Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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r lewis m. grist, proprietor.! it Jaittptitiienl Jfamilg ffctospapcr: jfor tjje promotion of t|( |)olifital, Social, ^griraltural an!? Commercial Interests of tjie Jtontji. |terms?$3.00 a year. ik advance. VOL. 21. YOEKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, DECEMBER 9, 1875. iN"O. 49. original jltfltg. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. Sleepy Hollow. CHAPTER XVII. THE HOUSE IN THE WOODS. I got home somehow, and locked myself up i in my chamber to reflect upon the course I ought to pursue. In the flr^t place, had Ellen really disco?- i ered anything ; or was it only her suspicion that was aroused ? Why had she not spoken , more plainly, instead of arousing iu me a terrible fear that might, after all, be groundless ? The memory of my promise to Arthur * fl-.ol.rtJ ^I>. ni*AM mn mtr n.nmIDO tn fftItf ^ . UOSIICU YlViVitjr \j iu1 nig 1uj |jiviuiov ?v ? w? him through everything. Was I fulfilling this, in allowing Eilen's words to have such an effect upon me ? Instead of obeying my first impulse, to go myself in quest of the i truth, ought I not to wait and tell him of my < new doubts and suspicious, and demand (as I now bad a right to do) the explanation which he surely could no longer withhold ? I could 1 not consent longer to remain in blindness; i i but I ought to seek enlightenment from him . and him alone. Even in those dreadful moments of uncertainty, I clung with the tenacity of a drowning person to the belief that his love for me was true and unshaken. I could not think that he had done me any wrong. He, so I good, so noble, so far above all human-kind i in my estimation, was surely incapable of be-' traying the trust I had reposed in him. He i would never have brought me away from ray happy home and my father's sheltering affection, only to blight my life and break my i heart. No, I felt that everything must come ! right in the end. What had I done to deserve ! such wretchedness ? Ellen had deceived me,! or might herself have been deceived. ? Io any case, I resolved to wait?to wait, | though with what agony of longing and impatience I can but feebly describe?until my husband's return home should afford me an i opportunity of ending this fearful suspense. The hours passed slowly, lingeringly. Would the dreadful day never have an end ? Dinner-time came. James knocked at my | ? door. I "Dinner's ready, madam. Shall I bring it j in, or wait till master comes ?" "I do not wish any, James," I answered, | without opening the door. "1 am uot well.! Keep it until your master comes." James withdrew. Another hour passed. It was evident that Arthur had uo intention of returning before evening. At last, Matilda came into my room with a cup of tea. "Please, Miss Rosamond, take this," she urged. "It will make you feel better. You look real white and sick." I drank it feverishly, and called for another cup. It seemed to afford me some support "You need not stay up here, Tildy," I eaid, when I had finished. "Quiet is the best thing for me. I shall not want anything else." "Why don't you go to bed, Miss Rosamond?" "I do not care to, just yet. Go down stairs now, and don't let any one disturb me." Tildy left the room, muttering that she wished the doctor would come home. With what intensity did my heart echo the wish ! Tea-time came. I went down stairs, and out into the porch to cool my fevered brow. I met Barbara in j ^ the hall. She gave me a rapid glance, and j passed me hastily without a word. As I stood in the porch looking out at the ; moonlight which lay silvery white upon the | grass, a little negro came up with a folded i paper in his hand. "Massa sen' dis," he said, presenting it to j me with a scrape of his bare foot, k "Where is your master, Porapey ?" I asked j * as I took it. "Dunno, missis. One man give me dis at I de gate, and say it is for you." "Very well; you may go now." I turned iuto the house and carried the note to the light. For a moment I could not j summon courage to open it. At length I unfolded it. It was a half sheet j of paper, twisted carelessly together. Its contents were brief enough : "Dearest Rosamond I find that it will lie impossible for me to return home this evening. : I am very sorry, love, on your account; but you must not be uneasy about me. I will be with you as early to-morrow as I can. Take good care of yourself. You had better make James sleep in the house. Ever yours. A." i This was all. No explanation, no hint that an explanation would be given on his return. I stood pondering, while I slowly tore the paper into minute fragments and let them drop upon the floor. What was to be done next ? I felt my confidence slowly ebbing away The belief I had clung to, that his coming would make matters clear, and justify my ' faith in his integrity, grew weaker and weaker. ! I seemed to be drifting helplessly out into a 1 wide, unknown sea. At last I came to a very simple determination. I would go to bed. Perhaps sleep, if' I could woo it to come to me, might lighten this heavy load that crushed me down ; might loosen the "band of pain" that bound my , throbbing brow ; perhaps?oh ! faint, forlorn hope!?the morning light might bring me restored comfort and peace, and chase away these torturing fears like the shadows of an ugly dream. I had the house locked up, dismissed Ma- { tilda, and sought my couch. Drowsiness pres-1 -ently stole over me and closed my weary eyes. Before long I was in a profouud sleeep. Suddenly there was a loud crashing noise. A sudden thrill, as of a swift electric current passing through me, shook me, and I awoke. I The cause of the disturbance was easily explained. I had forgotten, on retiring, to close the sa sh of a window near ray bed. The wind had blown the curtain with some force against a small table, upon which my caudle stood, overturning the latter article and sweeping it off upon the floor. Iu the preseut agitated condition of my nerves, even the discovery of this state of affairs, readily revealed to me by the clear raoon^ light, failed to restore my composure or dispel P the involuntary terror which had seized me. I shut down the window sash, restored the ? candle to its place, and again sought my pil fiuw ; uuv it, was in vnm mat i councu me icturn of rudely banished sleep. I tossed and turned restlessly for some time, striving