Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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lewis m. grist, proprietor, Inkpenbenf Jfamilj ftetospajier: Jfor % |)r0motion of tjie ^political, Jiotial, Agricultural anb Commercial Interests of % S?ont|. terms?$3.00 a year, in advance. "VOL. 34. YOEKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, JANUARY 1878. JSTO. 3. Original Jfotg. ?^ Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. MARIPOSA; OR, THE HEART OF A BALLET GIRL. CHAPTER V. "Well now, sitdowo and let's have a talk," said the intruder, in a milder tone, releasing Mrs. Manuel's arm as he spoke. "Give us an account of all you've been doin' with yourself these twelve years past. I s'pose you'll tell a lot oflies; but that can't be helped." He lit bis pipe, which had gone out, and resuming his place by the table, commenced to smoke again, apparently pacified by tne assurance which he had just received. Mrs. Manuel stood still, leaning against the wall near the door, her eyes fixed with that same piteous, appealing look, on Posy's face, while Posy, on her part, gazed mutely at the object of her fears. "Do you hear? Sit down," repeated the latter, more loudly. "You've either grown deaf, or you ain't quite as obedient as you used to be when I knew you before." "Let the child go," replied the woman, j "and I'll talk to you ; not else." "Oh ! ho ; not else, hey ? Well, that's a pretty answer, I declare. Why can't she hear what you've got to say, I'd like to know ?" "Because what I might have to say?and above all what you'd be likely to say? wouldn't be fit talk for her ears to hear," replied the woman, firmly. She was beginning to recover her self-possession now, and met the man's angry look with more assurance than at first "Oh ! she's one of your dainty sort, is she? Then I'd like to know, by , how she ever came in your keeping," he rejoiued, with a brutal laugh. "Hows'ever, may be you'll be more confidential if we have no listeners; so you can send her to bed if you like. You've got a bed in the next room, as I saw. Iv'e been exploring your premises, to pass away the time, while I was waiting for yeu to come home." "Will yon promise not to disturb her, if I ??1 1" nob-art tha wnmRIV BCUU tier IU tucic 1 aoaw .... "Ob ! promises be banged. I don't want to meddle with the brat," he replied. "My business is with you; not her." "Go to bed, Posy," said her mother, turning to her, "and go to sleep, like a good child, if you can. I'll come to you by-and-by." She led her into the bed-room as she spoke, having pressed a hurried kiss upon her lips, and returned to the next apartment closing the door of communication carefully after her. "Now tell me what's all this mystery and bosh," resumed her visitor, interlarding his speech, however, with certain elegant flourishes, which I shall refrain from repeating here. Suffice it to say, that his style of language throughout was of the most profane sort "Where did you pick up that baggage, anyhow ? What's her business here ?" "She's my adopted child," replied the woman, dropping her voice as she came nearer to him ; "and Oh ! Jim, she's my only comfort aod stand-by. For God's sake, if yo* have auy heart left in you don't you covt/e betweed ?* me and her." "Oh ! you make her work for wages to support you, do you ? What's become of your old trade ? However," he added, with a scornful gaze, "I needu't ask that, for it's pretty plain that with your present looks you'd never pass muster before the footlights now. Why, Stell, you used to be good-lookiu' enough in old times?that was when 6rst I knew you, though. It was beginning to wear off before we parted company, I recollect." "And no wouder," she passionately rejoined. "Wasn't I beaten and starved and abused enough to wear out any sort o' looks I ever had ? No dog could have been worser treated than you treated me /" He gave a short laugh. "You have a * t c_ i ? u grudge against me ior it sun, x unu, nusaiu, puffing away at bis pipe. "You wasn't an angel yourself in those days, my dear, as you may remember." "Whatever I was, or might have been, you made me the evil creetur I've been from the time I married you," was her retort. If you'd treated me different, I never would have turned oat what I did. I wasn't bad by nature, no more'n any other poor, knockabout, friendless girl might be, who hadn't nobody to tell her what was right. You drove me to destruction, and you know it." "Well, well, let that drop. I used to hear enough o' that talk in old times to last to the eud of ray days, and I've no mind to listen to any more of it now. Besides, that ain't the subject in hand. We was talkin' about the girl, you know." "Yes, the girl." The woman's voice softened again, and she cast an uneasy glance towards the door. "Speak easy, Jim, or she'll hear you." "Oh 1 botheration. Come, then, let me know where you found her; and mind you tell the truth." ? TM1 i-ll iUrt Qka TTT a a a 1 not X 69| X 11 L611 tUC tl U tilt Uiiv IT WO M tvuu child, Jim, and I picked her up. It was long ago. She was a little thing not rnore'n two years old." "A lost child, hey ? Where was she lost ?" "In California ; not far from Mariposa. I named her Mariposa, 'causa the name suited her so well. She was as bright and pretty as ^ a butterfly, and not scared of me a bit. She cried for her mother at first, but I coaxed her and got her pleased, and the little creetur smiled up at me as if I was her nurse. Oh ! Jim, when I felt her little arms about me and her sweet, soft face on mine, I felt as I'd never done yit since my own darlin' baby was takeu. You remember him, Jim ; little Charley, don't you ?" "Yes, of course, I remember," said Jim, gruffly. "Don't be a fool; but go on." "Well, I kept her with me, and she got fond of me pretty soon, and forgot ail about her owu folks ; and she's been like my own child ever since. I've been a better woman, for having her with me, than I'd ever had been else." "Oh 1 you have, eh ?" rejoined the man, sneeringly. "You've got virtuous, then, since I knew you ! And the brat's folks ; didn't you know where they was, or try to fiud 'em out?" ^ "No ; I didn't know, nor I didn't try," she rejoined. "May be I coiifd have fouud out, but I didn't. I couldn't let the little creetur go, once she'd got to care for me." "Here's a pretty case of child-stealing 1" ex claimed her companion. "S'pose now I goes to work and advertises her ; don't you think I'd git a fine reward ? You bet I mean to try." "Oh ! Jim, don't, don't!" she cried, entreatingly, with terror in her face. "It's so long now, you wouldn't never find her folks. 