Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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lewis m. ghrist, proprietor.! Inbcpcnbent Jarnilj fletospptr: Jtr tjjt Iromotion of tjje political, Social, ^gricaltaral aitb Commercial Interests of % Sont|. | TERMS?$3.00 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE. VOL. 24 YORKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, MARCH 38, 1878. ISTQ. 13. JU Original Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. MARY EUSTACE; OR, TRUST BETRAYED. CHAPTER I. "Has the mail come in yet, Jeffrey ?" "Just come, master. Andy's fetchin' it up the front walk now." And a minute or two later, Andy, the sable post-boy, knocked at the door. Jeffrey, the butler and factotum of Colonel Dacre's establishment, received his burden from him, and unlocking the bag, took out its contents and deposited them on the breakfast table, beside his master's plate. Let me place before you, ere we go farther, a picture of this same breakfast room aud its belongings, as it looks on the pleasant Winter morning which dates the commencement of my tale, by no roeaus forgetting (as would, indeed, be a grievous omission) the portrait of mine host himself, the living and moving spirit of the scene. The room is oblong, with a deep bow-window at one eud, looking out upon a smooth lawn, which, in spring time, shines gay with patches of bright flowers, and even at this Beason, is neat, trim and invitiug ; for Ctesar Augustus, the respectable gardener, would not sully bis reputation, by suffering a dead leaf or a stray bramble, to appear within the sacred precincts allotted to his care. At the opposite end of the room is a similar recess, before which a curtain of rich crimson is hung. Parting this, you enter a cosy little nook, and seating yourself in a luxurious velvet chair, contemplate, with admiration, a tempting array of well-bound books, on a set of oaken shelves fitted into the wall in a semi circle, in the place once occupied by plate glass panes. The Colonel, who is not a devotee to overmuch light, found the one large wiudow aufficieut for general purposes, and, therefore, had its fellow converted into this pretty little sanctum, where he spends many hours among his favorite authors, whose compauy he thoroughly enjoys. On each side of the shelves is a narrow window, filled in with a singie pane of ground glass, which affords him subdued, yet ample, light for reading, when he draws the curtain to preveut intrusion ; and all the servants know that master, when behind this screen, is, on no account, to be disturbed. On one side of the room is the ample fireplace, before which is spread a huge bear-skin, a trophy of the chase earned many years ago when the Colonel was in Norway, for he has been an extensive traveler in his time. The mantel-piece is worth your attention. It is of oak wood, polished to fabulous brightness, and on it are carved the family arras?a shield, with a hand poising a lance, and the motto: "Honor and Courage" inscribed below. On either side of the chimney is a square recess. One occupied by a quaiut cabinet containing all sorts of relics and eddities, not very valuable in themselves, perhaps, but dear to their owner's heart; and the other by an escritoire, where he writes his letters and figures up his accouuts. (The apartment, you perceive, is not merely a breakfast and dinner room, but study and sitting room as well.) Over these two pieces of furniture two portraits are hung. One is that of a lady with auburn hair and a dead-white skin, and light blue eyes looking at you (not agreeably) from what can scarcely be termed the shadow of their scant pale lashes. This is the faithful representation of Colonel Dacre's wife, Blanche, who died after six years of wedlock, which, according to current report, were not happy nnea Thp mrreanondinp Dicture is a charming VMVV* ?I o r w I one. It is the Hebe face of a girl, young, J beautiful and arch, with flowing brown hair, | and a dimple at the corner of the curved red j lips that look as though you might put your I fioger in it, so real is its effect. The large dark ( eyes, full of mingled softness and fun, smile j upon you from the canvass, which surely i bears the impress of a master hand. Oppo- j site the chimney is a richly carved oaken ' buffet, glittering with old fashioned silver and ! delicate glass, kept in scrupulous ord~r by | Jeffrey's careful hand. Some well chosen pictures of game and fruit are hung on this j side of the room ;and in one corner?that nextj the cabinet?is a plain square pedestal of! black marble, supporting a bronze figure of Hercules, the only article in sight, unless you ! except the pictures, which answers a merely ornamental purpose; for vases and brack-! ets are Colonel Dacre's abomination, aud the mantel piece is adorned simply by an enormous bronze clock which never goes wrong. The dinner table is of oak ; so are the sofas aud chairs, upholstered in plain deep crimson ; | the thick soft carpet is of the same color, ! with a bordering of brown ; and a warm lustrous tint pervades the whole room, especial- i ly pleasant and comforting on a frosty day. And now, for the Colonel himself. But I fear that here I encounter a more difficult task. ! My pen can scarcely do justice to that kiudly face, which owes its attraction more, perhaps, to expression than to actual symmetry of fea- j ture, though every feature is good enough to bear criticism. His forehead is broad rather than high ; his head, with its short, soft curls of slightly-grizzled hair, is well formed, and admirably set on his broad shoulders; his eyes are blue-gray, mild yet bright, frauk mirrors ? 