1 I was absurdly disappointed at the absence i of any special message to vie. I did not care : about his sincere regards, so formally sent; ; withoutany allusion, however trivial, to the so; cial intercourse between us. As if the writer fatigued from traveling, and with, no doubt, , iinportaut matters to engross his thoughts, could spare the time to invent messages to such an unimportant personage as myself, i Perhaps, I thought, he would write again some day, when he was more at his ease and leisure ; and I kept lookiny auxiously for the ? mail-bag every moruing, and watching papa from my post of observation, behind the teai urn, as he received his letters and examined , their contents. But no letter came,-or any farther sign that he cherished a remembrance 1 of the intimacy which had been established 1 between us, during his sojourn at our house, i or that he contemplated any renewal of it in i; the future; and I poudered, sadly enough, on t j the mutability of all thiugs human, and took 1 ! to reading woful romances to beguile the time. ! J That was a long, dull summer?the dullest r j I ever remembered in my life. Papa noticed ?, my listlessness, and commented on it some j times, asking me if anything was wrong ; but > i I always had an excuse ready, in the heat, or | a headache, or some other passing cause. I Kl?? mn oa!/1 UAtnnno>* thot of I YVIta SU uun&c my uiu ocn, uuncici, ihul uv t | last he made up his mind that something . ; must be done to brighten me up, and oue day i ; he startled me by an unexpected announce ment. i i "Rosy, my child, I am going to send you i away." ; "Send me away, papa !" I echoed. "What , in the world do you mean ?" j "Just what I say. I won't have you mofi piug here any longer. You are not like ray own cheerful little Rosy at all, aud I have ' | come to the conclusion that you need a change > i of some kind. So I have arranged for you !1 to go to the Springs, with your aunt Mabel, ' for a few weeks. Your cousin Ellen will go, ! I too." i "To the Springs !" I exclaimed, gleefully, i my animation quite restored, at least for the time, by this piece of news. "Oh! how nice. What made you think of such a charming i plan, papa ? , What Springs are we going to ?j And when will we start ?" i "I have already told you what made me ; think of this charming plan. You are going : ! to the Virginia Springs, and will start in a fortnight's time." "But you are going with us, are you not ?" ! "No, it does not suit me to leave home just ! now, and your aunt, you know, is an expe-! ! rienced traveler. I will probably go on for J | you,, when you are ready to come home., Come,; make up a list of everything you want, I | and let me have it at once. You have no j time to lose, if you are to have dresses made,; and all that sort of thing." "Is the list to be unlimited, papa?" "I leave the limits to your discretion." "Was there ever such a delightful father?" j I did not feel competeut to make my ar-, rangeinents without the aid and advice of; I more mature judgment than mine, so I lost | no time in seeking my aunt and godmother, ' I and enlisting her kindly offices in my behalf. In a few moments her ready pencil had jotted down all the necessary items; and I was a little disappointed to see my soaring visions circumscribed to one large trunk and a hat box, aud six new dresses instead of two dozen. "Six are a plenty, ray dear, especially as ; three are to be white; white always washes j well, and looks prettier thau anything else. ! What in the world would you do with twenty-four new gowns when you came back home?" Aunt Mabel was a little old-fashioned in ! some of her expressions, and always said i "gowns" iustead of "dresses." "Wear them, of course," said I; but her good sense carried the day, and saved the ' j wits of the village dressmakers. Ellen Vin- j I cent, who was used to traveling, and took ; I everything as a matter-of-course, was rather j 1 amused at ray excitement, and my extrava-1 gant ideas concerning all the circumstances of j j our anticipated jaunt. As Elleu is to play a somewhat prominent part in this recital, it may not be out of place ! to describe her here. She was not really my cousin, being the daughter of my aunt Ma- j . bcl's husband by his first marriage; but my aunt having no children of her own, and re-! : ceiving her step-daughter, as a very young j child, into the depths of her warm affection, J . she had always been looked upon