to banish the host of unwelcome thoughts that came trooping into my brain, and, finally giving up the futile attempt, rose and struck a light, unable longer to endure the halfbroken darkness, in which I seemed to discern shadowy figures grouped all about my room. I lifted the curtain, which I had drawn to exclude the rays of the moon, and looked out It was a magnificent night, and every object stood revealed as clearly as by day. Scarcely a breath was stirring. The silvery leaves of a poplar tree, near my window, stood motionless, glittering like fairy gems, and the shadows lay without a quiver on the grass. I felt a longing to escape from the house, where the confined air seemed to stifle and oppress me. Fever was burniug in my veins, though I did not know it at the time. My head throbbed painfully, and my lips felt parched and dry, while the strangest weird faucies surged through my brain. Once out iu the fresh night air, I thought, these troubled feelings would be dispelled, and the consuming heat be banished from my aching brow. Acting upon an impulse 1 did not care to question the wisdom of, I hastily assumed ray clothes, threw a mantle around me and over my head, and stole quietly and noiselessly down stairs. I had no difficulty in making ray exit through a side door, where I had but a sim-j pie lock to encounter. There were no ponder- j oub bolts to awaken sleepers with their creak-, ing; no watch-dog near to spring up and give an alarm. I stepped quickly out into the J garden, feeling a delicious sense of refresh- [ ment and relief as the light, cool breath of night kissed iny face. I walked to the front gate, and looked through it at the winding road, each curve in which was distinctly visible, until it lost itself' among the thickening shades of the wood. "What could hiuder me," I reflected, "from I going along that road now if I desired it ? I! would meet with no harm ; there are no wild animals roving in the wood, nor anything else j to trouble me. Why could I not walk now, as well as at any other time, to the house in the woods f" It was a wild idea, and one which, in my ordinary condition of mind and body, would have appeared to rae totally impracticable; j but laboring as I was, under an unnatural ex-1 oiteraent, the scheme seemed to me feasible ; enough. "If Arthur is there, I will find it out," I j thought. "If he is not there, I shall satisfy ; myself that Ellen's suspicious rest on a less secure basis than I now fear. I am not breaking my promise?at least, I have trusted him, until blind, unreasouing confidence has become folly. It is not in mortal mind or mortal nerves to endure the tension that has been j placed ou mine. I still believe that he is j blameless, but I can have no rest, no peace, ; until I satisfy myself of the fact." Arguing thus, I opened the gate and passed out?looked around and before rae, once, | twice, thrice, to assure myself that nothing j was near?hesitated still another moment, I with a feeling of timidity that I could not entirely banish?then gathered up my resolution and started on my strange expedition. A strange one truly it seemed, even to me, as after hurrying on for a little while in eager haste, I paused to take breath and rest for an instant. I was now in the wood, and though the extreme clearness of the night gave me ample light to see the path I was following, yet the tall dark forms of the trees, as they rose like gigantic spectres around me, and j the mysterious shadows hovering in their j midst, gave me a sensation of awe; while each j twig that crackled beneath ray feet, each rustle of the leaves in a passing breeze, sent a quicker pulsation to my heart, as they fell on my ear with sharp distinctness in the ghostly stillness of the midnight hour. I dared not pause long. Already my resolution was beginning to fail rae, and I knew that ray courage would not wax greater with reflection. t i lit; slukcs arc tuu uigu tu iujr, x iuuttered. "On, on! I raust be already half way there ! I will not be so cowardly as to turn back now." On I went, with laboriug breath and trembling limbs. A chilly feeling was creeping over me, and I felt the need of a warmer covering than that which in the heat of fever I had considered amply sufficient. Suddenly, a prolonged and melancholy hoot in a tree, near by, startled me, and a dark object, starting abruptly forth from the midst of the branches, flitted across the road, almost brushing against my face. A faint shriek escaped me, and drops of moisture gathered ou my brow. My knees smote together, and for a moment terror held me motionless. "How stupid in me! It was uothing but an owl," I said, mentally; trying to rally my presence of mind, as I again braced myself to | proceed. I now flew, rather than walked, fear lending wings to my tired feet. I dreaded another encounter with some nocturnal rover, the thought of whose proximity made J the wood seem twice as mysterious and awful j as before. * "On, on ! I shall soon be there!" My teeth were now chattering with cold, and I had hardly strength to drag myself j along. I was forced to slacken my rapid I pace, and more than once stopped to support j myself against a tree, lest my limbs should fail me aud I should fall to the ground. Suddenly a light, faint but unmistakable, gleamed on my sight, from a distance. That raust be my goal! Brighter it grew as I drew j nearer to it, and ere long the dim outlines of a | house?the house?rose up before me. I had I reached the end of my journey?a long and | eventful journey it had seemed to me, though i I had accomplished it in an hour and a half, j Trembling from head to foot, I cautiously ! drew near. Would I discover anything, or | was the expedition, after all, to be a fruitless one ?" The light proceeded from a lower window, at the back of the house. Across this a white j curtain was drawn, but the blinds were partially open, and the sash was raised a few i inches from the bottom. The window was too high for me to reach. I stood beneath it, and heard the low murmur i of voices within the room. At first my heart beat too violently to allow me to distinguish | anything but confused souuds; but presently j ray perception grew clearer, and straining every nerve to listen, I recoguized two voices alternating, a man's and a woman's. Both were subdued in their tone, but the former was familiar to me. Oh ! heavens, it was Arthur s voice. He was here, then ! Ellen had spoken the truth. But on what errand had he come ? I seemed to hear the throb of every pulse in my frame, loud and distinct as the beating of waves upon the sea-shore. They deafened me with their tumult, tilling my ears with a surg-1 ing sound. Aftera brief interval this passed away, and ! I was able to listen again. Gradually, I began to distinguish words, at j first unconnected, but presently arranging themselves in order, as I strained the organ of hearing to its utmost capacity, holding my breath to catch every sound that floated down to me from above. Something like the following dialogue became audible to me: Arthur. My mind is easier now. She will ] not know of this, will she ? Unknown Woman. Oh ! uo, I would not let her know it for the world. 