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lewis m. grist, Proprietor. ^it |nitcpenbent Jamilg ftetospajter: Jor I [it promotion of t|e political, Social, Agricultural anit Commercial Interests of % Sonfjj. TERMS?$3.00 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE. VOL. 24. YORKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, JULY 11, 1878. HO. 28. ^elected! fftfetrg. THIRTY-EIGHT. How quickly fly the years away, And rush into the past, While wrinkles come unbidden So very sure and fast; They tell me I am growing old, And must accept my fate; I've scarcely seen the world at all, And yet I'm thirty-eight. My hair is tinged with silver, With here and there a spray, The brown is getting thinner, Surrendering to the gray ; Old time is reaping bodily The crop from off my pate? I think he's rather early, For I'm only thirty-eight. I remember, yes, remember, A few short years ago, Before my hair was sprinkled With this autumnal snow ; That years were slow in comingin fact, were very late? When here I am despairing That I am thirty-eight. Oh! Time, relent a littlo; I'm bald enough at best; Just stay and think a moment, Lay down your soythe and rest; I want to be a vounjrish man, About the middle state; So, if you please, just let me be A boy of thirty-eight. I've tried Rome hair restorers, To replace the gathered crop; I've hunted for a remedy In recipes and shops: But while I hunt for just the thing, I'm most convinced it's bait, To kill what little hair I've got, And leave me thirty-eight. I'm glad I married years ago, Before I got so old? Before my face was furrowed With crow's-feet plain and bold; I'm glad I courted when I did, My true and loving mate. Because she loves me just as well, If I am thirty-eight. ?be Jdorg idler. TOW CORA LOST THE BATTLEr "I won't be polite to him?I won't do my best to please him ; I'll do all I can to vex and worry him ! I don't want to see him ; and I'll do all I can to make him wish himself anywhere else I" And the speaker stamp ad her foot, threw a boquet of flowers? which she had already seriously damaged?to the other side ol the room, and looked beau____ tiful deflance. In grave and stern surprise, Mrs. Lynn stood regarding her niece. She knew that Cora was wild, high-Bpirited, self-willed ; but she had not expected such an outburst as this on being told that a man, young, handsome and wealthy, needed ouly fair encouragement to become a willing wooer. Surely such un reasonable rebellion must arise from great ignorauce. The girl was very young; she had been brought up in this secluded Bpot on the coast of Devonshire, with few companions but ber favorite dogs, and little reading save what she selected for herself from the oldfashioned library. A little diplomacy might make her see things in an altogether different light "Cora," said Mrs. Lynn, mildly. "I think you are exciting yourself quite needlessly, and behaving in a very childish manner. You surely do not want Mr. Proctor to suppose that Devonshire girls of seventeen or eighteen or a ahnnt. nn an intellectual level with London girls of twelve?" "I don't care what he thinks," declared Cora; "he is no more to me than, some parcel of goods that you may have seut for." "Cora, try to be calm?you are really acting and talking most absurdly. You know nothing about Mr. Proctor, who is a man of great attainments. He took high honors at Oxford, and has traveled all over the Continent and in the East. He is coming here by my invitation and by the wish of his father, who, a3 I have already told you, had the greatest regard for your father, and would be only too happy if, in his daughter, his son could find a congenial wife. Why, then, should you deliberately try to make yourself disagreeable to your cousin? You are all but portionless ; he is not only rich, but, from all I hear, a man likely to be able to make you happy. I simply ask you to consider these things, and behave as any sensible young lady would behave under the circumstances, and you turn upon me with the petulance of a child, throw things about, and not sutler me to speax wunoui interruption. 1 ruly, Cora, you both astonish and wound me? you do, indeed." Neither the matter nor the manner of these speeches was likely, to produce a favorable impression upon an impetuous and sensitive girl, already in a by-no-raeans mild temper; and, if this was a specimen of Mrs. Lynn's diplomacy, it would not have won her a high place in circles where diplomacy is regarded as a valuable art. Cora, who had with difficulty kept silent during her aunt's harangue, now answered passionately? ^ "I dare say I do astonish you?and I'm j glad of it. You astonish me! Ah, you may stare, auut Lynn, but I tell you that, child or not?and I would far rather be a child thaB such a 'youug lady' as you would make me? I shall not do one thing to make this cousin of mine patronize me! I don't want his money, and, if he expects to fill up the autumn, when town is empty, by amusing himself with a flirtation at my expense, why, you had better tell him to go somewhere else. I don't understand flirtation, and I am not to I be trotted out and 'made over' to my cousin because you and his father have your heads together about it. I shall just snub him? I mean what I say. So now, if you dou't choose to countermand your invitation, you know what your guest has to expect." With that she called to a large wolf-dog that was lying near the open window, and laid her band upon the door. "Cora," said Mrs. Lynn, sternly, "you utterly forget yourself. I shall write to your father by the next post." ..17-.