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lewis m. grist, proprietor. J Jnbtjjtnbtnt ^antilg ftepaptr: Jfar tjje of % ^nlitical, Social, Agricultural anb Cammtrtial Interests of tjie jJontj). TERM8--$3.00 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE. VOL. 25. YORKYILLE, S. C., THUBSDAY, APRIL IP, 1879. NO. 15. jta Original Jtotg. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. THE BARSTOWS. BY VICTOR VERNON. ? CHAPTER XIII. daisy's adorers. Daisy Courtaine was a very popular young lady. Besides being the prospective heiress to a handsome fortune (which fact in itself might go far to ensure her popularity) she had enough intrinsic merit to render herself deservedly a favorite, and would" probably have occupied this eviable position without anv DrosDective heiress ship at all. She was j r * not very clever, nor gifted- with a particular genius for anything, except for making everybody around her feel happy and satisfied. She was simply a generous, warm hearted, whole-souled girl, who always looked on the bright side of life, and generally managed to infuse some of her own sunshiny spirit into others,*6ven if they were inclined to be disagreeable and cross. A person of this sort is sure to be a favorite, and it would be hard to say whether men or women admired her most. Certain it was, that while her female friends felt too sincere an affection for her ever to be jealous of her attractions, the number of her male adorers was almost beyond reckoning. And when I say this, I do not simply mean those who paid their homage to her with a view to matrimony (though these were not few either) but all those, old or young, rich or poor, married or single, who worshipped her goodness, delighted in her beauty, as fresh and smiling as a May-day, and knew that in perplexity, disappointment or trouble, they were sure to find in her a sympathetic, efficient little consoler and friend. And the chief point in her attractiveness was that she never seemed to attach any merit to anything she did, but went about brightening the world (or at least her own particular corner of it) hv a thousand dailv unselfish acts and pleas ant words, as if this was the most natural and common-place thing for everybody to do, which, unfortunately, it is not. Our hero, Wilfred, as you have already j been informed, yielded at once and unreservedly to the spell which she exercised. I am not going to follow the steps with which, by degrees, he advanced along that course, which has beeu described by a poet as never running smoothly. Those who have been in love, know exactly the various gradations, the fluctuations from heat to cold, from hope to fear, the alternate sensations of joy and despair? "Likethe uncertain glories of an April day, Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away." Aud those who have never experienced the mingled emotions attendant upon this state of being, had better try it for themselves, and find out all about it. Suffice it to say that Wilfred rapidly passed through every stage of the malady, if malady it can be called, | until he reached that one at which he knew it would be impossible for him to retrace his steps if he would, since his whole heart and soul were utterly bound up in the object of his devotion, and he felt that life without her would be a blank forever. There was another person to whom this knowledge came, also, though by slower degrees. One, unfortunately, to whom it did not seem a harbinger of happiness. Ralph Barstow had said bitterly, though not without justice, that Mr. Courtaine would consider it a piece of presumption in him to enroll himself among Daisy Courtaine's admirers, chiefly on account of his poverty. But this, as it happeued, was not the real obstacle that lay in the way of his success. Mr. Courtaine, though prosperous, and carried on by the tide of prosperity, far above the rocks and adverse under-currents which his less fortunate fellowbeings had to scuffle through, was not essentially a worldly or hard minded man, and did not hold himself aloof from any one, simply because such a one moved in a less exalted sphere. Many a young mao, struggling with adversity, had he taken by the hand and put in the road to success. And had his daughter's inclinations fallen upon one who could not boast of this world's goods, he would, had he believed her happiness was involved in such a match, freely have given his consent to it, koowing that he had enough to provide against her future needs. Again, looking on the other side of the question, no man, having the wealth of a Croesus, would he have | accepted as his son-in-law if he found him destitute of those qualifications which he considered the requisites of a good husband. But Ralph Barstow, poor or rich, would never have satisfied his wishes in this respect. From the first he had not been impressed favorably Ui rw n ino/i in +V>qm? in! I m oou mm liiilly aiiu iiu iiivi^aov iu tuvu tuuuimvj did not tend to a removal of this dislike. Ralph was unamiable, stubborn and supercilious ; and though in Daisy's presence his best traits appeared on the surface, he more than once, in conversation, betrayed sentiments even bordering on infidelity in religion? a circumstance which stamped him, at once, in Mr. Courtaine's judgment, as a man totally unfit to aspire to the hand of any woman. Certainly, he would not have entrusted the fate of his only child to the keeping of an infidel, or even of one who thought scornfully of religion. Wilfred, on t'ne contrary, soon won the good opinion of the family. Mr. Courtaine, having a fair opportunity of judging of his temper and capabilities, had long since accorded him his liking and esteem, which grew into a warm friendship as their acquainfor* sin rM?Arrroooo/1 A n rl QQ TTatf} lUfUlIfl hflVfi IirtilVV |>1 Vgi WOV/Ui AAUU WW A WW ?. . ? it, he proved to be the very first among Daisy's lovers to whom her heart responded with a warmth oeyond that of friendly regard. It was a soft moonlight evening?one just suited to love-making and romance?that Wilfred, after much