'A Poor, unhappy being ! What a fate ! U. W. It seems like a judgmeut of Heaven, doesn't it ? A. A judgment indeed! Yet for what? i She did not deserve it ; poor innocent. U. W. Iu my opinion, you were wrong to take her, from the first. You'd have been ten times nappier wunont. A. Ah!uo; it was my duty. Only think how fond she is of roe. U. W. She'd have ceased to think of you, after a while. ' A. You know she grieves over ray least absence. i U. W\ Yes; that's true. Well, I must say I admire your self-sacrifice. A. You cannot imagine the constant anx. iety which tortures me. Sometimes I feel as if I must confess everything. U. \V. I would, if I were you. You will , be ten times easier. A. But wheu it comes to the point, my courage fails me. Often I reproach myself for marrying. I feel that I had no right, uui der the circumstances, to do it. U. W. Things will mend, somehow, after a while. A. (very sadly.) There is but one way in which they can mend, and that is one I shudder to speculate upon. U. W. (soothingly.) Of course, it's painful to think about it; but you know, after all, death is a mercy in comparison with? I lo9t the rest of the sentence. My brain ; seemed on fire. A thousand torturing images flashed across my mind. "Merciful Providence!" I ejaculated with a groan, as I clasped my frenzied head with ray ] hands, "they are talking about me!" An impulse of fury seized me. I looked wildly around for some means by which I might enter this accursed house, that I might confront the accomplices thus basely discuss- i iug the chances of my death (as I supposed) [ and fling my husband's treachery in his teeth, i An old, half decayed water-cask stood at the 1 r* A1 _ i corner 01 me nouse. >v nn aujicruuuiBu strength, and in a sort of delirium, I dragged it underneath the window and clamhered upon it, and raising the lower corner of the j curtain, I looked in. On a sofa lay stretcheed the recumbent j form of a woman, only partially visible be- j neath a shawl that was thrown over her ; a . profusion of long light hair lay tangled on the ! sofa-cushion beneath her head, and hung I trailing to the floor. Her face was turned away from me. Close beside her stood ray husband, and an elderly woman dressed in black. All this flashed with the swiftness of lightning upon my burning gaze. At the instant that 1 took in the scene, the figures in it suddenly changed and shifted like the frag- i ments in a kaleidoscope; the woman in black, rushing toward the window, seemed to loom ; up into huge proportions, like an evil genius rising to overwhelm me, A confused cry resounded in ray ears. Everything grew dark before me. A deadly faintness seized me. I had a consciousness of falling, as if from the top of a precipice into a fathomless abyss, and knew nothing more. I CHAPTER XIX. THE SECRET REVEALED. When I recovered from ray swoon I found myself lying on a bed in a strange apartment, j Daylight was shining through the wiudows, j and the faint fresh scents of early morning ! stole refreshingly in. I was weak and dizzy, and scarcely able to move. On opening my eyes, I looked vaguely about, wondering where I was and what had brought me there. At the foot of my bed sat Arthur, in an attitude of profound melancholy. His head rested on his hand, and his eyes were fixed upon the floor. At the sight of him, a keen pain cleft my heart like a two-edged sword, bringing restored recollection, and with it the torturing consciousness of the truth. Raising his eyes as I stirred, he encountered mine, aud came instantly to ray side. I moaned, and turned, shuddering from him. "Rosamond!" said his deep, reproachful voice?reproachful, yet thrilling with a tenderness that went to ray soul. He laid his hand on mine, and I recoiled as though an adder had stuug me. "Rosamond, my wife, why do you repulse me ?" he murmured, brokenly, as he bent over rue. "I have done you no wrong?before heaven I swear it! Do you not believe my words?" "Go," I muttered, feebly, "go away and leave me now. Leave me?to die! It is better that I should die at once." "What's that talk about dying?" said a strong, cheery voice, and the woman in black, who, as she appeared to me now, had a kind, pleasant face, and warm, motherly air, came bustling up to the bed. "Let me talk to her a minute, doctor," she added, in a low tone, giving my husband a little push on the shoulder. "I'll make everything right in a twinkliug?too much excitement is bad, you know. Do you know who I am, my dear ?" she continued, to me, as Dr. Wardlaw withdrew in obedieuce to her behest. "You've never seen me before, I think." "No," said I, bewildered, yet yielding irresistibly to a sort of confidence infused into me by her kind, re-assuring manner, and frank, open gaze. "I'm a friend of your husband's, and will ho vnurs if vou'll let me. I have taken charge of a patient of his, for many years. That's why I stay in this bouse." "A patient?" I echoed. "Yes. A poor unfortunate creature, my dear, whom you'll pity, I feel sure, when you see her. But the doctor's so good to her, as he always is, to everybody, you know." I raised myself on my elbow, and looked searchingly at her. "Are you telling me the truth ?" I asked. "Telling you the truth ! Of course I am. Do I look as if I ever told anything but the truth?" she rejoined, patting me in a friendly way on my cheek. "But bless you, poor child, I don't wonder you are suspicious of me. I'd feel just so in your place." "Tell me more," said I,eutreatingly. "I think your husband ought to tell you | the rest. You'd rather him talk to you now, j instead of me, wouldn't you ? You must con- j sider