as one ofi our own family, and we had grown up to- j gether like sisters. There was a difference ofj i three years in our ages, but there might have 1 ; been ten years' difference, judging from her ' ; superior wisdom and stability. I was flighty, | | impulsive, wayward ; she was calm, deliber- j | ate, inflexible. As children, she was forever , j pulling me out of the scrapes into which I I | was forever falling ; but I had to testify my j i gratitude by enduring with patience the most | I tedious lectures imaginable, which she was | | sure to inflict upon me after each of these oc- j currenees. She was fond of laying down the 1 ' law in small matters, and I, to save trouble, ; usually submitted to her dictum, though I i found it irksome sometimes. At school she always received good marks for her lessons, | whilst I was invariably imperfect in mine? J aud as for deportment, no Quaker could i ! have been more prim or decorous than she, whilst unlucky I, with my fondness for 1 mischief and my irresistible sense of fun, was called up twenty times a day for breakiug i the rules. "Rosamond, I blush for you," she would say, pointing to the formidable list of | j "black marks" which my week's report too I I often exhibited. "It's horrid, Nelly, I know," ! | I would reply penitently, and make a dozen ! good resolutions, only to break them again as j soon as temptation offered. If my dress got: ! torn in romping during recess, she would pro-! ! duce her work-bag and mend it, carefully | j pointing out to me, during the operation, the i | extreme impropriety of my conduct. If I j ! lost my pencil or mislaid a book, she would ; j supply the deficiency, but always with a! | grave reproof. Thus I learned, in a great J ; measure, to look up to her and rely upon her | j as a support and stand-by, while at the same i j time I chafed a little under the bondage iu j i which she held me. My godmother cousid-! j ered her an excellent companion for me, and ' often held her up as a model whom I would 1 do well to imitate; but try as I would, I | ' knew I never could become so steady, so pru- j ! dent, or so cold, as my admirable cousin El! len, and therefore never made the attempt. ; iirv ... i i i I w 11 at we iiiiu ueen as cuuureii, we uuuwuucu | to be when we grew up, except that she lec- j tured rae seldomer, and generally confiued j her disapproval of my follies to serious silence j I and critical looks. But she maintained her ; j ascendancy over me, and as she was born j with a propensity to rule, and I with a pro- j j pensity to yield, we got on excellently well ; I together, and seldom had any disputes. There was one person who did not greatly . admire her, and that wa3 my father. He j | thought his Rosy, with all her imperfections, , infinitely her superior ; but that may safely j be set down as an instance of his partiality, i i He placed great confidence in Ellen in some j respects, however, and never made any ob- j | jection to our intimacy ; indeed my aunt, who , ' loved me like her own child, would have been , I very much hurt had he done so, and my days , j were almost as frequently at her house as at I our own. | Nothing happened to place any obstacle in j the way of our departure, and on the appoint! ed day we set out, my father accompanying ; us to the railroad station, and bidding me ! good-by with many cautions to behave with j discretion, and mind all that my godmother said. 1 V I j "That means that you are not to flirt, Iiosa-: mond," said Ellen. "Flirt! No danger of my flirting," I said | and then I sighed a genuine sigh, for at that ; moment my thoughts reverted to Dr. Ward- . j law. "Sighing, Rosamond!" said auut Mabel, i I "That is a bad way of beginning your jouri ney?you ought to set out with a light heart." \ I "Oh ! my heart is as light as a feather," I | answered. "Sighs don't count for anything? 