- :r iri? ? ?? X OU CttU II JTUU iltiCf WJW bUU lUJj/IIUCUb i reply; "but you had better write to ny paragon cousin aud tell bim to keep away. Cotne, Luath I" Without another word she walked out of ^ the room, and into the grounds, followed by half a dozen dogs beside Luath, and presently seated herself on the trunk of a fallen tree in the wood half a mile away from the old red brick mansinD. She was flustered and trembling still with passion, and hot tears fell upon Luath's head as she strung together field flowers, hardly knowing what she was doing, and hung them rouud her neck, he regarding her meanwhile with loving wondering eyes. "I won't be treated so!" she cried, biting her lip till the blood almost came. "Aunt Lynn shall fiud that I am too old to be put in leading-strings ; father never treated me so. Because he has gone to India, and she has come to take care of me, she fancies she can make a puppet of me and put me up for sale. I'll snub Allan Proctor till I make her mad, and hira too !" This resolution evidently afforded the young lady considerable satisfaction, for she grew a little calmer, aud the angry flush on her face gradually abated, and the almost stern com= pression of the lips gave place to an expression of pain and perplexity ; the flowers she had plucked up violently by the roots dropped from her fingers, and she fell into a reverie in which there was little repose, to judge by the face and the restive movement of the slender fingers tapping her knee. Her thoughts were not very amiable ; she was not brooding repentantly over her disrespectful speech to her aunt, but meditating on the line of action she should pursue with her cousin in order to render herself as obnoxious to him as possible. Mr. Proctor was expected to arrive in two ' days' time, and Mrs. Lynn did not write and ! countermand his visit; nor did she make any further allusions to him till the day he was to come, when she said to her niece? "Mr. Proctor is coming to-day, Cora. He I will arrive about three o'clock ; so don't go I rambling ten miles away." Cora, who, at this moment, was reading by the window, made no reply, but immediately , rose up, called to her dogs, and ran off down j the lawn. J Half an hour later one of the servants re: ported that Miss Cora had been seen walking ! along the cliffs; and Mrs. Lynn felt certain i that her perverse niece had deliberately gone j for one of her long rambles. She had been ! puzzled from the time?six months before? that she had come to take charge of her brother-in-law's child while he went back to India to finish his term of service; she had let her go her own way, as her father had done?and a very wild way it was. The first attempt at restraint had been met by Cora with an onDosition that had put a stop to all 4 r m further effort; now, however, Mrs. Lynn bad determined to make another endeavor, and again she had failed. "It's really disgraceful," said Mrs. Lynn, as she went to attire herself to receive her guest, "to let girls run wild in this way. At i seventeen Cora is a mere child, and as un! tamed as a young colt. What could Henry have been about?" The sun was moving towards the west when a tall, slim young figure came at easy stride through the shrubbery at Alton End, followed by three great shaggy dogs. The figure was attired in a striped Swiss cotton dress, laid open loosely at the throat with a wide collar; the garment was torn in two or three places, its owner having scrambled through hedges in her rambles; a large bough of may wa^ carried in the arms of the wanderer, her hat hung down her back, and her rich curling hair was tumbled all about her. Altogether, Cora Lynn, who wished to show a disregard of the guest, formed as picturesque a study as the most exacting artist could have desired. As she came around the kitchen entrance she was met by one of the servants in a state of excitement. "Ob ! Miss Cora, Mr. Proctor has come. Do run up and dress before the mistress sees you. He's been there since three?such a handsome gentleman?and your aunt has been asking where you were." "Don't make a fuss," said Cora, coolly. "I shall dress when I have put my may in water, not before. Don't send Meg up?I'll ring when I'm ready for her." The defiant look had come into the large eyes again, and she went up stairs whistling, with her torn dress, her tumbled hair, her great trailing bough of may, and dogs. As she reached the hall she heard voices approaching, and deliberately paused. If this was Allan Proctor, she would show him how little she cared for him by receiving him in this disorderly guise. The next moment, through the open door, came her aunt in violet satiu and cap rich with Honiton lace, and with her a tall, slight man in fashionable London attire?a fair and very handsome mtnt nith curly hair, which Hie wuLi'u rays lighted into gold, and large, brilliant, blue eyes. One glance only gave Cora to him, though that glance pleased her; and so she did not see the admiration in his eyes, veiled but not hidden by the high-breeding which < i ' i- _ .i J: _I ioro'.U8 a genuemau iu uispiay ujjcu numnation of a lady. Poor Cora! Ho thought of nothing but her beauty as she stood there, with her bough of white and green setting off her dark hair and soft complexion and bright eyes. But her aunt saw the couventioua) shortcomings of the interview, and her stem frown was not lost upon Cora. It gave her great delight. "Back, at last, Cora," said Mrs. Lynn, cheerfully. "A pretty plight you are iu to meet your cousin! Allan you must forgive Cora?she never pays any regard to forms and ceremonies." "It is an easy task to forgive eo pretty a plight," said Mr. Proctor, holding out his band and smiling. There was something singularly soft and tender in his manner, and his refiued accent and musical voice smote pleasantly on Cora's ears; but she mentally set her teeth in the resolve not to give him a cordial welcome, and gave him her band without an answering smile and with an indifferent air that must have repelled him but for her winning beauty. He did not seem, however, to notice it, but glanced keenly at her and turned to caress her dogs, who did not seem to share their young mistress' antipathy, but frisked joyously about him. Cora turned away. "Incorrigible!" muttered the angry Mrs. Lynn. But Allan Proctor, who gave no signs of i having heard the remark, observed?"Portraits never do full justice. The child is beautiful! I must get her to let me draw her crayons. Put her on the walls of the Academy as she stood just now, and the picture would be the sensation of the season." Mrs. Lynn thought it was very kind of Allan Proctor to overlook Cora's rudeness; but he had spoken in good faith. He was a thorough artist, and no mean executant; and Cora would have hardly felt satisfied with herself if she had known how great an impression for good she had made on her cous- j in?how her likeness more than anything i else had induced him to accept Mrs. Lynn's j invitation to Alton End, although he knew very well that she was iayiug