him. vou know. I tell vou. he has suf- j - ? y ^ , fered this night?poor man !" Her homely energetic words, seemed fraught with a self-asserting honesty aud truthfulness : that penetrated even my doubt-tortured soul,: aud shed light upon the darkness which encompassed me. "He has not suffered as I have," said I,! and I began to cry, weakly and helplessly, like a child. "There, there! Don't cry?now don't," said the woman, soothingly. "I'll send the doctortoyou now; he'll put everything right. Only don't you be hard on him," she added ; in a whisper; "for I just tell you he's the best man in the world." She disappeared, and I had hardly time to j wonder confusedly at the unexpected turn which affairs seemed to have taken, when Ar-! thur was again beside me. All the old unquestioning faith, and the | love that had never died out, rushed over me ! with renewed power as I yielded to his embrace; and we were reconciled then and there, for I did not need to hear any farther particulars regarding his mysterious patient, to con- j vince me that I had been in error, and that he j had done nothing to merit my reproach. "And now you must hear my story," he said,1 presently, when my agitation had subsided sufficiently for me to listen to the promised explanation. "You have generously forgiven me for not taking you into my confidence be; fore this, aud I wish to prove to you that my l only motive was to spare you pain?or, rather I 1 that was my first motive. To speak honestly, j j I had also a dread of the effect ray revelation j ! might have on you, in lessening your affection for me?though I am innocent of doing any ; wrong, as I said just now." "Then why should it lessen my affection for , you?" I asked. i "Well, perhaps I did not exactly fear thatj your affection would change, so much as that ? ? C .. i , you ruignt nave a sori 01 repugnance 10 me, i on account of the circumstances by which I i was surrounded. It was a foolish feeling, perhaps, hut I could not help it." i "Now, you are exciting my curiosity too much," I exclaimed. "Please don't keep me | longer in suspense." "To begin, then," he rejoined, rather nerv ously, "Mary Burton?that's the nurse who was in here just now?has told you that I i came here to visit a patient of mine, whom she has in chnrge, has she not?" I "Yes." i "But she did not tell you who she was." i "No?whtt'is she ?" | "I am going to startle you very much, Rosai mond I She is my own daughter." " Your daughter !" I repeated, in amazement. "Why, Arthur! I did not know you had a child." "I have been weak enough?perhaps I, ought to say wicked euough, though God knows I did it from no ill motive?to keep her existence a secret from the whole world. No one knows of it, at this moment, but Barbara, Mary Burton *od ourselves. Mrs. Green, who owns this hcjjjse, hires me four rooms in which she and her attendant live, but is igno- i rant of the relationship between us." "But, why? What possible reason?" "Rosamond, she is the most terrible de- I forraity?nay, rather the most painful mon-; strosity you can conceive of. She is scarcely j human in appearance; that is to say, in the face. Her figure is natural enough." A shudder ran through him as he spoke, and I felt his fingers close convulsively on mine. Wonder,1 pity, and a sort of sympathetic horror, filled my mind. I trembled, yet longed to know more of the mystery thus unfolded to ray knowledge. "Dear Arthur!?go on. Tell me more," I whispered. "I will go back to the very beginning, then, I and tell you all," he replied, after pausing for a moment to recover his composure. "You have remarked, no doubt, that I have always avoided, as far as possible,all mention of ray former married life. It is not because it was an unhappy one, but that the memory of it, connected, as it is, with this most overwhelming misfortune of my life, is too trying to be borne without pain. "You know I married my cousin Edith, at an early age, and came out to try my fortune in America. Edith was a bright, happy creature, absolutely without reflection, but very amiable and gentle in her disposition, and though she did not fully meetthe requirements of my nature, (I had a craving after something deeper, more comprehensive in its scope) it was impossible not to be fond of her, and indulgent to her childish ways. I think we were not unlike David Copperfield and Dora. I am sure I was quite as inexperienced and ignorant of the world as David was. We had Barbara with us, however. She was a great help. We settled down in a modest way and got on comfortably and smoothly enough, and if I occasionally felt the want of other companionship, I stifled the longing, and tried to tond my highest happiness in the knowledge that ray child-wife was as joyous as the day was long, and that her innocent heart was entirely mine. "Well, one day we went together on a little jaunt in the country, carrying a basket with us, and intending to lunch in the woods. "I was not well acquainted with the locality, and uuluckily fixed upon a spot for our little pic-uic that was very much infested by snakes. Now Edith had a deep-rooted horror of all reptiles. She loathed the sight of a snake or lizard, and would scream aloud if even a harmless little frog hopped over her foot. I had often chidden her for her absurd fears, and tried to laugh her out of them, but to no purpose. Strangely enough, it never occurred to either of us, ou this occasion, that we were liable to the incursions of any of these unpleasant denizens of the woods; and we spread our feast in a gra3sy spot, near a stream of water, and where the shade of the trees fell pleasantly upon us. "We had been laughing and chatting for some time, and enjoying, to the utmost, our primitive style of eating, when I went to fill Edith's cup at the spring, at her request. I had Rrarcply gone too yards when I hoard the most piercing shriek, and turning around saw that an ugly-looking snake had suddenly made its appearance just in front of her. and was rapidly making its way toward her, while she sat paralyzed with fear, unable to move. Quick as thought, I seized a heavy branch, and rushed to her aid ; but before I could bring my weapon down upon the creature it had already touched her, and she fainted away. "I made quick work with the reptile, and dragged its wriggling body out of sight before I attempted to restore her to consciousness, which, by means of some cold water, I