11 | they are nothing but a breath of wind." ' < Our journey was an uneventful one, though i i to me oue full of interest, for I had traveled I j so little that everything was new and delight- 1 ! ful. Each hour that brought us nearer to ' ! our destination added to my gayety. I was 1 ; insensible to the fatigue of which my com- l j panions complained, aud reached the Springs I as fresh,almost, as when we left home. We took rooms at the Hotel, White '; | Sulphur Springs. It was still early iu the 1 season, and the hotel was not yet full, so that < we succeeded in settling ourselves comfortably i before the influx of visitors arrived, which was, auut Mabel said, a great point gainec Ellen established the rule of getting up at fiv o'clock every morning to go and drink th water at the fountain-head, and prevailed o me at 6rst to accompany her; but in the cours of a few days I begged off, as I preferred th luxury of a morning nap, to the doubtful bee efits which might accrue to me from this un pleasant regimen. CHAPTER V. STEPHEN HOLCOMBE, AGAIN. One morning Ellen and I were saunterinj up and down the hotel piazza, not feeling in dined for either the bowling-alley or the bil liard-roora. We had been up very late th evening before, and were disposed to enjoy ; little interval of repose, without being oblige* to seek it in our own room, which, at tha hour was uncomfortably warm. Two or thre ladies were following our example, and on pale youth, in spectacles, was extended on i settee, regaling hinwelf with a novel. Witl those exceptions we had the piazza to oui selves. Suddenly I perceived a figure that was fa miliar to me, coming rapidly along a patl which led to the frout steps. I looked for i raomeut, doubtfully, fancying I must be mis takeu; but discovering, on a nearer view that my first idea had been correct, I turne< in surprise, to Ellen, exclaiming? "Why, Nelly, there is Stephen Holcorabe!' "What!" cried Ellen, flushing red, as sh looked sharply around. "Nonsense, Rosa mond; you must be joking." "I am certainly not joking," I rejoined.) little mystified by her sudden blush and nerv ous tone. "Dou't you see him yonder by th gate, as plain as daylight?" "Oh ! yes, I believe it is," she replied, witl what appeared to me to be a forced assump tion of her natural manner. "I see him not more distinctly. How odd that he shouh come here." "Very odd, and very disagreeable," said I feeling more vexed than I cared to betray a the unexpected arrivnl of my discarded puitoi "With your leave, Nelly, I'll go in, and leav you to entertain him." I was starting abruptly off, when sh< caught my hand. "Don't go, Rosamond pray," she said, earnestly. "Stay where yoi are." "I don't want to," I answered, strugglinj to release my hand. "I hate to meet him What is the matter with you, Nelly ? Wfy don't you let me go when I want to?" "Because it looks so silly to see you run ning off that way?it looks as if you wen afraid of him. Stay, there's a good child." "I don't care how it looks," I answere< pettishly ; but she held me fast, and, afrai< of his witnessing this little scene, I was force< to remain quiet as he drew near, though in wardly burning with displeasure at wha seemed to'me a most unwarrantable proceed ing on her part. In another moment Stephei Holcombe came up the steps, lifting his ha as he approached us. I felt myself growinj uncomfortably hot, and tried to conceal nv ? i . i :? tJiuuJirraasuieiJL uj assuiuiug au an ui u?v6iu| hauteur; but to my great surprise, as well a relief, he addressed us both in a most eas; and matter-of-fact tone, as if he and I ha< been on the most friendly terms when we las met; scarcely more than looking at me, an* turning directly to Ellen to answer some re mark with which she greeted him. "Did you not expect to find me among th< number of pleasure-seekers here, Miss Vis cent? Well; it was only recently that I madi up ray mind to come. I felt that I needed i little relaxation after study." "What have you been studying, Mr. Hoi combe?" "Law. I have decided on adopting tha glorious profession ; a wise choice, don't yoi thiukso?" "If you have a fancy for it, I suppose it is.1 "I have a fancy that I. will succeed at i better than at anything 'else; so I suppos that ought to determine my choice. Whei did you arrive here?" "About a week ago only." "Shall you remain here long r "As long us we find it pleasant; and you ?' "A9 long as my conscience permits me ti enjoy my holiday." "Very indefiuite," said Ellen, laughing, don't know the dimensions of your conscience Is it very accommodating?" "Oh ! exceedingly so. Its capacity is al most unlimited." "Then it would have been more honest ii you to give me the same answer as I gavi you. "Well, on the principle that 'honesty is thi best policy,' I will adopt your suggestion. . will stay here, like yourselves, as long as . find it pleasant. Is the hotel full ?" "Not quite ; there is a comfortable crowd.' "I am glad I came before there is an un comfortable one. I suppose there is plenty