1 n..i i i oi (118 expausiTU aoui ^i.ue UUIUIJC1, u lie over had a secret, would nurely betray it iu his eyes;) his nose?well, reader, I do not exactly know what sort of nose to call it; it is not Roman, nor yet Grecian, nor yet turnedup? it is certainly not a pug. Yet if asked to what nation, class or style it belongs, I can , only say it is a good, honest, pleasant-looking ! nose, of no particular kind, but quite in har- j mony with the rest of his face. His mouth is excellent, his smile benevolently sweet, his teeth perfect; his chin is massive enough to denote firmness, but as daintily curved as a woman's, its graceful outline unmarred by beard or whisker, though a short heavy raous tache droops over his upper iip. In figure he is stalwart and erect, broad, but of raedi-1 um height; his massive chest and long arms are indicative of great strength, but his hand is delicate and supple, tapering at the fingers and beautifully white. On his little finger i he wears a plain gold ring?bis wife's wedding ring?which he has religiously carried since her death. He wears the plain clothes j of a country gentleman, with liuen white; as snow, and necktie carefully arranged.) Though he breakfasts alone, he neversitsdown i with ill-brushed boots or disorderly dress, and would never dream of coming to table in slippers and a dressing gown, though both, handsomely embroidered, are iu his closet up stairs. The Colonel is a thorough aristocrat, and has a large fund of self-respect. He likes his ease as well as most people, but does not believe in taking it at what he considers unsuitable times and seasons; aud with only servants for his spectators, he is as thoroughly the well-bred gentleman as with the most fastidious company around his board. All the time that I have been giving you this description (which, on reviewing it, appears to me rather clumsy and lame?still I shall let it pass)?Colonel Dacre has been tha rvo nora nnH Iftftflrfl. illst iVU&ilJg buiuugu VI1W ......J brought him from the post-office. The former he has glanced at and put aside. Of the latter, three in number, he has read one, aud now, breaking the seal of the second, proceeds to acquaint himself with its contents, his countenance becoming thoughtful and troubled as he goes on. "Poor Eustace dead I" he murmurs to himself. "Well, well?it was only to be expected, of course, with his wretched health, and still more wretched habits. What's this! His daughter?girl of sixteen?left to my care. How extraordinary!" And the thoughtful expression changes to one of startled perplexity, as his eye encounters this unexpected, and apparently rather unsatisfactory clause. He reads and re-reads the letter; then falls to musing, with the open sheet on his knee, and his scarcely tasted breakfast growing cold. Jeffrey hovers anxiously around, concerned for the fate of the egg which his master broke open some minutes since, and which he feels sure must be already unfit to eat, but does not venture to intrude upon this reverie. Presently, with a sigh, the colonel comes to himself. "Most singular?most unlooked fori" he says half aloud. "It can't behelped, though, I suppose?muBt make the best of it Heighho !?Jeff, bring me another cup of coffee ; this has stood too long." "Yes, sir ; aud another egg, too, master ?" "No, never mind the egg ; this will do." ? /?M And with an absent air ne nuisues, mure rnjiiiily than usual, what remains of his breakfast ; fortifies his nerves, in conclusion, with a cup of Mocha, of the strongest ; then gathers up his letters, takes his hat, and walks out to brace himself by a stroll in the crisp morning air. He was, in fact, more than ordinarily disturbed, by the news which be had received. The state of the case was, briefly, this : An old college friend, Wilraot Eustace, of whom he had seen but little during the past few years, had recently died, bequeathing to him the sum of ten thousand dollars, and the guardianship of his only child?a young girl still at school?whom he desired to remain under his sole care until she Bhould attain the age of twenty-one, uuless she contracted some eligible marriage, with his consent, before that period should arrive. Now, the firstnamed legacy?the money?was not of much importauce to the colonel, and, therefore, troubled his thoughts but little. But the other legacy?the girl?was very important, indeed, inasmuch as the whole tenor of his daily existence would be affected thereby. He had lived a solitary life so long, aud had become so accustomed to a certain routine, that he could not look forward, with entire placidity, to the breaking up of ways and habits which custom had rendered dear to him, and which the presence of another person in the house must, iuevitably, in some degree, affect. If it were a boy, only?but & girl! The colouel pictured to himself a breadand-butter miss, in frilled muslin aprous, who would always be munching candy, and reading novels in the parlor?not in his sanctum, was his firm mental resolve. Aud she would come down late to breakfast, aud expect, no doubt, to sit at the head of the table, aud probably put things in confusion generally. Aud what, he reflected, with dismay, would she And to amuse her in this biglouely house, where there was every appliance for liia convenience aud comfort, but little to answer the requirements of a youug person of her age ? To be sure, there were books?and his thoughts turned, with a slight thrill of aversion, to a certain set of volumes, which he had often, in former days, seen lying on his wife's dressingtable ; but which had, for many years past, occupied a position of diguified?or ignominious?retirement, in a corner of a shelf rarely visited by him. Then there were horses, provided she liked to ride ; but would he have to escort her? He was getting too old to be a young girl's cavalier. On the whole, the colonel reflected, with a sigh, this unlooked for addition to his household would, in all probability, be a source of less gratification than auuoyance, in more ways than one. But he was a philosopher in his way, and, still better, an unselfish gentleman ; and after the first