was soon able to do. When she came to, I soothed and reasoned with her, and succeeded at last iu allaying her agitation, which at first was very great; but all pleasure for the day was over, and we packed up the scattered remains of our lunch and returned to town at least a couple of hours sooner than we had intended when westarted. "The memory of this disagreeable adventure soon passed away. At least it did from my mind, and as Edith never made any allusion to it, I supposed that she also had discarded it from her thoughts. "Some months elapsed, and a lady, a friend of ours, who at that time was the owner of j Sleepy Hollow, invited us to spend some time ! with her in the country. She was very par-1 tial to Edith, and always treated her like her j own child. I left my wife with hpr, and re turned to town, after taking a few days' holi- j day from my business; and not long afterwards I received intelligence that Edith had become a mother, that she was very ill, and ! that my presence was requested immediately. "Of course I hastened with all possible dispatch to answer the summons. I arrived at our friend's bouse to find Edith in a hopeless state, and had not been with her many hours before she died, very calmly and peacefully in my arms. "I was so shocked and overborne by this i sudden and unlooked for blow, as at first ut-1 ^ I L!?.L I terly to forget the unhappy inraot wnose oinn 1 had been followed by so sad a result. Indeed, | not having it shown to me, or perceiving any { evidences of its existence, it was natural j enough that I should be completely engrossed by other thoughts. It was not until after all the preparations for Edith's burial had been completed, and I had some leisure for reflection, that it occurred to me to make some in- j quiries concerning it. I was told that it was ; living, but in so feeble and critical condition that it was scarcely expected to survive, and j that it had been placed in the care of an ex-1 cellent nurse, who would do all that was nec-j essary for it. I dare say you will think me; unnatural, Rosamond, when I tell you that I felt no desire to see it, but rather shrank from j doing so, as a painful ordeal which, if its life was spared, I was anxious to postpone to some j future time ; and I experienced a sense of relief when Mrs. Lenox, my friend, bid me give myself no uneasiness concerning its welfare,; but leave it for the present entirely to her! supervision. "Edith's funeral over, I returned to ray j home in town, and lived there drearily enough with Barbara for my sole companion. I devoted myself more earnestly than I had ever yet done to the duties of my profession, and 1 gradually found a fair practice growing up around me. I heard, occasionally, of my j little girl, but the letters mentioning ner were strangely devoid of all the little details concerning her which it would have seemed so : easy and so natural to write. I did not remark this for sometime, but Barbara's quick-i er perception found it out. i "Eh! but them's queer letters to a body j concerning his ain bairn," she remarked, one ! day, wheu I had read aloud to her the brief,! 1 very brief, assurauce that the child was in I health, and that her nurse was a most capable , and trustworthy persou. "Not a word o' the ! ; lassie's looks, or growth, nor auything mair | than if she was a dumb beastie on the place! I canna understand it a', and the. leddy, you say, sic a kind, gude-hearted person too." "There caunot be very much to say about such a young child," I rejoined. "No muckle to be said 1 and the bairn eight months old and mair? Na, na, Arthur, it's na right for a person to be so indifferent. The bairn's your own flesh and bluid, and its your duty to speer after her. No word of her getting her teeth, nor improvement in any way, as if her own fayther would na like to ken a' about her progress in every particular. You ought to go yoursel' to see after her, and let her be brought down here. I'd care for her like my ain bairn, better than any hired nurse could do." "I shrank, inwardly from the proposal. But I felt a pang of self-reproach, at the remissness of which I had been guilty, and as it was impossible for me, at that time, to leave home myself, I deputized Barbara to go in my place to see after the child, and to remove her, with or without her nurse, as she judged best, from Mrs. Lenox's to town. "She was absent a week, and when she returned I perceived immediately that something was the matter. She looked like a person who had received a great shock, and her hrnken and confused answers to all mv Ques tions convinced me that she was concealing something from me. Of course I insisted on an explanation, and on knowing why the child had not come with her as intended ; and finally I extorted from her a statement of the condition of the unfortunate little creature, which filled me with horror. She entreated me to let her remain in the country, under the care of her nurse, whom she represented as being every way competent to have the charge of her. Mrs. Lenox had offered her place for sale, and was going to remove from it very soon, but she thought it would be a good plan to board the child somewhere in the neighborhood, where she might still have the benefit of the country air. It was just possible that her physical and mental condition might improve with advancing years. "I consented to the plan, and soon afterward heard that the nurse had taken lodgings at a farm, kept by an old couple who were not inclined to concern themselves about any one's affairs, but left her fres to do as she pleased with herself and with her charge. "A year passed, and I made up my mind suddenly one day to go and see the poor child, and judge for myself of her condition. My heart smote me for having so long neglected this duty ; yet I felt an indescribable repugnance to the idea of beholding with my own eyes the deformity I had heard described, and which presented but a dim and impalpable image to my mind. "I arrived at the farm, and wa9 shown, at once, to the nurse's private room. There was a little parlor, or sitting-room, adjoining her chamber, and in this I took my seat, waiting anxiously for her to appear. Presently the door opened, and there darted through it a being which, but for its human figure, might have passed?Rosamond, I shudder to say it!?for a strange specimen of the reptile tribe. The broad flat head, glittering