o fun going on ?" "Of the usual sort?yes,"said i^ilen, witn i little shrug. "Dancing, teu-piu playing, wa terdrinking?" "You don't call that fun ?" he interrupte( with a grimace. "It is, rather ; to see the motley crowd, ii every variety of picturesque and unpicturesqui morning attire, surrounding the Spring. Sorw going through the business of drinking witl the most intense gravity and earnestness, a; if it were too solemn a proceeding to be light ly hurried over; some gulping down th< draught in undignified haste, anxious to re turn and finish their morning nap ; some ma king faces at it as if it were raediciue, and try ing to summon resolution to swallow thi nauseous (lose; some laughing and flirting over it?" "To which category do you belong ?" "Oh, to none of those. 1 am one of thos< sober, matter-of-fact individuals who go dowt with a resolution to do ray duty bravely, anc get through it without any unnecessary fuss.' "A principle by which you are no doubl guided in more important matters than water drinking at the spring but I must coufess ; 1 think it an uncalled-for piece of heroism tc rise and take that walk at such an unearthly hour iu the morning." "Rosamond is of your opinion," said El len, for the first time directing an observa tion to me. "I cannot prevail upon her tc break through her usual indolent habits." "Ah! I am glad to find a sympathizer ic you, Miss Rosamond," said Stephen, turning to me with an air of polite good-humor which confounded me. "I see you are not as strongminded as your cousin." "I don't think 'strong-minded' is a very 1.1 complimentary epithet to apply to any lady," JI e 11 answered, coldly. j i e { "In some senses, of course not; but I only < n ; meant it in the Bense of being courageous, in j e | this instance. I am sure Miss Vincent will I i e exonerate me from the suspicion of intending j i- to be uncomplimentary to her. But I see it's : i- a dangerous experiment to flatter one lady at j ' : the expense of another." , i "Flattery is dangerous at all times," said I ' Ellen. i I "Less dangerous to the recipient than the ! 1 ! donor, I think," said I, rather contemptuously, j i g | "How do you make that out ?" questioned ' < Stephen. i f ! "Because, unless the person who receives it 11 e is very weak-minded, it must inspire him or 11 a her with a feeling of?well, I won't say what? 1 but at any rate, an unfavorable estimation of > 1! the character of the person who bestows it." I e : "Why, Rosamond, I did not think you i e j could be so severe," said Ellen. i j ' a i "I stand rebuked," said Stephen, bowing to i 11 i me, still with the same srailmg air. i "Not at all. I was not alluding to you, in I the least," I answered, indifferently. "I I " thought it was merely an abstract question ; ^ for, to tell the truth, I saw nothing flattering ' a or unflattering, in your remarks, to lead to < '* the discussion. Ellen, I have just remera- i '< bered something I wish to consult aunt Mabel 3 about I am afraid I may forget it if I put it ! off till later, so I'll go to her at once." And i with a slight bow to Stephen, J. left the pair 1 e together. I found several causes for surprise in the 1 interview, in which I had just played a part a J First, my former admirer's cool, self-possessed I * I courtesy and indifference of manner toward e I me?a manner to which it had seemed impos- 1 | sible, judging from his past impetuosity, that 1 | he should ever attain. Secondly, Ellen's vi- j " vacious, almost flighty mode of speech, so en* I tirely contrasted to her usual sedateness, al1 j most amounting to formality. Her look of j j evident pleasure, mixed with what seemed to * j be an agreeable sort of embarrassment, when 1 1 ! Stephen spoke to her, and her unwonted blush < ' ; at his approach. Thirdly, the way in which 6 | the two had combined to keep me, in a great < , degree, out of the conversation; at first, to all 11 6 j appearance, nearly ignoring my presence al- j ] I? together! All this was inexplicable to me, 11 1 and I mused, as I slowly ascended the staircase, in no very pleasant state of mind, on the t I singular turn which affairs had taken. I did not c&*eapin for Stephen Holcombe's ( 7 regard. Iu fact, I positively disliked and de- i sired to shun him; and yet (such is the in- 1 - consistency of human nature) I felt now e piqued to discover how easily the impression j of my refusal of his suit had worn off of him, 3 and how quickly he