'Twouldn't be no use." "Wouldn't it? You bet it would." "Then, don't, for my sake?Oh 1 Jim, for God's sake, don't try to get her taken from me. I'd die if I was to lose her I" In her frantic appeal, she came nearer, and laid her hand on his shoulder. "What 'ud that matter ?" he coolly rejoined, shaking her hand off. "Nobody'd cry over you, I guess, and your funeral wouldn't cost nothin', 'cept to the city." "Oh ! you brute; yon bad, wicked man, to talk eo?you ain't got no feelin', no more'n a stick or a stone," she burst forth with uncontrollable passion, stamping her foot violently, as she spoke. Then, with a sudden change of manner, she drew near him again, and resumed her supplicating attitude. "Don't mind me, Jim. I didn't mean to abuse you, like that; but it drives me mad to think of losin' her. And it wouldn't make her happy, neither, for she loves me as if I was her real mother, as she believes I am." "More fool she," was his reply. "Anyhow, 'tain't her feelins, nor yours, neither, that I'm concerned about. I'm tbinkin' what a nice job 'twould be for me to restore a lost child to its parents and git a good round sum of money, as 'ud keep me, for a good while, like a gentleman." "Is it money you want? Then I'll give you some, if you'll only swear to leave the child alone, and not try to get her taken away," cried the woman, eagerly. Jim's small, foxy eyes glistened beneath their bushy brows; but he only gave her a contemptuous glance. "You, indeed ! I'd like to know if you ? " /? 1 1 J * could give me enough to pay me ror Doming my tongue?unless you've struck a bonanza somewhere," he rejoined. "I aint very rich, but I've got something? enough to keep you for a good while, if you don't drink and gamble it away," said his wife. "Promise me you'll go away and not meddle with me or the child again, and I'll give it to you, Jim ; every dollar." "That's your bargain, is it ? You want to get rid of my company, already ? You're a nice, loving wife, ain't you, to give me such a welcome, after being separated so long ?" "As to that, you know well enough that after all that has passed between us, I'd never live with you again?more especially with her in the house. As to lovin' you, you knocked all the love I ever had for you out of ray heart this many a year back. 'Taint a question of love between you and me, now," said the woman, bitterly, yet with a touch of involuntary sadness in her voice. The time had been when she had loved him?but, Oh ! how impossible that seemed to her now! "All right. You may depend I'll give you as good as I git," he replied. "As to livin' with you?bah ! I'd sooner keep company with a she-wolf. But as to your money, that's a horse of another color; so fork it over at ODce, and when I count it up I'll see what bargain it'll be worth ray while to make." "Not till you promise," was her rejoinder, accompanied by a misgiving that, in her anxiety to obtain her wish, she had committed herself too soon. He laughed scornfully. "Do you think I'm goin' to mince matters with you, you jade? You've told me you'd got money, and I mean to have it; and if >">" lot mo l/-\nb at it. nrpttv niiirlr. I'll J UU UVU U lOV UIV JVVU MV v f w??j make you sorry you didu't." He concluded I with a threatening gesture which made her shrink back. He had not lost his old power over her yet. He saw this, and laughed iu brutal triumph. "Go, quick," he repeated, "and fetch your fortune here ; every cent." "It ain't a fortun', Jim?it ain't as much as you seem to think," she faintly answered. "And you must promise me first." With a loud oath the man started from his seat, and seizing her by the shoulders shook her till her teeth chattered again ; then flung her from him with such force that she reeled against the opposite wall. "Go this minute, or I'll kill you," he cried, with an emphasis that gave reality to the threat. "Don't you I say another word, but do as I bid you, if you value your life." She dared not refuse, for she knew him of yore, and doubted not that he would make his words good if she provoked hira too far. Bitterly repenting her own rashness in having betrayed that she had money in her possession, before making sure that she could gain something by giving it to him, she went without more delay to the secret repository where she kept her little store, and bringing it thence, flung it on the table before hira. "There't is, every cent," she sullenly exclaimed. "You can take it and do what you please with it." "Thank you for the privilege, my dear," he sarcastically replied. Emptying the stocking out, he counted its contents?ten five-dollar gold pieces, a double eagle and some odd change in silver. "Is that all ?" he asked, with a look of disgust. "I s'posed you'd a hundred, at the very least. Why, there ain't but seventy-four and a half! How long do you s'pose that 'ud last me /" "I don't know, nor I don't care. It's all I've got, so you may make the best of it." "I b'lieve you're tellin' me a lie," he rejoined, looking keenly at her. She met his gaze steadily. "You can