greenish eyes, almost imperceptible nose, and wide, receding mmth, with no visible chic, bore a horrible resemblance to the head and face of a snake ; and with a feeling of loathing which at the moment, I could not repress, I put out my hands to ward off the approach of the unfortunate little being, who came running directly toward me, no way abashed by my repellant gesture and look of abhorrence. She came to me, and coiled herself?I can describe her pliant, twisting movements, by no other word?about my leg, and in spite of myself I was constrained to suffer her clasp, and to look down into her upturned face. She uttered a sort of uncouth sound, apparently expressive of pleasure. She reached out her hand, which was long, thin, aDd unlike a baby's, for my watch chain and seals, and I remembered that the hand was my own child's?I could not push it away. While I Bf.ond t.htiR. forced. as it were, against mv will, to acknowledge tbe claim of relationship between us, the nurse came hurrying in. She apologized for the child's abrupt entrance, which, she said, she had desired to prevent; 'but, indeed, sir,' she added, 'she's like an eel for slipping out of my hands, when I least expect it.' She tried to detach her hands from me, but the little creature resisted, uttering a plaintive beseeching cry, which went to my heart. A strong tide of pity rushed over me, and the helplessness and misfortune which was clothed in so repulsive a garb, nevertheless appealed to my better nature, with a force which I could not resist. I resolved from thenceforth never to forsake her, but to act, as well as I could, a father's part, in keeping her constantly under my supervision. "I had lately inherited some money from a relative in Scotland, aud I resolved to purchase Sleepy Hollow, which was still in the market, and make it my home. I could not endure that any one should know of the existence of poor Annie (that is her name) or that her affliction should become tbe subject of public wonder and comment. Instead, therefore, of having her with me, I settled her nurse, in that house that you know of, which is sufficiently near my own to enable me to see her every day; and I have never since missed doing so, except when prevented by sickness or absence, in wbicb case, samara has supplied my place. "You have no idea how strong Annie's attachment is to me, and this circumstance has drawu me toward her more nearly than at first I could have believed possible. She looks early for my daily visit, and is always unhappy and restless if I am kept away. You can understand now why I always left you at a certain hour in the evening, even at the risk of incurring your suspicion and displeasure. Yesterday I received notice of her having had a sudden attack resembling a fit, but of a very violent and dangerous nature, and therefore came off, as you kuow, to attend to her. She has had similar attacks before, but never as severe as this one. It passed off last night, but has left her very weak and prostrate, and I do uot know how long the effect of it may lust, or whether it may not ultimately prove fatal. "Aunie's mental state is scarcely less deplorable than her outward appearance; her reasoning powers being limited to mere instinct, more imperfectly developed than that of some of the higher order of animals. She can express pleasure, affection or dislike as a horse or dog would do, by mute signs, but has never accpiired the faculty of speech. She will lie for hours in the sunshine, or gazing out of the window, dreamily stroking and playing with her hair, which is as long, fine aud beautiful as yours?her one possession in common with others of her sex, from whom she is by her misfortunes so fatally and irrevocably cut off; and I sometimes wonder, as I see her eyes fixed on the sky, whether she has thoughts which tbe angels can read, and whether there be an inner world of her own into which none can penetrate but the God whose mercy is infinite, and who may be drawing her in some inexplicable, mysterious ti;?. t? way ucai tu ?xnu ; CHAPTER XX. CONCLUSION. And so, at last, the curtain was lifted, that had so long veiled the secret which now came into my possession. The mystery which had perplexed, angered and saddened me from the commencement of my married life, lay unfolded before me. My first emotion was one of thankfulness unutterable for the discovery that I had always been, since our marriage, and would forever be, the first object in my husband's heart; and that he was more than ever worthy of my confidence and love. But soon, all considerations of self were absorbed, in the powerful interest excited by the knowledge of the cir cumstances which have beeo made known to the reader in the last chapter. I never saw the unfortunate girl, upon whom the hand of Providence seemed so fatally laid. I was so weak and unwell for sometime, from j the effects of my midnight excursion, and the j overwhelming anxiety I had endured, that; Arthur thought it proper to keep me perfectly quiet; aud before I was sufficiently recovi ered to be liberated from the chamber which was my temporary abiding-place, I heard that my husband was released forever from his charge. Poor Annie had passed away in another brief but fearful paroxysm similar to the last, death coming to her truly as a benefactor and friend. So ended a life of mystery, which had been as a sealed book to mortal eyes! Sitting now in my happy, peaceful home, I scarce can realize, on looking back through the vista of years which lie between me and the time of which I have written, that in this na 1m potraat. mv anul was nncfl an shftkftn hv ?J WW? J a storm?a storm, though fearful, happily brief, and followed by sunshine which has illumined my path in almost unclouded brightness since. ...X havft bweuwduim still, so happy 1 Happy in the love which has bound Arthur's heart and mine together in a golden indissoluble chain, whose links will never be severed but by one Hand, which must in the end break every human tie. Happy in the knowledge that my dear father, before he died, turned to his Rosy as of old, with clinging, yearning affection, extending itself for her sake to the man whose spotless purity of life and thought could not but win a regard more powerful than the influence of jealousy or pride. Happy in the duties which I strive earnestly to fulfill, and which make up the quiet unostentatious rouud of my daily