had recovered from the < 3 blow. It slightly lowered my estimation of 1 3 my own importance, and it is never pleasant * to discover that our favor is less appreciated < t by others than we supposed it to be, or that i the withdrawal of it is a matter of small ac- < a count. i t Dismissing these reflections as well as I t I could from my mind, I entered my godmoth- i y er's room with a cheerful air. i % "Where is Ellen, dear?" she asked. i 8 "Down stairs in the piazza, aunty, enter- 1 f taming a gentleman." i waicnea my auni s ; 1 face a little maliciously as I made this state* t ment. She was a strong adherent to the pro* I i prieties of life, and only the previous day I i i* had heard her expressing her disapproval of i young girls carrying on tete a ttte conversae tions with gentlemen?on the appearance of < - anything like a flirtation, as some did, in the e morning hours of the day, when, as she said, ( J they might be better employed ; and I recol- I lect that more than once Ellen had virtuously ? - marched me off into retirement on the ap- J proach of certain agreeable acquaintances of 1 t my own, lest I might be ensnared into some i l such imprudence. t "Who is it?" asked my aunt, with just a c " shade of annoyance in her tone. ? t "Stephen Holcorabe." e "Stephen Holcombel Is he here? When \ a did he come ?" j | "He came to the hotel just a few minutes i i ago. Ellen and I were in the piazza, and he f j came up and spoke to us." \ " I Aunt Mabel said nothing, but drew the 3 i needle she was plying with a little extra e:u- s ergy through her work. Presently she got [ . up aud vveut dowu stairs; aud oot long after t i. reappeared with Ellen, who looked as placid 1 j and imperturbable as ever. i "Your friend has gone, Rosamond," she r | remarked, calmly, i j "J/y friend ! You were much more friend- t a ! ly to him than I was," I rejoined. 1 "I had to exert myself to cover your inciva. ilty; the poor young man seemed embarrass- c [ ed by your cool reception of him." [ "He did not seem to me to be in the least j 1 i embarrassed; and as to my incivility, that | i , would not have been manifest if you had let | s - me come in when I wanted to." j c f Ellen made no reply, but took up some j i work aud composedly commenced talking on i 31 some indifferent subject. 1 Stephen Holcombe took up his quarters at: t a cottage near by, and we saw him every even- t 1 ing in the public dancing-room of the hotel; (1 but beyond this there was little intercourse be- 1 i tween us. My aunt cordially disliked him, ? e' and so did I; and as Ellen generally acquiese [ ced (by silence at any rate) in our remarks I . I -I . L! ..lmn lifl nlmnnml tn ho fhp tnr?if? nf s 1 | IIUUU b II11U micu u? vunuvvu ... .... ..J... | s j conversation, we took it for granted that she | shared our opinion. r i I , One morning I woke very early. I had ( r -, had a restless night, and yet felt indisposed to j c -1 sleep. Ellen was already up, and preparing ; x j for her usual walk to the spring. j t 3 i "Nelly," I said, after watching her for a j I ; i few minutes as she brushed out her long hair,1 s j I believe I'll go down with you this morning; j I I may sleep better after I get back, and I'm ti 3! tired of lying here."- | tl i j "Why, you'll scarcely have time to get tl I ' ready," she replied, consulting her watch as e ' j it lay on the dressing-table. "I will be off in fi t, five minutes." n j "Well, five minutes will do for me. I shall [ only buudle my hair into a net, you know, v > ( Besides, I know you'll be longer than that; a ' j you have your gaiters to lace and everything." s< I "I have on ray gaiters already." b "Oh ! have you ? Well, at any rate, I think a | I can be ready as soon as you ; and if not, I a II suppose you won't mind being detained a n J minute or two." a 11 "Just as you like," was her rejoinder. I ;: fancied that her manner was a little odd. i Could it be, I wondered, that she preferred go- ( - ing without me? I had risen as I spoke, and a was now rapidly dressing; but ootwithstaod- a ' ing ray haste, she had on her hat before my n toilette was complete, and stood watting tor me with an air of sufferance that was a little sxasperatiug. "Do go oa if you want to," I said impatiently. "I don't mind coming alone." "No, i" Will wait." There is certainly something wrong, I thought. I must have unintentionally given some offense. I kept this reflection to myself, however, and completed my