search the house, then, if you think you can fiud any more. I'll swear to you that's every cent I've got?swear it on the Bible, if you like." "On the Bible! That's a good one! You don't mean to say you keep a Bible, do you ?" "Yes, I do. Leastways it's hern," said the womau, with a motion of the head toward the chamber door. "Well, that is jolly. I shouldn't wonder if you thought that 'ere Bible's goiu' to help you git to Heaven," he retorted, with supreme contempt. "Hows'ever, I'll let you off from kissin' it, this time; the sight 'ud make me sick. Now look here, you'd better be pretty sure you 're not tellin' rue a lie iu this matter. It'll be the worse for you, if I find you out." "You know, well enough, I'm tellin' you the truth. How do you s'pose our little bit of earnin's could amount up to any raore'n that ? The child dou't git but a dollar every dancin' night, aud fifty cents for extras, and I don't make the half of that?and we've got reut to pay, and food and clothes to buy. I * * J have to keep us both decent, and furnish her stage clothes besides." "Oh ! she dances, does she? You didu't tell me that before. Whereabouts is her place ?" "At the theatre. But what do you want to know for?" "'Cause I want to go and see her, of course," he ironically replied. She eyed him distrustfully, knowing well enough that a special object lay at the bottom of all this questioning. "Well," he continued, after a moment's silence, gathering up the little pile of gold and dropping it into his pocket, as he spoke, "since you can do no better, I'll have to be satisfied with this, for the .present, I guess. Now, go ahead and tell me some more about yourself. I want to know all your history, 'cause I've no doubt it's highly interestin', and I want to be entertained." "My history ain't nothin' to tell," she drearily replied. "I've been knockin' round, livin' as I could ; sometimes barely makin' enough to keep us from starvation?though I've taken care not to let her want." "What you couldn't make, you stole, eh ?" "Stole! no; I haven't never took a cent, nor a crumb, that I didn't honestly come by, since that child's been with me?unless it was dishonest to beg. I've done that, time and again, before we got this present work. Since then, I ain't been so badly pushed." "No; you're quite livin' in clover here, seems to me," he rejoined, glancing around the room. "Carpet on the floor, white curtings, chaney Aggers over the chimney?nay! you never was so swell in old times. What did all these fixin's cost you ?" "Only a trifle ; and I got them to please the child. I try to make her happy and give her all I kin." "So I see. Well, it's gettin' pretty late, and I guess I won't keep you up any later for the present. You've treated me pretty hospitable, takin' all in all. I'll Bee you again before long, to make some further arrangements. We ain't settled about that affair yet, you know." He rose from his chair as he spoke. ' i~> * _ j i l :j "JDUl Jira, you wou l uu wuui yuu oaiu? you'll promise me that now; won't you ?" She came near him again, though it revolted her to do so, and looked up in his face. Promise, no! I don't promise nothin.' I told you before I wouldn't. Don't make me mad again, just as I've got quieted down, like. I tell you I'll see you again, and then may be we can drive some sot of a bargain. I ain't goin' to stop any longer now; but I'll be round soon again, never fear." So saying, he sauntered leisurely off. Mrs. Manuel's feelings, when she found herself alone, can better be imagined than described. Impotent rage, despair, vain selfreproach, an indescribable loathing and horror at the sudden revival of the old long-buried ideas and associations, which, in her better life, she bad cast aside, as she had hoped, for ever; loathing, above all, of the brutal source of all this tumult and dismay. And predominating in her emotions was a sickening fear, a dread of what his spite against her might accomplish, far outweighing any regret at the loss of her hardly-earned savings, so long and carefully treasured. Could he truly take her only joy, her darling Posy, from her ?? But no, he never should. A derce resolve formed itself in her heart that he should tear that out rather than rob her of her adopted child. Stealing into the bed room, she found Posy lying wide awake, too frightened and anxious to close her eyes. "Oh! mammy; is he gone?" she fearfully ?.l: a VVU10|iClGU? "Yes, honey, he's gone. Go to sleep now, ray darling ; you'll be so tired to-morrow you won't be fit for nothin'." "Are you corain' to bed, too?" asked Posy, tightly clasping her hand.. "Byandby. I've got something to do, first." "Mammy," whispered the child, holding her fast, "who is that man; won't you tell me ?" The woman hesitated; but deeming it probable that Posy had heard enough to make it useless to try and deceive her, she answered, reluctantly enough? "He'B my husband?or was once." "Mammy?" the child's heart beat with indescribable horror?"is he?my father t" "No, no!" was the vehement denial. "Not your father, my honey?never think that. But don't ask no more questions now," she hastily added, fearful of being led to betray more tban she wished. "I'll tell you more about him, some other time. Go to sleep, I now. I ain't got time for talkin'. I ve got | plans to make, and?and?lots to settle be fore to-morrow. Good-night." "Good-night." Posy turned, obediently, on her pillow, but it was long ere sleep visited her eyelids, tired as they were. She kept ponj dering over the strange, unlooked for catasj trophe which had occurred, trying to unravel j the riddle of her mother's connection with this repulsive being, of whose existence she had never heard. When, at last, she dropped asleep, the unwelcome figure of this new acquaintance intruded itself continually into her dreams, making