flush of half dismay, half vexation,had cooled off, he began to think of the friendless, or at all events solitary position of the innocent cause of it, with softened and self-reproachful feelings. "What a heard-hearted, narrow minded old fogy I must be," hesoliloquized,"to be lamenting thus over ray own personal annoyance, which is, after all, no doubt, unreasonable and unfounded, instead of bestowing a sympathetic thought on the poor young creature thus thrown, without any volition of her owu, into a position certaiuly as trying to her as to rae! Just orphaned too, poor thing?though I fancy she could not have been very much with her father of late. Still, all the same, she must feel very desolate and forlorn. I ought to be ashamed of myself, and so I am. After all, I dare say we'll be company for each other? when we get used to things; I mean, to each others ways, and so on. Probably she's a a very nice litlegirl. I recollect her mother well, aud a sweet, amiable creature she was ; far too good for Wilmot, poor fellow I Ah! roe. We used to be good friends in College days?let roe see, how long ago ? He roust have had a kindly recollection of me, to coufide this charge to me now. Please Heaven, I'll do my duty by the poor child and prove myself worthy of the trust." And in this altered and praiseworthy frame of mind, the Colonel walked home. CHAPTER II. On the same morning that Colonel Dacre opened his letters at the breakfast table and took a walk afterwards to help hira digest the contents of one of them, Mary Eustace, sitting school-girl fashion in one of the dormitory windows at Miss Anderson's Semi I nary, was discussing with her bosom friend j ] i the prospect suddenly opened to her of j I , an entire revolution in the course of her ! < I hitherto monotonous and unbroken life. j 1 The bosom friend?Adelia St. Maur by < ; name?sat on a low stool at her feet, clasp- 1 ' ing her hand and anon bestowing on it an 1 J effusive careBS, much as a lover might have j done, which she calmly and passively accept- j i ed, but did not return. Adelia St. Maur was 11 a good-looking young woman of twenty, or ] thereabouts, who passed for eighteen. Her i features were regular, her complexion a deli- i cate olive, her hair raven black. Her face 1 j lacked candor, especially the mouth ; but as a i general rule, it would have found favor in a ( critic's eyes. 1 Mary Eustace?who, by courtesy, should < have been described first?was quite a con-1 < tra8t in appearance to her friend. She had j t a very fair, childishly pure complexion, with i the softest tint of arose on cheek and lip, and large limpid blue eyes, pensive but not re- 1 flective, that looked always with a sort of j dreamy wistfulness into youra. A cloud of t blonde hair encircled, like a radius, her deli- ] cate head, that drooped a little forward on her 1 slim white neck, like a dew laden blossom on 1 its stem. There was nothing helpful or selfreliant in her attitude or look. As she sat i there, with one hand lying listlessly open on 1 her lap, her head resting against the frame of the window, and her gaze fixed upon some j far-off object, her whole air gave you the ' idea of a yielding, dependant creature, little 1 accustomed to think, act or decide for herself, f Not that her face was vacant. On the contrary, there was intelligence, as well as much i sweetness, in its expression; but it was not the intelligence that takes an active or prac- t tical turn. Iudolent by nature and accustom- c ed al! her life to the ease of wealth, nothing i had ever called her energies into play. Petted, flattered and caressed by relatives and f friends, it had become a habit to receive adu- 1 lation as her right, and, without a particle of ? pride or conceit, to accept, nevertheless, as a matter of course, the position of one on whom the thought, care and attention of others \ should be bestowed as simply her due. Perhaps, had she not been born an heiress, her \ character might have developed differently ; r hut had matters been otherwise than they s were, she would not have been the heroine of 3 this tale. t One evil she would at least have been spared ; and that was the friendship and flattery t of Miss St. Maur. \ Mary had not chosen this young person as t her confidante. Indeed, strictly speaking, she had no confidante, but Adelia assumed the t position of such, and boasted to every one of j dear Mary's tender, trustful friendship; for it a was something to be known as the bosom friend of a girl who had five thousand a ' year in her own right, and nobody kuew how a much landed property, besides, under the r management of trustees. So Adelia revolved i around her as a satellite around the moon, <. and the calm languid moon beamed kindly upon her and found it pleasant to be an ob- ' ject of such regard. And once in a while a t rich silk dress, or a costly ribbon, or a set of i expensive embroidery, found its way into the I satellite's wardrobe, much to her satisfaction, t since it was not in her power to procure such luxuries for herself. The veritable moon, in 1 all its silvery splendor, could scarcely have \ held the finery of dress in more disdain than a did the young heiress, whose owu attire was always of the simplest. Yet far be it I from me to imply that it was this spirit alone 1 that prompted the bestowal of such gifts g upon another, for it was a real pleasure to 1 her to give. 1 "Dear," said the satellite, as she laid Mary's t haud lovingly against her dark cheek, where it looked so dainty and fair; "dear, it almost t j breaks my heart to think of our separation? a i and to think, too, that it is so near at hand !" i I "Yes, very near" said Mary, with a little g ! siirh. For naturally, it was not without a \ ??"