a matrimonial i trap for him. Cora did not summon Meg at all, but dress- j ed herself, choosing the ugliest dress she could j find?though the ugliest was pretty, as she ! had really no inartistic dresses to wear. She | tried to make herself "look bad," as she' termed it; but that was impossible, and the | result was that she came down to dinner look- ! ing as beautiful as ever. She thought Allan ! t> T ..r I jrruciur, wiui ins Ijuiiuuii imuuiis ill lasuiuuable harmouy, would dislike violeut contrasts and "loud" colors; so she put on a scarlet bodice?her dress was lilac?and fastened a yellow ribbon among her curls. But all this made her look picturesque, though it would have been a dangerous experiment for an ordinary young lady. Mrs. Lynn was thoroughly displeased with her niece; she saw that her costume had been deliberately selected?for she knew that Cora was usually critically fastidious about colors. Cora's conduct did not afford any ground for : overlooking her shortcomings in dress. She sat perfectly silent, unless addressed, *?nd then she replied as shortly as possible. She fed ! the dogs?a freak she never indulged in at ! other times?and, though she could not bring herself to be guilty of solecisms in table manners, her general behavior was anything but courteous to her guest and respectful to her aunt. Proctor, however, did not speak much i to her, addressing his conversation almost entirely to Mrs, Lynn; and this, instead of piquing, pleased Cora. ***** But Cora Lynn was not easily subdued. ; For several days she followed the same line of conduct. Her aunt attempted to take her severely to task, but was fain to leave her alone, for Cora told her passionately that, if | he interfered with her, she would go away all j day, and not come back till late in the evening, or plainly tell her cousin be was de trop, and beiDg a gentleman, be would be compelled to leave. Proctor, for bis part, was provokingly kind, gentle, and considerate ; he never resented the rudest of speeches, he took no offence at | the moBt direct snubs, he did not obtrude bis society on his young cousin, but was always willing to do anything for her. Cora, however, as she found herself growing more and more to like the young man, became less sociable, and steeled herself against any softening influence?indeed, she seemed so committed to this line of conduct now, that she could not abandon it vrithout losing dignity, proclaiming herself defeated, and telling her cousing in effect that she had grown to like him. To maintain her obdu| rate demeanor toward her winning cousin she continually required, to fan the flame of her resentment, by recalling her aunt's language on the cruel injustice done to her, and the insolence of a man coming to "view" a wife as -i l_ i? ii aim were an aruuie mi mho. "Why does be stay?" she would say to herself. "He must see that he is not wanted. I wish he would go. I am jure he does not want for hints. He can't stop for auntie. I know I won't be civil to him?and there's an end to it!" Speaking thus one day, mentally, but stampj ing her foot literally, she heard Proctor's | voice uttering her name. "It is a splendid day," he said, smiling. "Won'tyou be kind tome for once, and have a ramble over the crags with me before I go?" The girl looked at him. There was no sparkle of triumph in bis eyes, no mockiDg line about the handsome mouth. She might have yielded then if it had not been for his closing words?"before I go." The sudden sinking at her heart made Cora set her teeth hard and answer half sullenly? "I have something else to do?I can't come, cousin Proctor"?she always used his surname. "Very well. Good-bye then?I shan't trouble you much loDger, my bonnie coz." He turned away, and vauished among the trees; and then Cora ran away, and, 'hiding herself, sobbed as if her heart would break. An hour later she called Bar, and went out for a long ramble, going inland, because Bhe thought he had gone to the cliff. Luatb, who had that morning been lamed with a thorn, and had not yet recovered, was left behi nd. When Proctor returned to the house at sunset, Cora was not yet in. "She is often as late as this," said her aunt, "and later too; I suspect she has gODe towards the brook?it is a favorite walk of hers." "The brook that is dammed up at the mill that you showed me a week or two ago ?" interrogated Proctor. n'ni a "ine same. He said no more, but weDt out again, and this time took his way toward the brook. The dusk was falling over the landscape as he struck into the wide meadow at the foot of which Aston brook flowed tranquilly. As he did so the deep bayiug of a bloodhound smote upon his ear. He paused one second with whitening lips, and then breaking into a fleet run, was in two minutes at the bottom of the meadow. What was this? That brook that usually flowed so gently was tearing past like a millrace, foaming and leaping aud overflowing its banks, and across the angry flood came again the bujiug huund, Blialgtll frutn H ltl~ tie island all covered with trees and under wood, where Cora had passed many a Bummer noon. She stood now upon its verge, looking down into the stream, a perfect picture, with her long, rich curls floating round her, aud her hauds locked; her attitude was half timid, half defiant, but without fear, even in this position of difficulty, possibly of peril. The deep bay of the dog changing to a joyous bark made her look up, to see her cousin's iall figure on the opposite bank. She flushed deeply, but called out directly : "The dam is broken?that's all. I would cross, but that I fear I might get swept away; and Bar isn't so strong bb Luai.h, or he should take me." She was turning away, when Proctor's voice arrested her steps. "How long have you been an involuntary Crusoe?" he said, seeing that there was no danger. "Four hours. It was all right when I came, and suddenly began rushing likel.bat." "What do you mean to do, then ?" ' Perhaps it will go down presently?I'll wait and see," said Cora. "I'm quite safe with Bar. Besides no one can cross." "Nonsense?it is barely three feet deep ; but the current would carry you away like a cockleshell." "It looks grand!" said the girl, again looking down at the seething waters. "It is grand enough; but you can't remain there all night, bonnie coz. You must let me help