her frequently start and clasp the pillow in fear, fancying it was her mother's hand. CHAPTER VI. No sleep visited Mrs. Manuel's eyes during the remainder of that wretched night. She was trying to devise some scheme by which she might place Posy and herself out of reach of her husband, (for such, indeed, was the relation which her ruffianly visitor bore towards her) and by daylight she had matured ber plans. She would remove without delay from their present lodgings to a disI tant part of the towu. But before doing so, j would seek Mr. Lacornbe, who was very kind to f'osy, and find out whether his wife, who j kept a few boarders, would consent to take i the child for a time under her care, for a suit; able remuneration. She felt that she would : be safer away from her, while at the same j time she would be near enough for them to ! meet every day. She would tell the manager j enough of the case to make hira understand | the reason of these precautious, and put him j on his guard against answering any inquiries ; which might be made concerning them. She went to work immediately to pack up j their few possessions, and by the time Posy I awoke, this portion of the task was done. The young girl looked around the rooms in surprise at their denuded appearance. "We are goin' away somewheres, honey," her mother said, in auswer to her questions. "I don't exactly know where to, ylt; but we must quit this house directly. I don't want him to find us here again." "How did he ever know we was here, mammy ?" "I don't know, child, I'm sure. I didn't ask him. But it don't matter much how he knew it; the thing is now to go somewhere where he don't know." "May be he'll find us there, too," suggested Posy. "We'll try to keep dark, anyhow. Make haste and dress yourself, honey. I want you ' to go with me to Mr. Lacombe's, and stay there a bit while I see about gettin' these things carried off. I'll just run up now and speak to Mrs, Gough while you get ready." Posy was willing enough to leave their present abode, though she had enjoyed living there so much. Nothing seemed as bad as the possibility of that horrible man intruding upon them again. By the time Mrs. Manuel had finished her parley with the landlady, she was in readiness to set out; and the pair were soon on their way to the manager's residence, which was now a private house of considerable dimensions. They found both him and his wife at home, and Mrs. Manuel at once entered into a statement of the case which she was eager to lay before them. "If you'd only be so kind as to take the child as a boarder for awhile, it 'ud ease me of a terrible deal of care," she said, when she had made known her trouble, or at least as * r _i ? Ja much of it as ahe chose to explain, "i non i mind sayin' that I'd as lief a wild tiger get bold of Posy as that bad man; and she'll be safer in your keepin' than in mine. I could take her out o' town, only I don't want her to lose her place in the theatre." "Oh ! I don't want to lose her. I couldn't consent to her going away," said Mr. Lacombe. "This man is your husband, you say ?" "He was, sir. It's many years since we left one another though we never got a divorce. It shames me to speak about it," Baid Mrs. Manuel, lowering her voice, "particularly before the child; but I had to speak to some one, and I'd do anything for Posy's sake. You've been a good friend to her, and to me, too, sir, and that made me bold to come to you now." "Well, I suppose we can settle it," said Mr, Lacombe, with a glance at his wife. "You can let the child board here, Susan, can't you ? She's a nice little thing, and won't give any trouble." "Oh ! yes, she can stay," responded Mrs. Lacombe, heartily. "I'll look after her, all I can?and you'll give an eye to her yourself, Mrs. Manuel, won't you ?" "Yes, ma'am, if you'll allow it, I'll be round here, quite frequently. Me and Posy couldn't get on without seein' one another pretty often ; could we, Posy ?" Posy could not respond cheerfully. It was dreadful to her, to have to be separated from her mother, and this part of the plan had not been confided to her until now. She did her best to seem grateful, however, when Mrs. Lacombe kissed her and said she was "a dear j ? *t little sou i, ana nermoiaer was ?u mauucou; relieved and rejoiced at the arrangement, that she knew she ought to be satisfied. Mrs. Manuel, who was in haste to accomplish her own move, soon hurried away, promising to return aud tell them, as soon as she had fixed on a new lodging. As it was a day for rehearsal, and there was a new ballet in preparation, Posy had not much time to indulge in regretful thoughts. By the afternoon her mother was settled, and she was comforted to find that they were not far apart. And as they were together at the theatre, as usual, during the evening, it did not seem as though the separation would be such a trial, after all. This arrangement proved an advantageous one for the child, who found herself now surrounded by a better atmosphere than she bad ever lived in before. Her new protectors were really fond of her, and Mrs. Lacorabe, though full of household cares, with half a dozen boarders on her bands, often managed to find a space of an hour to devote to Posy's sadiv neglected education. Indeed, she had not had her there long before she arranged for her to get regular schooling, for a certain time each day, when she was not otherwise employed. There was a charm about her which no one could resist, and it was doubtless this which made the good woman take such pains in her behalf. For had she been plain, illtempered and disagreeable, the chances are that she would have been suffered to go on her way without interference, no matter how greatly she excelled in the accomplishment which had first brought her in the range of the manager's notice. This accomplishment, indeed, found