preparations in silence. After we had set out, Ellen seemed to recover her good humor, and talked as un-j reservedly as usual; and I came to the con-j elusion that I must have been mistaken in my supposition, and was glad I had said nothing about it, for I always disliked unnecessary sentiment and fuss. I quite enjoyed the little variety of the sarly walk. The air was so fresh and pleasant that it banished my uncomfortable feelings, and on reaching our quarters again I sought my couch and enjoyed the most delightful nap imaginable. I made up my mind to try the specific again the next day ; but I slept later J then than I should have done, and woke to find myself alone. "So! Nelly has left me," I soliloquized. "Never mind, I can easily follow her. I am determined not to be daunted in carrying out my good resolutions." Donning my out-door attire, I sallied forth, feeling myself to be really something of a heroine, and soon reached my destination?but, to my surprise, she was not there. "Have you seen my cousin ?" I asked of a lady, whom I knew very well. "No, I have just come myself; but probably she has been here and left." "It is curious that I did not meet her going borne," said I, looking around in quest of her. "Perhaps she took the other path," sugjested my friend. "Yes, that must have been the way of it. j Well, I shall have to walk home alone, that's I ill. This glass of water for me, Mr. Newton ? j Thanks. I don't know that I can swallow the lorrible stuff, but I'll try, to show ray appreciation of your politeness. "You couldn't take the trouble to come down here without drinking some of the wa;er, you know," said Ben Newton, a cheerful toung Virginian, who was always making limself useful to somebody or other. "I don't know about that. I only came to ,ry the effect of the morning air." "Cultivating your roses, eh ? Well, I am juite a convert now to this plan of early ising; it's capital for the digestion. Did I learyou asking for your cousip, just now?" "Yes ; she came off before me, and I exacted to find her here." "She has been here, and is gone. You will, loubtless, find her on your return to the lotel." "I shall certainly scold her for giving me ;he slip," said I, turning to retrace ray steps is I spoke. I joined a stout, elcferly lady, ? k ?' - !n Cvwln rtO TDQQ f A lYUUSt) (JUJCUt IU UULIJiUg tu i/uo Ljjjiiugo 71 no b\y reduce ber size; and gave her my arm to asiist her up the steep slope, the asceut of which t was difficult for her to accomplish unaided ind alone. My progress homeward was thus lecessarily retarded ; yet when I reached the lotel and ran up to my room, Ellen had not pet returned. 1 was deliberating whether I should return ,o bed or not, when the door opened and she ippeared. She flushed rosy red on seeing me jp and dressed. "You surely have not been out?" she jueried. "Yes, indeed I have?I have been in search >f you. Where in the world have you been jetaking yourself to ? I rushed off to the ipring to And you, and heard you had left. [ dragged Mrs. Potter's ponderosity up the lill, thereby delaying my return fell ten rainites, and came in with words of reproach on ny lips, for your faithless conduct in going >ff without me, and lo! you were missing here ilso." Ellen laughed, and hastily pulled off her vrappings. "Funny, wasn't it? You see, I )rolonged my walk a little; that is how we nissed each other. I found such lovely wild* lowers in a little dell down below there. See, Till they not be nice to press ?" She held out to me a bunch of delicate blosoms, blue, yellow and white. "Oh! charming. You must show rae where hey grow, Nelly. I'd like some for my scrap)ook." "Very well; I'll take you there this afteriooo, if you like," said Ellen, amiably. "Or to morrow morning. You can waken ne early, you know, and we can have a nice ong walk." "What has caused this revolution in favpr >f five o'clock rising?" asked Ellen. "Oh I I don't know ; caprice, I suppose. iTou know I like variety; and I think too nuch sleep is demoralizing. It makes one iluggish. You ought to be glad of the :hange; it gives you a companion in your norning expeditions." "Yes, certainly, dear," said Ellen, smoothy. "But, as to the dell I was speaking of, 1 lon't think that I would care to venture there igain, without some gentleman. Do you know ! forgot to tell you that I saw a dangerousooking snake there, sliding aloDg through the ft jiaso. "Then, nothing shall induce me to go