life. Aunt Mabel still lives, a lovely old lady, bright and winsome as of yore; and with her Ellen, who is rather melancholy and morose at times, but derives pleasure from the companionship of her daughter, a pretty, amiable girl, who fortunately bears no resemblance to Stephen Holcorabe. The latter is dead. A sort of reconciliation was effected between himself and his wife, during his last illness, through the agency of ray ever kind godmother, who was sorely grieved at the misfortune attendant upon Ellen's married life. Old Barbara, too, is gathered to her fathers, and "sleeps the last sleep of the just," in a quiet churchyard close by, near the spot where poor Annie was quietly and privately buried. I am writing at my fireside, on a cheerful wiuter's day, and ever and anon, look out of the nearest window at the golden sunshine, the blue sky, and the sparrows hopping about in J the snow. Blest sunshine, emblematic of joy whinh fades at life's eve. but to return with re newed brightness in the morning; blest sky, screening with its clear, impalpable azure that world of mystery to which our footsteps are slowly, steadily pressing; happy birds, chirping of peace and innocence and gladness of heart, little living examples of cheerfulness and content. How beautiful is the world around me! How light is my heart! I close the record of my early days, to which, for a brief space, I have lent my thoughts and time, and which has whiled away some solitary hours in a pleasant fashion ; and turn again to my every day life, as from the shadows of a dream. [the end.] Ipsirdtattefltts fading. For the Yorkville Enquirer. A TRIP TO LANCASTER. Clay Hill, Nov. 26,1875. Mr. Editor:?Notwithstanding the inclemency of the weather, we left our homeon last Tuesday to gratify a long cherished desire to visit the neighboring town of Lancaster. Passing through Rock Hill, we traveled in a south-easterly direction about twelves miles, when we were brought to a halt by the Catawba river, which lay directly across our way. John Harris, one of the old Catawba tribe, (being ferryman) answered promptly to our summons, and with skill commensurate with his nature and long experience, soon lauded us on the eastern shore, and after relieving us of a few stray nickles, we continued our journey. We arrived in Lancaster just as the sombre curtains of twilight were closing around us. By invitation, we became the guest of Capt. Allison. He and bis wife are natives of "old York," of both of whom she may still justly feel proud, though Lancaster has for many years been their adopted home. The kind and hospitable manner in which we were treated, fully sustained our first impressions, and after enjoying the gentle influence of "tired nature's sweet restorer" and a sumptuous breakfast, we bade adieu to our estimable hostess, to mingle with the busy town. Lancaster is a civil, modest little town, * > . i j?i consisting or aooui seven nuuuieu luuauiiauu. i She supports two flourishing schools, two churches, where divine services are regularly conducted; aud one hotel, the proprietors of which anticipate the wants of his guests, and supplies his table with the best the market affords. It was our pleasure to meet Drs. Wither-1 spoon and Strait, druggists, the neat and re-1 spectable appearance of whose establishments ; is sufficient guarantee of the proficiency of these gentlemen in their respective professions. We visited the offices of the county officials and found them neatly and handsomely kept, while the citizens expressed themselves as being highly pleased with the deportment of i the officials. The death of the late, and deeply lamented j Dr. Wylie, leaves Lancaster with only one . resideut practicing physician (Dr. Mackey) a young gentleman of affable manners and unusual abilities, though we were informed that a number of other physicians expect to locate , there soon. We met the enterprising editor of the i Ledaer. who speaks for himself through the , i columns of his journal, by its high moral tone i and brilliant effusions. Lancaster being the judicial centre of Lan- | I caster county, boasts of an able bar. Judge i Witherspoon.for many years an eminent mem-1 ber, who for honest iutegrity,high attainments and excellent administrative abilities, was ele-: ; vated to the bench in the "good old days" of | the past, when politics were honorable, has I retired to private life, to enjoy in ease his i well-won reputation. j Captains Allison and Moore, attorneys, j both formerly of York, have, long since, I proven their abilities as safe and sagacious counselors, and have become essential and permanent institutions of the place. Also, j Colonel Wylie, who has recently associated | j with him, in the practice of law, Major j ! Hough, of Chesterfield. From the moral and j : intellectual attainments of both, we bespeak j for them the success which they so justly dei serve. | In the death of Mr. Connors, the bar has ! sustained a great loss, and the town mourns ! j the death of a worthy citizen. The railroad will soon be be completed to that point, which will open to them direct communication with the outer world, and establish a market for their fleecy staple, which has been so long pouring its wealth into the coffers of neighboring towns. Lumber is ; abundant, and can be obtained at reasonable prices. A number of handsome buildings which are in contemplated erection, will be completed at an early day. - We feel satisfied that there is a bright day dawning for Lan caster, when she will be classed among our most enterprising and flourishing towns. We regret that our limited stay and business engagements prevented our forming an extensive acquaintance, and return our thanks for the kind treatment and many hospitalities extended us during our short sojourn with her citizens, and hope at an early day to locate among them, and identify our interests with them. Night approaching and being compelled to turn our faces homeward, we accepted an invitation to spend the night with Mr. Faulkner, who, with Mr. Cureton whom we met the next day, are among the most enterprising and energetic planters of the county. H. THINGS WE'UITE NOTICED. We have noticed, in the beginning of every year, that the farmers are going to plant more grain and less cotton. In the fall we notice that there has been just about as much cotton and just about as much grain planted as there was the year before. We