- ? - f . slight inward tremor that she looked forward to her removal to an unknown abode. She a did not, particularly, like school, but she was used to it, and a change was always unpleasant to her. "And our future paths in life may be far, far apart?who knows ?" pursued Adelia, sentimentally. "To think that the sweet interj course of four years?intercourse so beautified, ! so endeared by the exchange of confidences, ! the communion of sympathetic thought? should be thus broken by a sudden turn in the wheel of fortune, perhaps never, never to be renewed. Ah 1 Mary, to you the chauge will probably bring only happiness; but to i me, in my solitude, what comfort will come j for the loss of my only friend?" "Your only friend, Adelia? You have | many other friends, have you not?" I "Other frieuds?but what are they, all to1 gether, compared with you ? Or, how can I you suppose that any other society could corai pensate me for the loss of yours?" was Ade! lia's reproachful answer. "As for solitude," Mary continued, "I shall be far more alone than you. At Colonel Dacre's house, I will probably have no companion but himself." "He a companion?a man old enough to be ! your grandfather, isn't he?" "fipumelv. He and mv father were col- ; - J lege friends, you know. Though I believe he was rather older than papa." , Mary did not falter in pronouncing her ] father's name, though a deeper shade of gravi- | I ly, for a moment, overspread her countenance. : The truth was, she was not as much aflected , 1 by his death as she would have been, had , their mutual relatiou been of a closer kind, j ' Mr. Eustice had, for years, led a nomadic life; , spending a season now in Paris, now in Brus- ( sels, anon making a pilgrimage across the , ! Alps, or yatching on the Mediterranean. I Rarely passing six weeks cousecutively at i home, and then frequently without even see- \ ing his daughter, who, meantime, was quietly settled at boarding school. His habits had been such as would have rendered his society 3 -' L!^. 1*#VM MM ?rx?* I?r? rr itmii r* r? rvor. uimesmwne iui iici, ui lui onj juung |ii,i son, and therefore it was, perhaps, fortimate, on her account, that they had seen so little of each other. He had been fond of wine, and fond of cards; unduly fond, and these propeuI sities, strengthened hy a long period of self indulgence, had wrecked his health, and finally ; brought hiru to his grave. His constitution, naturally delicate, had been unable to 3tand the pressure of late hours and hard drinking, [ and the excitement attendant upon both. Happily for his daughter, los3 of fortune had not been consequent upon dissipation, as well i as loss of health. In his last hours he rej marked to one who attended him, "Well, [*ve not been much of a father to poor Mary, J but one consolation is, I leave her in possession of one of the largest fortunes in the State." Probably Mary was rather indiffer-1 3nt to this consolation. Yet poverty would lave been grevious to her, inasmuch as she bad heen accustomed to luxury all her life. Her father had died away from home, and t was owing to this that she had not been with him during his fiual illness, or even present at his funeral?a fact which took ?ery much from the reality of her loss, since t had, so far, not broken upon the routine of ler life. A few days' absence from the school oom.sorae consultation with her milliner and Iress-maker, and the substitution of black ] 'or her ordinary dress?these were the only changes which had occurred to mark the went, which, in the usual course of nature, ihould have so profoundly touched her heart ind awakened her teuderest sensibilities. She had decided that if Colonel Dacre, in lis new capacity of guardiau, made no obection to the plan, Bbe would continue at ichool, at least until -the expiration of the :>resent term, and was only waiting to hear Irom him before proffering a request to be slowed to do so. "I wonder what sort of a man he is," she 'emarked, thoughtfully, in continuation of ler rejoinder to her friend's last speech. "I fancy he will be very indulgent and let pou do just as you please," said Miss St. Maur. 'He will hardly be such an old ogre as to reep you secluded from all society, shut up brever in his country house." "Of course, I do not care about society, ?? : J - ]0W, HttlU MM J. "Not now, of course; but you will someirae or other. And without wanting gay 1 :ompany, you might still enjoy the compan- 1 onship of some of your friends, occasionally." ' "Oh! yes, that would be different," Mary ] issented. "Still, in another person's house, 1 [ would not feel at liberty to make any sug- i restions about inviting people." "Not at first, certainly." 1 "If he makes any proposal of the kind, it ' vill be different." 1 "Oh 1 yes, quite different; and no doubt he 1 vill," rejoined Adelia, who felt that it was lot at all too early to lay the foundation of ' uch an invitation to herself. "If he thinks rou desire it, I am sure he ought to be glad 1 o gratify you." ] "I have no fear that he will be otherwise han kind," said Mary. "1 remember always 1 tearing him spoken of in the very highest ' erms." ! "Oh ! yes ; you will be just like a daughter J o him. A real pet, as you ought to be, darl- ' ng. Who could help being good to you/" aid Adelia, with another caress. ! "I dou't know about that," said Mary. 1 'Because you are fond of me, that is no rea* on why every one else should be. But you ( nay be sure, Delie, that if I am allowed to ? uvite anybody to pay me a visit, you will be 6 me of the first I shall ask." ' 1- - J Oi HIT / "Thank you, dear,' repnea juibs at. mnur. 