her no favor in Mrs. Lacorabe's eyes. For the manager's wife felt a sort of contemptuous pity for members of the theatrical profession generally. It was only Posy's innate refinement, intelligence an superiority to her companions, that won for the child a separate place in her estimation, and made her desirous of elevating her above the sphere in which fate had placed her, and making something better of her than a mere dancer. Mrs. Lacombe herself was from a higher class in life than her husband, and attached great importance to education, both social and moral. From her, Posy gained much information that she would otherwise probably never have acquired. She wasawalrar>orl tr. tVio notvantinn of loftier duties than a^UbU bV UdV |#wa she had dreamed existed in life, which for her had beeD made up of a narrow round, indeed, with hut one pure and eunobling element, the affectionate and devoted love, which warmed her faithful little heart, for the only parent she knew. In the new light which was dawning upon her, the latent qualities of mind and soul which ignorance and poverty had kept shrouded from view, began to develop themselves with a rapidity that proved how fair would have been their growth beneath the culture of a superior hand. Her profession still necessarily claimed her constant attention, but it was no longer the one absolute end and aim of her ambition and desires. Combined with her anxiety to excel in this pursuit, was an equal anxiety to acquire knowledge, and improve herself in such attainments as she bad now for the first time learned the value of. I do not mean to say that even with her improved opportunities, she was likely to acquire more than a common-place education, or attain to any high degree of mental culture. The instruction given her was by no means of a first class description, and her opportunity of profiting by it, at the best, but limited. Yet it was so far advanced beyond any teaching she had before received, and its influences so immeasurably superior to those of her former life, that the change they wrought in her appeared to raise her out of her old self into a beiug of another sphere. Mrs. Manuel noted this change with half exultant, half regretful feelings. It delighted her to see her Posy, as she expressed it, "made a lady ofyet mingled with this was an irrepressible jealousy of that which seemed to put an ever-widening distance between them, and rob her of the first place in her child's regard. Had the tie between them been (as Posy still believed it to be) one of actual relationship, it is probable that she would have felt only pleasure in her promotion ; but the very fact of knowing, or at least suspecting, that Posy's birth really en lisi. tn nil (ko or! o?n to DTPS whip.h COllld UIUUU UOl IA/ Oil ViiU MW be bestowed upon her, made ber the more apprehensive that these would create a gulf between them which might never be bridged over again. She need not have feared. In the young girl's simple nature, the tie, formed by long habit, and nurtured by devoted care, could never be superseded by new claims. And her affection for the one who, through all the poverty and degradation of their vagrant life, had bestowed no thought upon herself, but had cheerfully taken the morsel from her own lips to save tier from want, continued unshaken in its original strength. The same unselfishness which had made this poor, ignorant, debased ex-dancer provide always for her adopted child's comfort, in preference to her own, made her refrain, now, from betraying to the latter how dreary and solitary was the existence she led without her, knowing that in hinting of this, she would mar the contentment Posy had learned to feel beneath the roof of her kind friends, Manager Lacombe and his wife. But in truth, she missed her sorely, at such hours when her presence bad been wont to brighten their humble home, and there were times, when she felt almost tempted to recall ber, though she knew that such a course would be most unwise, and even reprehensible, under the circumstances. She was sitting alone one night, after returning from the theatre, feeling even more forlorn than usual. Her thoughts had retrograded, somehow, to the early days of her life, above all, the days in which James Stratton had played a prominent part. A strange, checkered life, it was, to look back upon! She could not remember the time when hunger, and blows, and hardships, had not been ber familiar companions She could not remember a mother's loving glance, or a father's kind word. She could not remember, indeed, poor soul, of ever having a father or mother, at all. Her first recollection was of a dingy attic, where she lived under the charge of an ancient hag, who sent her into the streets to beg, and beat her unmercifully when she was unsuccessful in this occupation. From this thraldom she had escaped, at the age of eight years, by running away, and being found starving, under a gateway ; a week later, had been lodged in the station house, and thence transferred to an industrial school, where two more miserable years were passed, the only improvement being that she got fewer beatings and almost enough to eat. The work she was forced to do there, was more trying to her than begging in the streets, and at the end of the two years she ran off again, this time making her way out of the city, and successfully eluding capture. By the roadside she fell in with some wandering showmen, who permitted her to join their company, and while with them she received her first lessons in dancing, an accomplishment in which, by hard labor, she gradually perfected herself sufficiently to make it a means of livelihood. From one place of exhibition to another, she had shifted as time went on, sometimes obtaining only temporary employment, sometimes an engagement of a few