you over. I can keep my feet, I think; if not?well we must 6nd some other means." "No," she said, hastily. "Please leave me. I shall do very well." "Till the dam is built up," said Proctor, coolly, "or till some chance person passes and can help you over the stream ? I don't want to lay greater claim to the right to help you than a some one else has, but I chink I am better able, being not only strong, but active and sure-footed. I don't want you to thank me, Cora; I only want you to have a little common sense. It is worse than folly to slop where you are. As a gentleman, as a man, how can I leave you ?" Cora saw the force >f his words. She hesitated, a flush of shame crimsoning her cheeks and brow. She had no fear for him and Proctor detected easily the motive that kept her silent. Taking action at once, the young man stepped down into the stream. Involuntarily the girl clasped her hands as she saw him do so ; but a moment Bhowed that her cousin was too strong for the angry waters. In three more seconds he was by her side. "Come," he Baid, smiling. "I think I can keep you out of the water?you are a light weight." "No, no?you must have a hand free,'' the girl told him hurriedly. "There is no danger, my dear cnua, ior either you or me." His perfect confidence was reassuring. Cora was fearless for herself; her apprehension had been for him. He took her up in his arms and stepped back into the stream, Bar, with joyous bark, following suit. In two minutes more, Proctor had gently placed his young cousin on terra firma, dry footed. She looked up at him, flushing deeply. I "You are very kind," she said, in a low voice. "Thank you, Proctor." "I promised to ask no reward, Cora," remarked Proctor, smiling, "and I must keep my word ; and yet?" "Yet what?" she said. "But please: get home quickly?you will catch cold?you are dreadfully drenched." "Pooh ! I am right enough ; but we had better hurry home, for your aunt will be anxious. Would you," he added, as they struck across the meadow, "think I asked too much, if I requested you to come out with me tomorrow for one ramble along the cliffs before I leave ? I go in a few days, you know." "I will come," said Cora, tears blinding her eyes. She could not have uttered a word more. Proctor glanced at the fair young face and suppressed a sigh. What if? Unconsciously he strodemore rapidly forward and crushed an inoffensive dandelion as if it bad been bis worst enemy. Poor Cora I Sbe was more unbappy than ever that evening. After the service lie bad rendered her on that day, it was impossible to treat her cousin as sbe had treated bim be- | ; fore, and yet sbe Bhrank with something like ! terror from the amende honorable. He, bowever, did not presume upon bis claims to ber consideration. He did not ask for music, be did not speak to ber more than usual, and, when they were separating for the night, he went up to her, as she stood moodily by the window looking out at tho sea, and held out ; bis band with bis customary gentle "Goodnight, Cora." Generally she simply replied coldly, "Goodnight," sometimes resigning her hand to him i for a second, sometimes not even looking round. On this night her heart beat fast, her lips trembled, her eyes were full. She longed to say "Pleasb, forgive me," but the words would not come. She flushed and paled in a i breath, and kept her face turned to the win- I dow, for she dared not let him see it. "Good-night," Proctor's soft voice repeated, witknnt. a nhftrie nf rpnroaeh in his tone. He ....... v?r ? "*"*** " ? ?r - - ? saw the struggle. Was it only a child's sorrow aud shame because of injustice, or was it something more that kept her silent and motionless? She stretched out her hand then and laid it . in his. "Good-night, cousin Proctor," she said, in a whisper, for she could not trust her usual 1 voice. ' His slight lingers closed round the little hand ; he held it for a second, and then, act- J ing perhaps on the impulse of the moment, drew its owner toward him, and, stooping, kissed her forehead. She did not resent his conduct, but the color rushed over her face, and a strange, terrified look carne into her eyes. Whatever the light that bad been let in upon her heart, whether entirely from without or partly also from within, and, turning away, be quitted the room. 1 The next morning was bright and sunny, a 1 glorious autumn day, and, early as Cora vas ' in the breakfast room, Proctor was there be- 1 fore her, reading Shukspeare. He greeted her 1 with bis usual smile, rising to shake hands with her, as always; and Cora, feeling 1 ashamed in his presence, stole out to the terrace, and there remained till her aunt came down. 1 After breakfast Mrs. Lynn rose, and, turn ing to Proctor, said? "Must you really leave ua so soon, Allan ? Cannot you stop a little longer?" , "I fear not?nay," he added, laughing slightly, "I think I am de trop." Mrs. Lynn's face flushed angiily. Cora ( rose abruptly, and went to the window; her ( eyes were dim again, her lips trembling ; she 1 was ready to burst into tears. But she would not give way, and for many minutes after Mrs. Lynn had left the room she stood there, till j she felt her face would not betray her; then she looked round. Proctor was reading Shak speare again. "When do you wiah to go out ?" she asked. He looked up. "Whenever you like, Cora ; or not at all, if 1 you would rather not." "No; I have made a promise, and I will keep it." "She left the room, Bar and two or three : other dogs following her. Then a trinrtHea snaaow Fell on iToctorV"1 fine face. He threw down the Shakspeare, 1 and got up and paced the room slowly till she 1 came back. "If in vain," he said to himself?"if in 1 vain ! Have I been rash ? She is such a 1 child ! And must I break my heart over ' such a dream an this? Ay, the die is cast; 1 her picture brought me here, and she herself 1 has kept me here. Here she is." She came in with her hat placed carelessly over her rich curls, her hands guiltless of gloves, and her dogs at her heels, as always; , she hardly moved without them. "We will go out this way, by the terrace," she said; and they stepped through the French window, crossed the lawn, and were soon on the cliffs. . "Where are you going, Cora ?" asked Proc* I? ofior ttou huH IruvprapH nhnilt. half a mile in silence. ' "I don't know," said