'I know you won't forget your poor old Delie, hough we shall be so far apart. Your heart s too true a one to change. Your letters will >e a great joy to me; you know you promised o write often." "As often as I can ; but you know I am lot, usually, a good correspondent. By the vay, I meant to ask you before, but I forgot? ire you not going home, after this term ?" "I declare, Mary, I don't know that I shall. Mother doesn't seem anxious about it?at east, she doesn't urge it. I could do her no ;ood by being with her, and as long as I am iere, I can be improving myself in my studies. ' may find it necessary to turn my education o account, one of these days, you know." "But I am sure you are thoroughly educaed already?quite thoroughly enough to en* s ible you to teach, if necessary, though I hope s t will never be. I should think it would be uch a comfort to your mother to have you ' vith her." 1 "As to that, she is accustomed to my ab- , ence, and she always has some friend or other 1 lear her. Poor mother, it's a comfort to her y 0 feel that I am benefitted by my stay here. 3ut wherever I am, Mary, don't forget to * vrite. I knoWi as you say, that you are not s 1 good correspondent, but it could not be an ( sffort to you to write to me," said Adelia, anx- ( oub to turn the conversation into its former ( ihannel, as the topic introduced by her friend 1 i 1 U1 ?? ( vas not a particularly agreeauie uuo kj uci. fJer mother, who was in reduced circumstan- ? :es, lived in a very humble way, in a small ( . ottage, in a pineland settlement, and Adelia ( lad no fancy for returning to the seclusion of I ler rural home. About a week after this dialogue took place, 1 Vlary received a letter from Colonel Dacre". < [t was short but very kind, expressing a hope 1 .hat the newly-established relation between < ,hem might prove one of mutual pleasure ] md satisfaction, and begging to know her 1 ivish in regard to her present movements. I Whenever she was ready to come to him, he laid, her new home was waiting to receive her, < ind he would himself travel to C? to fetch i oer thither. Mary, of course, immediately < replied, and told him that if he did not object, 1 ihe would like to finish her present term at 1 Miss Anderson's, and would, at its expiration, if be pleased, come to Mosslands. It must be confessed that the Colonel was 1 not sorry, on receiving this reply, to find that ' bis solitude was not immediately to be disturbed. As to Mary, she went on tranquilly with her studies, thinking as little as possible 1 of the change which awaited her, and which i 3he was by no means eager to enter upon. She would, in truth, have preferred to remain j even longer at school, but with the beginning | of the next term she would complete her sev-1 enteenth year?a period which had for some ! time past been fixed as a suitable one for her | to bid farewell to Miss Anderson's; and she! feared that her guardian might be hurt if she J appeared too reluctant to enter upon her po- j t- ft:. SIL10U ES E memucr ut Ilia uuuscuuiu. CHAPTER III. It was the first day of the Easter vacation ; the half yearly examination was over, and pupils who had graduated, or who were to spend their holiday in their own homes, bad j either already taken their departure, or were preparing to do so. Mary Eustace, with her trunks packed and standing in the hall, was herself wailing, in traveling dress and bonnet, for the arrival of her guardian, whom she was expecting every moment. Adelia, who who was not going home, hovered around her, impressing upon her the distress this separation caused her and her auxious hope that it would not be loug before, in some way ] jr other, they would be able to meet again. ] Presently there came a sound of carriage i wheels, and then the announcement, "Colo- ] del Dacre is waiting in the parlor for Miss < Eustace." With a beating heart, Mary an- < iwered the summons, following slowly in the I wake of her principal, who sailed majestical- I y down stairs in order to receive the visitor | ind gracefully yield the charge of her quon- < lam pupil into his hands. f The Colonel presented himself to Miss An- < Jerson, one or two conventional phrases were 11 exchanged, and then Mary came iD, looking 1 very quiet and a little timid, but charmingly i pretty in her deep mourning garb, which set < )ff to such advantage the lily purity of her 1 complexion, now tinted with a slight blush of i ihyness as she advanced to meet her guar- i lian's outstretched hand. I "Colonel, this is your ward," said Miss Anderson, beaming graciously upon her. ; 'Allow me to say that it is with entire satis- t 'action that I relinquish her?putting aside < ill selfish considerations?into the keeping of 1 >ne so eminently fitted as yourself to fill the i post of her protector, counselor and friend." I "I hope, indeed," said the Colonel, "that I < ihall prove myself worthy of so important a ;rust." He pressed Mary's slender hand as ] 3e spoke, looking earnestly, with his kind eyes, into her downcast face. He already felt i in interest in her much warmer than he had i ieemed it possible she would awaken within i sis heart. Her beauty, her gentle, serious as- i pect, quite touched him, and the responsibili- j ,y he had so much dreaded no longer seemed in onerous one. 1 "I hope, indeed, my dear," he said, still i solding her hand in his and speaking with a warmth that no one could doubt was sincere, i 'I hope that I may be able to make you hap- ] py." The speech sounded leas line a iormu- i ia than his previous one, and gave Mary courige to raise her eyes. "Thank you, sir," she answered simply, but tvith a grateful glance that expressed more ;han her brief words. And so the meeting was over, and the pair were mutually satisfied and relieved. "Colonel, you will allow me to have some refreshments brought," said Miss Anderson. 