weeks'duration, until at last she succeeded in getting a position in a theatre, with a salary that seemed a fortune, compared with her past scanty earnings. And here, for six months, she continued to follow her avocation, undisturbed. Then, chance had thrown Jim Stratton in her way. He was a scene painter, with considerable talent, but reckless and unsteady in his habits, though she did not know this at first. He bad a bold, dashing way about him, that won her uncultivated fancy. She was handsome and livelv. and soon attracted his re gard. The result was that he courted her, obtaiued her promise, and in a short time they were married. He was kind enough at first, lavished money upon her, and seemed proud of the admiration she won from the public ; but soon he began to manifest a fierce and jealous spirit, and she herself, not being deficient in temper, quarreling and strife ensued, which waxed hotter as time went on. By and by a child was born to them, a pretty dark-eyed boy, on whom the mother's passionate love was poured out. Stratton, too, seemed softened, and for a short space all went on smoothly again. But some fresh subject of contention arose, and the temporary truce was broken up and swept away by renewed and continuous storms. Amid all this unhappiness the little child fell ill and died, and the mother's cup of misery was now full. Stratton took to drinking and gambling, and in his intercourse with her, proceeded from coarse abuse to actual cruelty. And, after passing through a period of untold wretchedness, she left him, and left her place of employment, afraid to remain longer in his reach. Despairing, reckless, without resources, bereft of every hope and aim, which had made life desirable, she sank, by degrees, into such depths of degradation, els she shuddered even now to recall, falling a prey to the lowest vices, and becoming alike indifferent to God and her fellow-beings. Of a higher Power she had, indeed, had but a faint conception ; yet even that dim, imperfect idea, was swallowed up in the gloom of her debase raent and despair. Such had been her condition, when chance had thrown in her way the little lost waif, who seemed to cross her path like a ray of Bunshine, and whose wondering gaze and innocent smile awoke the first softening feeling in her heart, that had penetrated its stony depths, since her own baby died. As a starving, perishing creature seizes upon a morsel to sustain the fleeting spark of life, so she clutched and gathered to her starving heart this little atom of humanity, which seemed to her a gift, from some mysterious source, to save it from utter wreck. As a miser hoards and hides his gold, she buried this treasure in secret and lonely places, where no eye could find it out. For months, and even years, she kept it utterly secluded, in the fear of discovery, and drank from its pure companionship draughts of happiness, such as she had never expected to taste again; while the little creature, in its turn, learned to centre its whole affection upon her, knowing her alone as its guardian and friend. This child had saved her from absolute ruin. Its tiny hand had led her gradually upward from the abyss into which she had sunk, to the paths of a purer life, and beneath the glance of its innocent eyes her worst passions and most flagrant sins had hidden themselves, abashed, until, through long restraint, the very inclination to indulge them had gradually weekend and died out. To her it had been am ammaI MAMAt* an/] kaalinnr WlfllAIlt iffl ail augci sji uiubj auu uuuuug. ?? ..v influence, she believed that she would have been cast into eternal perdition; and yet, since the dawnings of a higher life had crept into her son!, awakening conscience from its lethargic sleeps, she had many times felt the prickings of remorse for having acted as she had done, in avoiding all chance of the child being recovered by those to whom it must have been an agony to lose her. Especially, of late, since she had been robbed of Posy's society, had the thought occurred to her of the desolation which must have blighted the lives whose light and sunshine she had been, when bereft of the joy of her presence. She pictured to herself the slow-consuming anguish of some mother's heart, yearning for the little lost one, praying, hoping vainly for its return, until, as time went on, prayer and hnnA vioMod tn dpnnairincr conviction of rv J -w 1 D ? the certainty of its loss; and this had been wrought, perhaps, through her?for was it not most likely that had she made an effort to restore the babe, it would have been successful ? Then it occurred to her that perhaps, through her husband's instrumentality, sbe was about to be punished for her sin. He had threatened to try and discover Posy's parents, and she doubted not that he would carry the threat into execution, should it suit his purpose to do so. If he succeded, what then ? Conscience whispered that a means of restitution, of atonement, would thus be offered to her; but in UBing this means she would be inflicting a death-wound on herself. Without Posy, she knew she could not live. All these thoughts, crowding into her mind on this especial evening, made her heart sink lower, lower, like lead, in her bosom. Perhaps physical depression had something to do with her melancholy also, for she had been feeling strangely weak and out of sorts of late, and had found it impossible to get through her usual work. Her energy seemed to have left her, and a feverish tremulousness at times pervaded her whole frame. "What ails me, I wonder?" she muttered to herself, at length, as straightening her drooping form with a shiver, she raised her head and glanced around the room. "I ain't fit for nothin', lately. Somehow I've got a sort of notion I'm goin' to be sick. May be it's all along of Jim. I've been