the girl, without rais- j ing her eyes; "I came with you?not you ( with me." "Ah 1 but the lady always leads ! Howev- 1 er, if you wish me to be guide, why I propose } the overhanging rock at Errington, about a mile further on. It gives such a splendid view of the sea." j "Very well," agreed Cora. And little more was said till the Hanging ] Rock, as it was called, was reached. There , was a low bench within about twelve feet of | the verge of the cliff, and on this they both sat ( down, and Proctor began carelessly tracing , figures in the sand with his stick. Miss Lynn soon grew restless. She was too ( troubled in mind to enjoy the beauty of the ( view or be exhilarated by the warm sun and ( balmy air, and too embarrassed in her cousin's presence to resist the temptation to run ( away for a time. "Come, Bar and Bran!" she called, jump- j ing up. "I am going for a run down that , slope, Proctor." And away she went, run- , ning fleetly for a little distance, but presently ] dropped into a saunter. ] Proctor dropped his figure drawing for a moment and looked after her, with a curious ( smile creeping over his lips, and then he went ] on dreamily with his employment?he never j offered to follow her. So ten minutes, per- ' haps a quarter of an hour, passed, and then | Cora, who had vanished over the cliff, came ( slowly back, swinging a long piece of sea j weed in one hand, while the other held a long bunch of wild flowers and heather that , she had plucked. She came right up to the , beach and paused?her shadow fell across ] Proctor, and he looked up. "Well " fluid poollv. "hack at last." and , he went on with some geometrical sign. ( Cora's ejes followed the point of the stick, , and she thought vaguely of Blaise Pascal working out geometrical problems in the dust , of his lumber-room floor; but she did not ] move. Bar went up to Proctor and rubbed his < j nose against him, planting the mark of his i I paw over an elegant triangle. I "A new sign in geometry," observed Allan, < ; caressing the dog, and idly commencing a i ' fresh triangle. "Do you want to leave this ; spot, Cora?" ] "No," she replied, looking out to sea. "I i ; don't care to more; I came out because you asked me." "Thank you," saiid her cousin, gravely. | j "It was very kiui of you. Perhaps it will | 1 be long before I see it again, if ever, for I ] i shall be going away on the day after to-mor- . | row." i j "Why ?" asked the girl, as he paused. She I thought that she must say something, but she f | asked the question quite aimlessly. She be- < gan to pull her sea-weed to pieces, to hide the ! trembling of her hands. i "Why?" repeated Proctor, still tracing pat- < j terns in the sand, but giving a swift glance at 1 i her half-averted face. "Isn't that rather an I odd question for you, pretty coz? You have < ' not given me many temptations to remain." He spoke the-words carelessly. The girl's 11 ; face flushed scarlet, but she would not utter a syllable to exonerate herself. She could not i ask him to forgive her. Still pursuing his i employment, Proctor went on, after a pause? and now his voice, always soft, had in it some- i thing pleading that belied its half-mocking accent? "How have I offended you, Cora? What have I done to merit your disapproval ? I have tried to win your favor, but you will not grant me a kind word or look. Do you dislike me ?" "No," she said, turning away her face; "I like you well enough. I will try to like you better, if you will." "Is that all ?" Then I am too exacting." "What do you want?" asked Cora, not knowing exactly what she had uttered. The answer was spoken very low? "I would rather you loved me, Cora." It might have been only a cousin's speech ; but Cora felt that the words carried a deeper signiGcauce. What did he mean? Her heart rose up with a sudden bound, then seemed to stand still, and then beat wildly. She kept her face resolutely turned to the sea; she was conscious as if in a dream, that the soft wind was fanning her and Gut? 01 teriDg ner uuir. one wub uui vuubuuus tuax ber flowers and sea-weed bad fallen at her feet. Bar came up to her and licked her clenched bands, and she let her fingers wander over bis rough, honest head. What was it that was slipping away from her? What new knowledge was filling her being with strange joy, with strange fear ? "Cora," said Proctor, standing up, and throwing off his assumed careless languor of tone and manner, and speaking with passionate tenderness, as a man speaks who lays his life at a woman's feet; "I know what it is that has risen up between you and me?I know that you have been cruelly wronged. You were told, when I came here?I can divine that, though I have not heard it in words?that I came to win a bride; that I was rich, that you were portionless?ah! your face would confirm my words if your manner to me had not told me the truth !?that you were to strive to please, not to repel me. You thought that I came here as a conqueror comes to the city that has no defences, secure nf oootr nirtnrp and vnn rehelled acainst the double insult to your womanhood and to your conscious innocence of the base motives to carry out such a scheme for your future peace. You dreaded to show me even ordinary courtesies, which might have seemed to me like participation in the plan your aunt had formed for you. But, ah ! Cora, did it never occur to you that this was the surest way to win me? If you had been what they wanted you to be, I should have quitted this place in two days, and for ever. I stayed from day to day, trying to win the heart that you were steeling against me. Cora, hear me! As you have a true woman's heart, I sntreat you to cast aside the rankliDg thought af this miserable plot! Let me plead my cause unfettered. Before I came here my father spoke to me of you ; he had loved your father like a brother. He showed me your picture, and when I saw your face, Cora, I looked for the first time on a face that I could love. I told my father that I would come here to please him, and in my heart was the hope, almost the prayer, that you might be ill that by your face you seemed to be. You are all this to me, and much more, Cora. And now I implore you once more to remove from your mind every thought that can fetter its freedom. All that a man can live for in the circle of heart and home I am