'I cannot permit dear Mary and yourself to itart on your journey without partaking of a plain lunch first." "The colonel drew out his watch. "You ire very kind," he replied, "but I fear?uuess Miss Eustace feels the need of some refreshment?that we can scarcely delay so ong. I am already a little later than I in:ended to be." "I have had lunch already, thank you," laid Mary, "and am quite ready whenever pou wish to start." "Then I think we had better take leave at >nce," said the colonel. The trunks were itrapped on the carriage, and Miss Anderson lummoned all the pupils, still in the house, o bid their companion good-bye. A great leal of embracing ensued, and some few tears__ were shed, chiefly by Adelia. The last goodayes were exchanged, Mary entered the carriage and was driven rapidly away?her ichool-life was over, and her face turned toward her untried future home. The Colonel beguiled the journey with ijuch cheerful and kindly chat, choosing mch themes as he thought would interest his foung charge, who listened, rather tnan re- i ilied, still feeling too shy to shake off her re- I lerve entirely, though she quite appreciated i lis efforts to amuse her. Each of them was a ] lew experience to the other; the Colonel, at ' east, since his youthful days, not being at > til accustomed to the society of girls of her < Lge, and she equally unused to that of elder- 1 y men; for an elderly man the Colonel < leeraed in her eyes?he being forty-three and 1 ihe seventeen. He called her "Mary" and 'my dear," quite naturally, as though he had 1 >een her guardian all her life. But she could ' lot make up her mind to address him other- ' .viae than as "sir," fancying that "Colonel 1 Dacre" sounded formal, yet not knowing 1 vhat else to say. ? They did not reach Mosslands until the af- ' ernoon of the following day. The sun was just * letting as they drove up the long avenue of ' >aks leading to the front gates, which two little f larkeys held open for them to pass through, < lisplaying their ivory teeth to the fullest ex,ent as they did so. More domestics gather- 1 :d around as they approached the house, where i itill another group waited at the door to re- jeive and welcome them. Mary looked out 1 juriously at her new home. The exterior was ' oleasaut and inviting enough to satisfy her. ! rhe fair open lawn, with its groups of noble ;rees, the little parterre gay with a few hariy blossoms of early spring, and in the dis- ' ;ance a blue river winding through a raea- < low with a line of hills beyond, at once banishing the idea of seclusion and gloom with which, half unconsciously, she had, in anticipation, invested her destined abode. "Welcome home, Mary," said her guar- j iian, as he helped her to alight. They went , into the dining room, to which the reader has , already been introduced. A cheerful fire was blazing on the hearth, before which ColDnel Dacre drew up a cosy chair, bidding his 1 ward be seated and rest and warm herself, while preparations for dinner were being < made. The gleaming light shone on dainty china and antique glass, and reflected itself in the polished wood-work of the room as the twilight gathered more soberly around, and shadows began to creep into the corners and hide among the folds of the crimson curtains ; and Mary leaned her head back against the cushions and dreamed, while she gazed into the hospitable blaze that offered her so warm a welcome. It was not very long before dinner was brought in. Candles were lighted, shutters closed, and the Colonel, coming in from a visit of inspection and direction in some out-door quarters, apologized for his necessary absence, and leading Mary to the head of the table, gracefully installed her there in her post as mistress, then aud thenceforth for time to come. He bad never expected to feel so much satisfaction in the relinquishment of this post, so long exclusively occupied by himself, or in watching from his seat, at the opposite end, 'to nou, nrcnnnnt nrpaidincr t.hprfi. To Marv. too, the situation was equally novel and pleasant. Her present surroundings accorded much better with her ideas of comfort and luxury, than the somewhat bare and bald refinement of Miss Andersou's menage, which, though considered stylish, was but in boarding-school style after all. Though quite unaccustomed to preside, a certain innate dig- i nity and self-possession came to her aid, and prevented anything like gaucherie on her 1 part, while the new sense of responsibility seemed to rouse her from her habitual indolence and indifference into taking a more watchful and active part. And when dinner was over and the dessert placed on the table, the servants withdrew, leaving her to a 'Me a tide with her guardian, her shyness began to melt away under the cheerful infiuen:es of the place and hour. She allowed her- : self to be beguiled into giving sundry sketches of her school life, and once or twice a little gentle laugh rang out, making music in the Colonel's ears, long unused to such a sound * ! I f? mi 1 rrom giriisn lips neneatn nis rooi. ine aour which he generally spent over some enter- < Laining volume of travels or poetry, sped away quite as fast in her companionship, and they were both surprised when the big bronze clock on the mautel-piece chimed nine. , "It's not very late, Mary, but I dare say | pou are tired, and will be glad to go to bed," i said the Colonel, kindly. "Don't get up too aarly in the morning. I breakfast at eight, but as you will still be rather fatigued, you must sleep as late as you please, and you will 5nd everything ready for you when you come iown." "Thank you, sir," said Mary. "I generally get up at six?at least I did at school." "But this isn't school. You are at liberty now, you know," he answered, smiling down into her upturned face. "You are to do exactly as you choose, here. I constitute you , mistress of the house, and everything is to go on as you like to have it." Colonel Dacre, Colonel Dacre 1 is this the 1 way you commence the duties of your guard- ; ianship? Mary flushed a deep rosy red. "I would rather everything should go on just as you like, sir," she said, shyly, "myself among the 1 rest." ' "Would you, ray child ? Then it shall? jnly my way will probably be yours," he an jwered, still smiling in his benignant fashion, and thinking as he did so, how the girlish figure, standing there in the warm ruddy light, brightened and beautified