feelin' different ever since I seen him, and knew he was come back." As this thought crossed her mind, a shadow darkened her doorway, and its subject stood before her. [to be continued.] ftrading. IN A NEWSPAPER EDITORIAL ROOM. Clustered among scores of other publishing offices in New York, loom up the buildings of the Tribune, the Herald, the Sun, the World, and the Times, white wreaths of steam rolling up from their roofs and from the gratings over the press-rooms. The press-rooms extend beyond the buildings under the sidewalk, and the pavement vibrated with the beat of the machines, which were already tossing off parts of the papers, the insides or the outsides, leaving a reserve of space tor the news that might arrive afterward. Where the heat had penetrated the hard flags, some newsboys had curled themselves in innocence and dirt. Others lay asleep on the steps, where the most important and most hurried of the larger contributors to journalism kindly forbore from disturbing them. Occasionally a telegraph messenger dived into the entrance of a building, then an errand-boy from the post-office with a pile of newspapers and letters, and then a reporter from some late meeting up town. As a matter of appearance more than anything else?as the last "form" admitting advertisements had long since closed?a clerk sat in the advertising office, on the ground floor, and drowsed, with the lights half down. The two gentlemen entered one of the offices, and began to ascend that long stairway by which all editorial rooms are attained, custom and economy invariably putting editors in a garret, whence they may look down, physically and mentally, on the world they write about. More telegraph boys, compositors, proof readers and reporters, passed the * ' *-!- 1 ?1 il I J visitors on tne stairs, wuu, wucu may uau explained their business to an inky office-boy, were admitted int? the sanctum sanctorum of a celebrated morning paper. A close, low-roofed, smoky room, lighted by innumerable Argand burners, and filled with little desks, at which sat, stooping, busy men, puffing cigars or pipes, and scribbling with pens or pencils at lightning speed?that was the next scene opened to tljem. On some of the desks were piles upon piles of newspapers from points as far apart and as varied as the capitals of Europe and the plaintive outposts on the Western plains. A little tin box shot up and down a wooden shaft in the middle of the room, into which rolls of manuscript were put by an office-boy, who rushed from desk to desk and gathered the sheets as they came from the writers' hands. From time to time a nervous, sharp-voiced, imperative gentleman, in a very much soiled linen duster, called to one or the other of the work- 1 ers, and gave orders which would have been quite unintelligible to a layman, who might have mistaken the establishment for a slaughter-house when be heard a pale faced little crpnf.lfimftn remiested to "make a Daraffranh ?? " ? C JT~ of the Pope," "cut down Anna Dickinson," j "double-lead General Grant," "boil down the Evangelical Alliance." But making a paragraph of the Pope simply applied to the compression of some news concerning him into that space; and "boiling down" and i "cutting down" were two technicalities expressing condensation. The gentleman in the 1 linen duster was the night editor in charge, the despot of the hour, and the intermediary between the writers and the printers, the lat- : ter being on the floor above, and the little tin i box in the shaft communicating with them. < By three o'clock the last line of "copy" must be in the printer's hands, and from midnight until that time a newspaper office in the editorial department is in a state of nervous i intensity and activity for which I can imagine no parallel. The smoke from the cigars and pipes rolled i up to the ceiling, and the pens sped over the pages of manuscript paper. The writers bent to their work with tremenduous earnestness and concentration; there was not one of them who had written less than a column that i night, and some were casing two and three i column articles, which contained nearly a* many words as five pages of Harper's Magazine. They were pale and care-worn. One of them was heading and sub-heading cable dispatches from the seat of war, another was writing editorial paragraphs on the important telegraphic news that came in, another was damning a new play in virulent prose, another was revising a thrilling account of a murder, another was transcribing his stenographic notes of a speech on the inflation of the currency, another was putting the finishing touches upon a well-considered article criticising a debate in the French Assembly, and another was absorbed in the description of a yacht race. The little tin box in the shaft bounced np and down more frequently, and the night editor became more nervous and imperative than ever, as the fingers of the big clock on the wall went beyond two. The pages of manuscript were sent up one by one, and long, moist proof-sheets came down from the composing-room. Then the "cut ting down" began, and some or tne writers saw articles that had cost them hours of research annihilated by the stroke of a pen, or reduced from columns to paragraphs?not on account of unimportance, but simply because there is always a superfluity of matter, contrary to the erroneous notion that the editor's great difficulty is to fill his space?and in some instances even the paragraphs were finally omitted to make room for unexpected news that arrived later. Telegrams were still coming in at half-past two, but soon after that hour one dispatch brought the words "good-night," and that meant the closing. The night editor and his assistant now disappeared into the composing-rooms, where they remained to superintend the making-up of the forms, and the men at the desks