laying in your hands. You are young?you are all the world to me! For your own heart's sake, do not trifle with me 1" Cora had drawn back a few steps when her cousin began to speak, clasping her hands aver her breast, and turning towards him a face strangely pale at first, but over which a rich crimson gradually crept, till cheeks and brow were sufTused, while the quivering af the parted lips and the rapid breathing told th -ir own tale, and in the large eyes was somewhat of fear?the fear of a fawn startled in fanninst Qunnritv /if o fitiilH nwalrpnprl tn thp knowledge that to one man in the world she is a child no longer. Wondering, bewildered, her heart in a tumult of joy and grief, with a keen sense of the injustice that had been done to him, her tongue mijjht have failed her but for his con2luding words. Trifle with him I Play with i man's true love! No, no, she had not done that?he could not think it?she clasped her bands suddenly before her eyes and dropped an one knee, bursting into bitter weeping, into passionate words. "Not that?not that! You know I have sever trifled with you. I have done wrong ?very wrong?please forgive me?try to forgive me?but you will not believe that I could be so wicked ?" "Cora, my darling 1" He bent down and raised her, and clasped her to his breast. 4It is you who have been wronged, not I. I have nothing to forgive, nothing to ask for, 3xcept your love?if you can give it fully, freely !" Had she not given it? She knew it now, is, half shrinking from his embrace, half slinging to him, she hid her face and tried to give him the answer he sought. But he seemed to understand her, though % ..! / / 1 1-i _L!1 J _ 1 A 3till a utile anxious, ieariux lesi, cnnu aimuai 38 she was, she should have been startled into an acknowledgment of love for him than convinced by her own heart. He drew her to his side, and, still holding her close to him, lifted to his owu the face she would fain have kept hidden. "Cora," he said, wistfully, "I want to reach the truth. I have been hasty. I should not bave asked for au answer now. Give it to me in a few days?a week?when you choose. You are so young. You have been so isolated. It would break my heart if you should iiscover too late that you have made a fatal mistake. Let me leave you for a while." "No, no 1" she interrupted. "I koow it all now. I"?her voice fell to a whisper, and she jhunned his wistful look?"I do love you, Allan. I want no time. Do you believe me?" The kiss he pressed on her lips was enough, nod Cora was all but perfectly happy, not tjuite. The girl's sensitve spirt still chafed under the knowledge that she had been unjust. "Allan," she said presently, it makes me unhappy to think of the manner in which I bave behaved to you. I would have drawn back after a time, but I could not. Even when you carried me over the brook, it seemed so ungrateful to go on as before ; but to alter my conduct was more difficult than ever. I seemed afraid of you; aud then I thought?I feared " "You reared 1 e&ouid neneve you were learning to love roe ?" supplied her cousin, smiling, as she faltered and paused. "Yes, Allan." "Poor little onel Well, never mind. I l>ear you no malice for all your pretty haughty ways. You have repaid me so handsomely that you leave me no ground of complaint. A.nd now are you sure that you don't even tnind Aunt Lynn's triumph ?" "No," said Cora, softly ; "1 don't mind anything now. You have forgiven, and that is quite enough." "Or you me? Which is it, coz? Because, after all, I did come to seek a bride, only I did not come in the Caesar vein,' Vent, vedi, * * t It wet* "That makes all the difference," observed Cora, innocently. And so the time passed, as such golden times do pass. The sun was sinking when Allan Proctor and his young cousin returned to the house. Mrs. Lynn met them in the ball. "You have made a-ffay of it," she said, addressing Proctor as Cora ran away. "I hope she baa made your last day more pleasant to you, Allau." "She has made it," declared Proctor, "the happiest day of my life. Don't be amazed. And my dear hostess, may I offer you a lit; tie bit of advice? The next time you have { a young, high-spirited girl to look after, don't tell her to be a ripe cherry to drop into the : mouth of the first well-to-do cavalier that comes that way and with a bow he passed ! her by, leaving her dumb and motionless with | astonishment. |Uailing. From the New York Tribune June, 26. THE PLAIN TRUTH ABOUT LIBERIA. J. Milton Turner, ex-minister from the United States to Liberia, was in New York on Saturday. In conversation with a Tribune reporter he described the present condition of Liberia, and the prospects of the colored people who had gone there from the Southern j States after the close of the rebellion. Mr. I Turner is a pure blooded negro of large frame. j He has been well educated, and expresses bis opinions with decision and confidence. The picture that he gives of Liberia is not an encouraging one for the negroes who have been hoping to better their condition by crossing the Atlantic to find new homes there. "Liberia," said Mr. Turner, "is a Republic, with a government modeled generally after that of the United States. .T.t is ordinarily peaceable, there having been no revolution since 1871, when the president and other officers were killed. The financial system is in a very bad condition ; the country has no money. President Gardner, in a recent inaugural address, said that there was not 84,000 in the hands of the government. There is a debt of a million, on which they cannot pay the interest. The current expenses are more than they realize from taxes. The most of the natives are very poor and are content to remain so. The man wears a kerchief about his loins and another at his neck. His wife is attired in the same way, and his children go naked. If he has enough to eat he is satisfied, but he hates all intruders, as he considers those to be who come from America." "What is your opinion of the prospects of those negro colonists from America, and of the probability of their success ?" was asked. "1 think," was the reply, "that the scheme of the Emigration Society and of the other similar organizations, to colonize Africa from the Southern States is one of the greatest frauds of this century. American philan tnropists, innuencea