the room, usually jo solitary and quiet. Mary stood still a moment longer. Then, with another "goodnight," withdrew her hand and left the room. A sable handmaiden, appointed for her sole ose, was waiting to attend her to her chamber and assist her in her toilet duties, which being fulfilled, she laid her head on the downiest of pillows, in the whitest and softest of beds, and was soon soundly and sweetly asleep. The colonel sat down in the big chair he bad drawn up before the fire for his ward's use, and ruminated. That his reflections were it first solely pleasaut, might be inferred from his smiling and satisfied expression ; but, after a time, this changed. A serious, almost troubled look came over his face. He knitted his brows and compressed his lips, and ;azed long and fixedly into the glowing embers, as if there reading some painful pictures of the past. Painful, indeed, were some of the memories that flitted through his brain, n as by gone years arose up before him?memories of wasted affection, of treasures of the beart and mind lavished with bounty only to be cast aside with indifference or con- 1 tempt. Of slow-growing disappointment and rain regret, and bitter yearning for happiness never to be attained. Two faces floated before ais mind's eye in this shadowy retrospect? ;he same faces that looked down upon him ' from the recesses on either side of the fireplace. Both had played an active part once ,n the drama of his life, and at one time the balince had hung very evenly which should deaide his fate?whether the dark eyed Hebe or the pale auburn-haired Blanche should be his ihosen companion in his journey through the 1 tvorld's pathways. The choice was made. 1 Was it a choice, or a flat of inexorable destiny that turned the scale? The Hebe face lad vanished from his sight, and only its , memory remained. How many years had passed since last those eyes bad beamed into tiis, and that radiant smile penetrated like lunshine into his very heart? The Colonel 1 iid not care to count. He knew only that somewhere in a distant land was a grave where a cherished hope lay buried, whose shadow still lay across the heart once gladdened by that smile. , "Well! well 1 Let bygones be bygones," fie muttered at last, roasing himself from his reverie with a sigh. "I have grown morbid, [ believe. I have lived a solitary life toe long for ray own good. This child's coming will be a healthy tonic for me. Her presence has brightened me up already, God bless her! A sweeterface, but one, I never saw." And then the Colonel raked out the Are and went to bed, where he, too, soon slept the sleep of the innocent and the just. [to be continued.] The Value of Money.?Ask of each ringing dollar in this word its history?how f* Aomo into lifp Snmfl nf them will tell vou lb uauib iuvv ? ??? ? ? - ? - they represent the tears of a widow, the bartered honor of a man, the jobbery of a ring, and the thousand of other stories which you would be told, I need not relate. Benjamin Franklin said the road to wealth is as plain as the road to market. Yes, it is the good old-fashioned road to honest toil. We sometimes say that the day of miracles is passed. There is one miracle still existing?the miraculous result of hard labor that is accomplished by the dripping sweat of the brow. The value of money is not what it buys, but what it costs. Some men's money cost them much, others too little. A man who makes bis money at the expense of his health and honor, pays too much ; he that gets his money by lucky hits pays too little. If he pays too much he cheats himself; if he pays too little be cheats mankind. The golden mean between these two extremes was well expressed in the prayer of Agar, who said, "Give me neither poverty nor riches." If a man would bring Arcadia, let him abolish poverty and wealth. True Strength.?We must measure a man's strength by the power of the feelings he subdues ; not by the power of those whioh subdue him. And hence, composure is often the highest result of strength. Did we ever see a man receive a flagrant injury, and then reply calmly? That is a man spiritually strong. Or, did we ever see a man in anguish, stand as if carved out of solid rock, as if mastering himself? Or one bearing a hopeless daily trial remain silent and never tell the world what cankered his home peace? That is strength. We often mistake strong feelings for strong character. A man who bears all before him, before whose frown domestics tremble, and whose bursts of fury make the children of the household quake because he has his way in all things, we call him a strong man. The truth is, that be is a weak man ; it is his passions that are strong?he, mastered by them, is weak, Igteltanwusi |teadittg. Married Experience.?I married my wife about thirty-five years ago. Tbe ceremoDy was performed about 7 o'clock in the morning. Before retiring that evening, we had a talk with each other, and the result has sweetened our entire lives. We agreed with each other that each should be watchful, careful, neyer, by act or word, to hurt the feelings of the other. We were both young, both hot-tempered, both positive in our likea and dislikes, and both somewhat exacting and inflexible?just the material for a life of conjugal warfare. Well, for a few doom tma fnnnd it harrl arnrt to nltvava 1 iCP hv ru,? "v ? -?J our agreement. Occasionally (not often) a word or look would slip off the tongue or face before it could be caught or suppressed ; we never allowed the sun to go down on our wrath. Before retiring at night on such occaaions, there was always confession and forgiveness, and the culprit would become more careful in the future. Our tempers and dispositions became gradually more and more congenial; so that after a few years we became one in reality, as the material ceremony had pronounced us one nominally. In thinking back, we find that for more than twenty years our little