prepared to leave or threw themselves back in their chairs for a chat and some more smoke.?W. H. Rideing, in Harper't Magazine. THE DEFENCE OF SCMTEB. the demand fob the 8ubrendeb of the garrison?Anderson's gallant reply. On the morning of the 11th of April, the dawn of day disclosed an activity at once unusual and significant over the entire harbor. The waters were covered with vessels hastily putting to sea. An iron-clad floating battery of four guns, the construction of which in Charleston, had been watched by the garrison for months, was towed down the bay to a point at the western end of Sullivan'e Island, where its guns bore directly upon Fort Sumter. A wooden dwelling on the beach, near the end of the island, was pulled down and unmasked a land work, mounting four guns, hitherto unknown to the garrison. Its fire would enfilade the most important battery of Fort Sumter, which was upon the parapet of the right flank of the work, and whose guns were mainly relied upon to control the fire from the heavy guns on Gumming's Point, * that would take the fort in reverse. Bodies of troops were landed, and the batteries on shore fully manned, and every preparation completed, when, at four o'clock, P. M., a boat, under a white flag, approached the fort. Two officials, aides-de-camp of the general commanding the Confederate forces in the harbor, Col. Chesnut and Capt S. D. Lee, were admitted to the guard-room just inside the main entrance to the work. They bore a communication from the military commandant at Charleston and to the following effect. It stated that the Government of the Confederate States had hitherto forborne from any hostile demonstration against Fort Sumter, in the hope that the General Government would voluntarily evacuate it in order to avert war, and that there was reason to believe that such would have been the course pursued, but that the Confederate Government could no longer delay "assuming actual possession" of a fortification so important to it. The evacuation of Fort Sumter was demanded in the name of the Government of the Confederate States. All proper facilities were tendered to Major Anderson for the removal of himself and bis command. He was to take with him his company and private property, and to salute his flag upon taking it down. Calling the officers of the garrison into his private room, he laid the communication before them, and then, for the first time, made known to them the confidential dispatch from the government, received a few days previously, in which their determination to relieve the fort was expressed, and instructions in regard to it conveyed. In this communication authority was given him to capitulate when the necessity of the case required it. The conference of the officers was long and earnest. There was no thought, for a moment, of acceding to the demand for the evacuation of the fort, and the following reply was returned by Major Anderson : "That the demand for the evacuation of the fort was one with which he regretted that his sense of honor and his obligation to his government prevented his compliance." On receiving this communication, the Confederate officers left the fort The entire interview was characterized by every courtesy, though more distant and formal than in previous conferences. They were followed to the main gate of the work by Major Anderson and the writer of this article. As they were about to embark, Major Anderson Am a nly/i/4 in th.;- v> narinrr that ha vnnM Ka icuiai abU) IU vuvtl uvuiiugj vumv uv nvw*m ww starved out, any way, in a few days, if their guns did oot batter him to pieces, and this was repeated more specifically to the Confederate officers io reply to their iDquiries on the subject. As the boat returned, the batteries around were covered with spectators all anxiously watching the result of the mission.? Gen" S. W. Crawford, in Phila. Times. A War Anecdote.?A war correspondent of the Richmond Dispatch says: I have heard an old war story, and, by the way, it is one of the best of them. I had it from a former officer under Stonewall Jackson: "On one of our marches in early sping, when a chilling rain had been falling for days, and the slush was almost waist deep, our command, utterly wretched and broken down, was struggling along as best it could under such circumstances. 'Worn out myself, I crept into a fence corner to rest awhile. Presently I saw a solitary straggler coming slowly up the road. He seemed almost completely exhausted?his shoes were gone, and his feet cut and bleeding. I was struck with his appearance, for through all its wretchedness shone the indomitable spirit of the Southern soldier?the man ? * t _ * ? JJ- it _ would oe at nis post, or eise tue iu tue attempt to reach it. I watched him, closely, and as he dragged himself slowly past, I heard him mutter to himself: 'D?n me if I ever love another country.'" The Fence Law.?-J. J. Hemphill, Esq., a member of the legislature from Chester, has introduced a bill to amend the fence law. The first section of the bill provides that stock trespassing upon the lands of another are to be taken up and the owner notified. If damages cannot be agreed upon, the matter is to be submitted to three neighbors, (who shall be owners of stock and crops) who shall assess the damages, and the stock shall be sold for the payment of the amount they assess; the whole thing to be done in five days. The Becond section of the bill declares that aDy person who wilfully throws down or leaves down the pasture fence of another, shall be subject to indictment for a misdemeanor. The object of the bill is to give the whole matter into the hands of the farmers, so as to save the expense and delay of going before a Trial Justice, and to enable the sufferer to get remuneration for his loss before the. stock is taken from his possession.