oy me Donei mac iney are assisting the elevation and well-being of an unfortunate class, and at the same time prompting the evangelization and civilization of Africa, contribute to the funds of these societies. Their subscriptions go to support a scheme which, it seems to me, is not only impolitic, but in a majority of instances injurious in its results. The enterprise is kept alive in this country by a few active agents of the societies, who represent to the inexperienced immigrants only the most attractive phases of life in Liberia. They speak the truth when they say the immigrants will 6nd the soil fertile, thac constant summer prevails, that there are valuable minerals, beautiful landscapes, luxuriant vegetation and tropical fruits of every description. But they don't auu inai uuiy tuu muai primitive ugriuuuurai implements are used. such aa oiitlaaaaa, hillhooks, Ac., and that neither horses, mules nor donkeys can stand the climate on the sea coast. Although it is summer the year through, the miasma, caused by the heavy rains alternating with hot suoshine, produces sickness half the year. During the rest of the year, the extreme heat of the sun causes such lassitude that few foreigners can endure any work under it. In fact, after one has once had the fever?as nearly every one does who goes there?he is never strong again. I am now suffering much from the effects of it. There is 'luxuriant vegetation,' but it is that peculiar to the deadly mangrove swamp. There is mineral wealth ; but there is no coal, and there are no resources for working the mines. The soil i9 fertile; but the country has never produced enough food to supply the consumption of the native inhabitants. Imported rice is sold at $4 a bushel, and then becomes, in the absence of money, the only currency for barter. The immigrant has to pay $14 to $19 a barrel for flour, $1 a pound for butter, 35 cents a yard for calico, and for other necessities prices in the same proportion. In the face of all these facts he has to compete with the native labor. The native is strong and hardy, with a very few wants, and able, at 25 or 50 cents a day, to perform the labor usually assigned to horses in other countries. For ordinary sevices all that an immigrant can expect is $2 a week. "Do not the emigrant societies fulfil their promise to help the immigrant on his arrival ?" "These societies," answered Mr. Turner, "promise six months' support to the immigrants. At the expiration of that time the colonists are left helpless and without means of livelihood, ignorant of the ways of the country, hating the native and hated by him, and probably suffering from disease. At the departure of every vessel for America there are many who beg to be taken back. The captains refuse to carry them, even if they have money to pay their passages, for, the captains say, if they allow these men to go back and tell of the actual condition of affairs in the colony, the Emigration Society will no longer employ them. And so the immigrants remain to suffer and die." "Are all parts of Liberia as unattraotive as those where the colony is located ?" "Probably not; the inland portions of Africa are perhaps better. But there are no means of access to them?only foot-paths cut by the natives, along which they transport goods by carrying them on their heads. The intervening forests are almost impregnable, and the petty kings along the way are sometimes hostile, and any treaties with them would have to be enforced by arms. MR. TURNER'S SUGGESTION OF A REMEDY. "Have you a remedy to propose ?" "Comparatively speaking, the English policy is better than the American. The English found, in organizing their colonies, that + tivcif nlon nf' olrinrr natiuoa in 1^.11 mHA in HJCIl U lot piBU \J . IUHII.J ? educate them as teachers of their brethren did not work well ; the educated pupil went back with ideas of civilization ill-suited for the purpose for which he had been trained. Then the English adopted the plan of the Fourah Bay College of Sierra Leone, where natives I were trained at home for direct work successj fully. These pupils have made possible education, and therefore civilization, among the ; other natives, and they are themselves occu! pying prominent positions as teachers, lawyers, legislators, &c. Now Liberia should be the nucleus around which the neighboring tribes might unite into a powerful civilized nation. Let the money contributed by philanthropists j in America be expended in establishing native manual labor schools, which shall supply the class of men needed in the country, free from all the drawbacks incident to emigration from America. The Vei tribe is the strongest, noblest and most intellectual in Liberia?the only tribe that has invented an alphabet. The language of the Veis has been reduced to grammar, and they are anxious to learn. This tribe is the best medium i for the propagation of civilization to the interior tribes of Africa. Until something of this kind has been done, the present plan of uniting the American negro and the African negro is proposteroua," "Is there, then, no disposition on the part of the natives and immigrants to coalesce ?" "Not at all," was the response, "and I will tell yon why. The immigrants have been slaves, and they are bearing in mind and body tbe fruits of that slavery. The negroes who leave this country are actually lower in the scale of civilization than those whom they find in Africa. The African has seen much less of civilization than the other, bat he has always been free, and knows no higher condition than that which he enjoys. And so they begin by hating each other at first sight. You can't bring them together. Nothing will induce them to inter-marry. The natives offer no inducements to the immigrants to setf tie, but in a lazy kind of way make it as uncomfortable for them as possible." Mr. Turner showed a number of affidavits of immigrants made in Monrovia, the capital of Liberia, which he is aboul to transmit to Secretary Evarts, in a repcrt which he was preparing. The affidavits set forth the harsh treatment which the affiants assert they have suffered at the bands of Liberian officials, and of the officers of the Emigration Society. "One of the principal reasons," continued Mr. Turner, "why immigrants fare so ill, is that they have no money to start