agreement has been unbroken, and there has been no occasion for confession or forgiveness. In business we have had our adversity and prosperity and success. We have raised a family of children, and now have our grand children about us; we are simple enough to believe that we have better children and grand children because of our little agreement. Under such a contract, religiously kept, no ill-natured children will be reared, and no boys will find the streets and bar-rooms more pleasant than home. To make a good wife or a good husband, requires the co-operation of both. A Non-committal Captain.?Captain Ward was an eccentric of the first water, and one of his peculiarities was that he never gave the desired answer to a direct question. An amusing instance of this evasive habit is related. One morning, four of his friends, who were aware of this trait in his character, observed him going to market, and after some bantering, entered into a bet as to the practicability of learning from him the price he paid for his purchase. They accordingly settled the preliminaries, and stationing themselves at different points along the street which he must pass on the way home, awaited his coming. Very soon the bluff old gentleman made his appearance, with a bunch of pigeons in bis hand. As he approached, the first questioner accosted him with : "Good morning, captain 1 What did you give for pigeons this morning?" "Money," said the captain bluntly, as he moved up the street The second gentleman, a little further on, addressed him and asked,? "How go pigeons this morning, captain ?" "They don't go at all?I carry them!" was the equally unsatisfactory reply. Shortly after, he met the third, who passed the time of day and inquired,? "How much are pigeons a dozen ?" "Didn't get a dozen?only bought half a dozen ?" said the old gentleman, gruffly, still plodding on his way. Finally, the fourth and last of the conspirators, cottoned to the wary old salt, by obBrrrmg-ra feteudheMroT loneS,? "A fine lot of pigeons you have there, captain ; what did you get them for?" "To eat?" was the pertinent and emphatic rejoinder, and the captain reached home without further molestation. If the pigeons did not take wing, the joke did, and has been handed down by tradition to the present day. Relative Cost of Water and Steam ' ? . . i .1 r rowER.?It having heen stated in me journal of the Franklin Institute that "the cost of raising water by water power at the Fairmont Works in Philadelphia was but 2 cents per one million gallons, raised 1 foot," Mr. Henry P. M. Birkinbine now says that the 2 cents referred to were expended for simply running the works, that is, attendants, oil, tallow and ordinary repairs; it did not, however, include the entire cost, but left out of consideration the extraordinary repairs incidental to water power?those maintaining the dam, head race, gates, etc. Had the calculation been properly made, it would have shown that the cost of raising water at Fairmont by water power was from 10 to 12 cents per million gallons, one foot high. Mr. Birkinbine makes the correction because it was asserted that had steam power been employed instead of water, it would have caused an additional outlay of$13,000 to $19,500 per annum. The conclusion at which Mr. Birkinbine arrives, on a consideration of the whole subject, is that, since the steam engine has been brought to the degree of perfection in simplicity, efficiency, economy, and reliability as we now have it, and as there are few locations in the thickly settled portions of our country where fuel cannot be procured at a moderate price, steam is preferable to water power. This is particularly the case where the water power is unfavorably located, and when the trouble incident to droughts, floods, etc., is taken into account. ? ? 4 A man from the lower walks of life entered a drug store and inquired the price of an ounce of arsenic. Being informed, he drew a paper from his pocket, consulted some figures, and said: "That's two cents more than they asked me in Columbia." "Well, those are my lowest figures," replied the druggist. That man took out a stub of a pencil, figured for three or four minutes, and sagely observed. "It's time to practice economy, and 1 might an vol I hoorin hern. Two cents on an ounce is thirty cents on a pound. Thirty-two cents on a pound is $32 on a hundred weight, or $6,400 on a ton. Great heavens! but do you think I would recklessly throw away six thousand four hundred dollars ?" The druggist could make no reply, and the man looked terribly indignant as he went out. A Proposed Liberian Railway.?Congress has been asked for an appropriation of $50,000 to make a preliminary survey from Liberia, one or two thousand miles into Central Africa, and to report upon the country, its population, productions, and the practicability of the road. Should the report of the survey be favorable, a company is to be formed to build the road, who are to commence by putting on a line of twenty steamers from Philadelphia or New York to Liberia, which are to carry out railroad material, goods suited to the African trade, and to call at Norfolk and Charleston for colored railroad laborers and colonists, and bring return cargoes of palm oil, coffee, sugar, ivory, gold, and other African products, the trade in which, it is believed, will be vastly increased as it reaches the interior. Tnp Tdttu Sppom TTnw tnanir fata a JLU?i O.JLVUXJ JkAVU UIWUJ l/t* Cb V> l? wrong view of life, and waste their energies and destroy their nervous system in endeavoring to accumulate wealth, without thinking of the present happiness they are throwing away. It is not wealth or high station which makes a man happy. Many of the most wretched beings on earth have both ; but it is a radiant, sunny spirit, which knows how to bear little trials and enjoy comforts, and thus extract happiness from every incident in life.