there," ! responded, promptly. "I have a horror of nakes." For two or three days longer, I adhered to ny new plan ; but at the end of that time ay resolution failed me, and I once more de* ided in favor of the morning nap. Then I eered round again, and without saying anyhing of my intention, rose one morning after Cllen had left, and followed her down to the pring. She was not there ; and striking into a lit* le wooded path, I pursued ray way toward be before-mentioned flowery dell, supposing bat if she had gone thither she bad probably nlisted somebody's services to protect her | rora the attack of any formidable reptile she light encounter. As I drew near, I heard voices. I ad* anced gently, not wishing to intrude upon 1 ny strangers, who might have secluded themjives in this pretty retreat. Parting the 1 ranches, I caught sight of a young lady and ' gentleman walking slowly together, arm-in- , rm. Their backs were toward me, but I had , o difficulty in recognizing Stephen Holcombe < nd my cousin Ellen. [to be continued next week.] 1 Kay The two great express companies of the < iiuntry, the Adams and the American, employ t bout 8,000 men, 1,900 horses, 1,200 wagons, < nd use 300 iron safes. Their agents travel ] rare than 100,000 miles daily. j fpKellxwm* fieadwg. Why do People Laugh??What is described as a somewhat extraordinary and altogether comical work, entitled "The Philosophy of Laughter and Smiling," by a Mr. George Vasey, has lately made its appearance in London. In noticing it the Saturday Review says that the author appears to have devoted himself to the study of laughter with, as he writes, "All the seriousness and gravity becoming a scientific or philosophical inquiry," but he has as yet only a "rough outline" of his views to offer. He is of opinion that laughter has become a confirmed habit of the human race from the practice of tickling babies, and doubts whether children kaoin fn lonrvk Jf fknw VTOPO *\/\f numu trti uc^iu i>v iMugu n vuvj tivtw uw? stimulated or prompted, but let alone and treated naturally and rationally. He is very severe on parents and nurses for being so foolish as to imagine that the sounds proceeding from babies under such circumstances are manifestations of pleasure or delight. His own view is that tbey are nothing more nor less than spasmodic and involuntary contractions and dilations of the pectoral muscles and the lungs, excited into action by absurd ticklings and stupid monkey tricks. The conclusion is unavoidable, that the absurd habit of laughing, which Mr. Vasey also thinks uncomfortable, is entirely occasioned by the unnatural and false associations which have been forced upon us in early life. One of the chapters is devoted to the degrading and vicious consequences of the habit of laughing. Sensible people, he holds, rarely laugh, and fools who like laughing do a great deal of harm by encouraging folly in others, in order to have something to laugh at. How much better, he thinks, it would be if people would be content with smiling, which does not twist the face into horrible grimaces; and he gives a number of illustrations to deter his fellow fw/inrk mahinn pMnkta AP fkomool rTOO ui caiui co uuiu uuaaiug inguwi v? vuvuiovuvo by laughing. On the other hand, there are pictures of the "entreating smile," the "confiding smile," the "mother's sympathetic smile," the "infant smile of delight," tne "joyous smile of friendship," the "supremely affectionate smile," the "pensive smile," (of a very idiotic character,) and so on, which readers of the work can practice with the help of a mirror. We suspect Mr. Vasey will have some difficulty in putting down laughter, but it might perhaps be well if people were more reasonable in regard to what they laugh at. J?" Snake stories are generally supposed to be synonymous with pure fiction; but the one which a Pennsylvania wood-chopper relates is vouched for as true in every particular. Mr. Allen Rogers resides on the Blue Mountains, about three miles from Reading, and bis son, a little boy ofeleven summers, has lately been in the habit of leaviug his father's h. se every morning and not returning till noon. The parents of the boy questioned him several times as to where he went, but they could get no satisfactory answer, and so the father followed bis son one morning last week, and saw him enter the woods about half a mile from the house, where he seated himself upon a rock. Soon the father was