with. It is impossible for them to succeed without taking ! considerable money with them. The only immigrant who has succeeded went there with a small capital, and is now worth $35,000 and runs several factories. Immigrants with combined capital could make money in coffee raisifag. Liberia grows the finest coffee in the world. But to start a coffee farm would require $50,000, and it would be three years before the owners would begin to get a return. Of course any such scheme is impossible for the ordinary immigrant. This is not an exaggerated statement of the unfortunate condition of the Liberian colonists." ? m + The Waste of War.?No doubt war is a very dreadful thing, but a writer in the Popular Science Monthly shows that its peculiar effects are worse than the generality of men have any conception of. Here are the arguments. We confess they are somewhat deep for us: "Gunpowder contains on an average 75 per cent, of saltpetre or nitrate of pota?h, equivalent to 10.2 per cent, of combined or available nitrogen. Of the 10.2 per cent., 9.98 per cent, or practically the whole, escapes in the form of free nitrogen, and is consequently rendered useless. Assuming tbe total production of gunpowder to b?;at least 100,000,000 pounds annually, this is shown to mean the destruction in advance of 500,000-? -J ^ ? PtrnrTT ntin/tA nf \J\J\J puuuuo Ul uioau a joai a-?vv<*j vuuw w? powder used in war, celebrations, etc., means the absolute unrecoverable loss to the world of a certain quantity of food, diminishes the fertility of the earth, and makes the struggle for existence steadily more difficult. There is here furnished an additional argument against Fourth of July combustions of gun-powder, and arbitration advocates may also fairly cite it against war. A great war not only extingushes a large number of useful lives, but does so at the cost of potential life. If people buried every year 600,000,000 pounds of bread in the earth, they would be guilty of frightful prodigality; but then, the nitrogen would still be available for the future. When they burn 100,000,000 pounds of gunpowder, however, they perform an infinitely more wasteful act, as they prominently diminish the amount of food the earth is capable of yielding." Too Much Watering of Trees.?-A course of daily watering during a time of great heat and dryness of atmosphere acts as if fire had been carefully carried to their roots. You examine trees and find the soil most as hard as a rock and the trees imprisoned and dying in clamps of sunburnt bricks. They must certainly die, and that unless relieved. Of a truth the roots of trees need air as much as moisture, and the daily wetting and drying soon make the snrface nearly impervious to air. Again, the daily wetting, if water is given in a quantity to do any good any way, will leave so much water in the soil that the cold produced by evaporation will so lower the temperature of the soil that the roots cannot perform their vital functions, and the tree or plant dies of starvation as well as overheating at the top. Evergreens especially will not endure too much or too frequent watering ; once in seven or ten days is enough in the dryest time; but when you give water let it be a flood of water or enough to wet the tree and all the soil about its roots. Dig a hole at its upper side and pour in one bucketful after another till the soil is saturated, and don't forget to pour some down and over the tree itself. Then when the water has settled away, cover very deeply with rotted straw, and don't touch the tree again for another week. Better no water at all than a daily wetting of the surface soil. The same rule apples. but with less force, to all trees.? Western Farm Journal. ? ? ^ Present State op Southern BattleFields.?The battle-fields around Richmond are quiet meadows now, reclaimed by Nature, with few signs of the days of "blood and iron." At Cold Harbor, Fair Oaks, Seven Pines and Malvern Hill, one sees little to remind him of the terrible scenes enacted there twelve and fifteen years ago. Iq the woods and on hillsides and river bluffs in the Peninsula, where no attempt has been made to cultivate the land, sloping earthworks are still to be seen, but elsewhere the entrenchments have been levelled. Below Petersburg there are few traces even of such formidable fortifications as Steadman, Hell and Damnation. The Crater and the fields around it are owned by Mr. Griffiths, who was born close by, and waa in Petersburg when the mine was fired. He has built a house near the crater, and now . has his father's farm under excellent cultivation. The Crater itself has been left almost untouched, and a thick underbrush of peach trees and sprouts has sprung up from the pits thrown away by the soldiers during the siege. The ravine, where the dead lay in great heaps on that terrible morning, has been brought nlnm -rraar o ft ay %roar llllf.il T1 flW OH uuuci buo piun jr vui kiwi j vm*j ? ?- ? ? ly a slight depression in the field can be pointed out. The visitor has to pay twentyfive cents for a glimpse of the Crater and the interior of a shed stocked with battle relics. The Rose of Sharon.?The rose of Sharon is one of the most exquisite flowers in shape and hue. Its blossoms are bellshaped, and of many mingled hues and dyes. But its history is legendary and romantic in the highest degree. In the East, throughout Syria, Judea, and Arabia it is regarded with the profoundest reverence. The leaves that encircled the round blossom dry and close tight together when the season of blossom is over, and the stalk withering completely away from the stem, the flower is blown away, at last, from the bush on which it grew, having dried up in the shape of a ball, which is carried by the sport of the breeze to great distances. In this way it is borne over the sandy wastes and desert, until at last, touching some moist place, it clings to the soil, where it immediately takes fresh root and springs to life and beauty again. For this very reason the orientals have adopted it as the emblem of the resurrection. t^A gentleman in England committed suicide the other day, and left a paper stating that he did so because his wife was a great deal too good for him. That's why the jury returned a verdict recording their opinion that deceased was of "an unsound state of mind."