have noticed every year that the farmers are going to make provisions enough to supply themselves ; but notwithstanding this, wp same number are engaged innauling provisions out of the towns, which they buy at ruinous prices. We notice every year tnat tne country is next year going to be self-supporting ; but when next year comes it is painfully evident that the country gets its support from the far West. We are told every Spring and Summer by the farmers: "Publish in your paper that the cotton crop is going to be a failure," and when we smile incredulously, they tell us of the caterpillar, the boll-worm, the drouth, the rust, the bad stand, and numerous other indubitable proofs that the crop must turn out a failure. We suspect at the time that they are trying to create an impression through the papers that the crop will be small, so as to induce a rise in the price. But bow futile is their efforts. The price of cotton is never affected by newspaper reports, and it always stays down. At the end of each year we notice that the crop reaches away along toward 4,000,000 bales, and the farmers sell for less than it costs. We notice that the farmers try every means?except the right one?to raise the price of cotton. We notice that the policy of raising a great deal of cotton and very little provisions causes the country to languish, and spread bankrupt-? i - .1 1 _ J cy tnrougnoui ine ianu. We notice that some of the Grangers are wofully false to their profession of raising their own provisions and buying for cash ; and vte believe that they are the truest Grangers who live at home and do not have store accounts. We notice that farmers get more advice than any other class of men, and apparently pay less attention to it. But we notice that the advice still flows on, the supply seems inexhaustible ; and as we believe it is good, we propose to continue to do our share as long as the types hold out to print it. ? ? Pride in the Homestead.?The idea of permanency should be an essential element to be incorporated in the minds of all concerned in the establishment of homes. It should grow with the growth and effort of the husband and wife who are laboring to secure one; it should be inbred in the child's mind and become as fixed there as a fixed star. Home should be regarded as the nucleus of all effort?the converging point toward which all family efforts and interests gravitate?the central point of interests, of pleasure, and of refinement for the entire family. We believe in the cultivation of family pride in a home by all proper means?that it should be regarded a matter of honor that the homestead shall be retained for successive generations in the family, and that its past and present associations shall become, and continue to be, through the generations to follow, a family inheritance. More than aught else that we can think of, is the absence of this idea of permanency in the minds of families, the cause of their disin 1 ?1 - - I 1 tegration?me reason wny me uuyo jeave mo farm and why old men who once had good homes for themselves and families, are, at a later day in life, left wrecked and penniless upon the world's waysides. Unrest takes possession of men who do not cultivate a strong local attachment for home?who do not com prebend the real meaning and merit of the word and the great advantages that result from a permanent anchorage, a safe harbor, a sure refuge. We have no law of entails , but it were wise if each family were to create a system of their own by which this central spot in the family history, the birthplace and nursery ground of the children, this scene of struggle for family subsistence, life, education, social position, and wealth, shall be retained unen' ' ?? *? A^Annofl in tKfl cumoerea auu iu us uuujjjicicuwjo, <u kuv family. The Sister.?No household is complete without a sister. She gives the finish to the family. A sister's love, a sister's influence? what can be more hallowed ! A sister's watchful care?can anything be more tender ? A sister's kindness?does the world show us anything more pure? Who would live without a sister ? A sister that is a sister in fidelity, in purity, in love, is a sort of guardian angel in the home circle. Her presence condemns vice. She is the quickener of good resolutions, the sunshine in the pathway of home. To every brother she is a light and life. Her heart is the treasure house of confidence. In her he finds a fast friend ; a charitable, forgiving, tender though often severe friend. In her he finds a ready companion. Her sympathy is as open as day, and sweet as the fragrance of flowers. We pity the brother who has no sister, no sister's love; we feel sorry for the home which is not enlivened by a sister's presence. A sister's office is a noble and gentle one. It is her's to persuade to virtue, to win to wisdom's ways; gently to lead where duty calls; to guard the citadel of home with sleepless vigilance of virtue ; to gather graces and strew flowers around the home altar. To be a sister is to hold a sweet place in the heart of home. It is to minister in a holy office. Do Everything Well.?It is the result of practical, everyday experience that steady attention to matters of detail lies at the root of human progress, and that diligence, above all, is the mother of good luck. Accuracy also is of as much importance, and as an invariable mark of good training in a man, accuracy in observation, accuracy in speech, accuracy in the transaction of all affairs. What is done in business must be done well, for it is better to accomplish perfectly a small amount of work, than to half do ten times as much. Yet in business affairs, it is the manner in which even small matters are transacted, that often decide men for or against you. With virtue, capacity and good conduct iu other respects, the person who is habitually inaccurate cannot be trusted ; his work has to be gone over again, and he thus causes annoyance, vexation and trouble. TreflH of all kinds can be transDlanted in autumn as soon as they are done growing, indicated by the change in the leaf, up to hard freezing. The earlier this is attended to, especially with large trees, the more certain are they to grow. By transplanting early, the roots have time before the season closes of settling well in their new homes and taking a good hold, whieh will sustain them through the winter, prepared to take an early start in the spring.