horrified at seeing a monster black snake crawl upon the rock and put its head on the boy's lap. The father states that the snake was the largest he ever saw, being fifteen feet long and as thick as his arm. The boy had taken bread with him and was feeding the snake, which, at short intervals, would stick a large tongue out as if hissing for more to eat. Theo it would coil itself around the neck and body of the boy, and play with the boy's hands. As the terrified father turned to leave his boy with his deadly companion he looked back, and the snake, hearing a noise, at once uncoiled itself and raised its body from the rock and looked in all directions, and then returned to the boy's lap, and the father returned home and awaited the boy's return, which was, as usual, at noon. When told that he had been seen playing with the snake, the boy said the first morning he met the snake he liked to play with it; then he took it food, and he was so much pleased with his companion that something told him that he must meet the snake every morning. One morning he said he was late, and when he reached the place the snake was standing up, and it came out to meet him, then followed him to the rock. Next morning the father and two of the neighbors weut to the place with guns, and at the usual time the snake made its appearance, when all fired at one time, killing the charmer. ? ? ? The State Policy.?The question whethr\w a nfMnirvkf . >Mlf Flnry* n/iro tin no t?ftr oV\ Q 1 1 ko CI n Obiaigllb'UUlf JL/^UIUViablU put UJ ouau w organized in South Carolina is under discussion, and the balance of opinion is decidedly in favor of continuing the Conservative organization, strengthening and broadening it as much as possible. Such a Conservative party will, of course, work with the Democracy, in National politics, as the Virginia and North Carolina Conservatives do, but its paramount object will always be the good of South Carolina. With such an organization it will be practicable to support the Democratic candidates for President and VicePresident in 1876, without tying the State, hard and fast, to Democratic nominations for State offices. Some of the cogent reasons why this should be done are given in the subjoined article of our thoughtful and earnest contemporary, the Winnsboro New. It says: "It is too soon yet to frame a policy for the Conservatives of South Carolina. Too many factors enter into politics, and the value of these factors are constantly changing. At present it appears advisable to separate State from Federal politics, and while supporting the National Demoeratic ticket to make the best possible terms in local affairs. "In the North, where a political contest is merely a fight between the 'ins' and the 'outs,' and when it is reasonably certain that the result will not vary the rate of taxation either way by more than a slight fraction, it is well enough to support a platform of ideas, even in the face of certain defeat. But in the South it is a Question of life or death. prosperity or ruin. Success is a necessity. The next campaign must be fought to win?not merely to maintain a sentiment. And what will be the winning policy cannot yet be told. We believe the surest card will be a compromise ; on what terms future developments will show. Our policy last year won us a substantial victory. That policy repeated, will place the government in the hands of the best men of both parties we feel assured."?News and Courier. ? The Silk Harvest of the World.?Accordingto a report,just published by the Syndicate of the Lyons Union of Silk Merchants, the silk crop of Europe last year was, in round numbers, 9,050,000 pounds of raw silk, while there were exported from Asia, 11,500,000 pounds, making upwards of twenty and a half millions pounds of raw silk available for European consumption. The countries included in the report are Italy, Fiance (with her dependencies, Corsica and Algeria), Spain, Greece, the Turkish Empire, India, Japan, and China. The first and the last together 3upply four-fifths of the silk used in Europe. China exported, chiefly from Shanghai, upwards of 8,000,000 pounds. The crop oflta- ly amounted to 6,300,000 pounds. France mpplied 1,600,000 pounds; Spain,about310,300 pounds ; Greece less than 30,000 pounds; the Turkish Empire, 1,180,000 pounds; 3eorgia and Persia, together 880,000 pounds; tridia (from Calcutta), 935,000 pounds; Ja? >an, something over 1,200,000 pounds. - -