doubt and anxious selfcommunion, finally took courage and embraced his opportunity to reveal his real feelings to Daisy, with whom he found himself alone. Let us pass over the interview. It will suffice to know that in it he was made supremely happy by the discovery that his hopes had not been vain, and blest with the assurance that if "Papa" gave his consent to their union, her own would not be withheld. Wilfred did not delay assuring himself on the last poiut. Fortified by the consciousness of being beloved, he boldly approached the arbiter of his fate, won his sanction to their engagement, and went home treading on air, in the seventh heaven of felicity. Happy for the young pair were the days that followed, for "Love took up the glass of life, and turned it in his glowing hands; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in "golden sands; Wilfred pleaded for a short engagement, | but Mr. Courtaine had his own notions on the subject. He believed that people ought to allow themselves sufficient time to become acquainted as far as possible with each other's dispositions, and not enter "rashly or unadvisedly" into that compact which should not afterwards be broken, lest repentance might chance to come too late. This time of probation he fixed at one year; and though both Wilfred and Daisy were naturally positive that a trial in their case was superfluous, the latter, as any girl would, professed to coincide with "Papa's" views, and the former was too blest by the new prospects which 1 * * * i-?- x. ? i;f had aawnea upon nis me 10 gruiuuic at a nttle delay in their fulfillment. Besides, lovemaking was a sufficiently agreeable employment for him not to be too anxious to cut it short; so he read hard, in the anticipation of soon passing his examination, spent his evenings with Daisy, laid a thousand charming plans for the future, and was content. It was understood that he was to bring his bride home, when he married, to Madame d'Arcy's house; but Madame had her own plans, which she did not choose to speak of just yet. During Wilfred's office-hours, however, she paid frequent visits to a certain architect, with whom she seemed to have business; and all through these long summer days, a handsome residence, of most substantial and careful construction, was slowly going up, in one of the prettiest and most aristocratic quarters of the city. This mansion was designed as a wedding gift to her adopted son ; and she also had ideas concerning a country-seat on the Hudson, which she intenJ?1 ?fnr, Viarealf kilt wk|f>h Wilfred UCU puitliaoilig ivi uvigvi?| W%.? aDd his wife were also to consider their home, and run up to it as often and for as long a time as they should choose. So she, too, had plenty to occupy her thoughts. Wilfred's first trial was Daisy's absence, when she went away during the hot weather to some Springs, with her father and mother; but as the distance which separated them was not great, and he had the hope of joining her for a little while, after his examinatiou, he consoled himself with her letters, which came in answer to his two or three times a week, and which were next best to herself. While all the people were happy and en! grossed, Ralph found small consolation in the knowledge that his rival had so easily won the prize which he had not even ventured to try for. Chance had thrown the young men frequently together since their first meetj ing, but their intercourse had never become j cordial. In fact, while Wilfred felt only indifference for Ralph, the latter's seutiraents [ towards his namesake had soon assumed the j form of positive dislike, and gradually deepened into absolute hatred. Of this, Wilfred t was ignorant. He had never consciously made an enemy in his life, and could not suppose himself the object of detestation which he had done nothing to deserve. He knew nothing, of course, of Ralph's inner life; of his struggles and bitter revolt against poverty, his love for Daisy and consequent disappointment at her prospective marriage. He only knew him to be cold and arrogant in his manner (at least towards him) and cynical in his views of the world, and finding no congeniality in such a companion, troubled himself little about him. Mrs. Barstow saw her son's unhappiness with deep pain. She frequently tried to draw him into confidential conversation on the subject of his trouble, at which she only guessed, for not one word had he ever breathed to her of his love. She believed that in opening his heart to her he would find relief. All through his wayward boyhood and youth he had made a practice of appealing to her for sympathy, and this she had always given him in full measure. But now it was different. He had grown silent and reserved, and seemed determined to keep his grief, whatever it might be, locked up from every human eye. At last she could bear his reticence no longer, and one evening, when he had sat for some time motionless, pretending to read, but, as she observed, never once turning the page of the book over which he leaned, or varying his fixed and absent gaze, she suddenly threw down her work, and coming to him laid her hands upon his shoulders and kissed him. "My boy, my own boy," she said, fondly, "tell me all about it. It kills me to see you going on in this way." "What do you mean, mother ?" he asked ; but his face showed that he knew her intent in asking. "I mean that you are hiding some great trouble from me, Ralph ; from me, who would give my life to make you happy. Have you not always yielded me your confidence? What have I clone to inake you think me unworthy of it now ?" "That is nonsense, mother; how could I ever think you unworthy of it?" he rejoined. He had made a slight movement to withdraw from her hands, but she did not notice I it, and only put one arm around his neck in! stead. She meant to win him by tenderness ; i she would not suffer herself to be rebuffed. "Then give it to me?give it to me, my !son!" she pleaded. "I am your best friend; you well know how I love you. Tell me ! what it is that weighs so heavily upon you." "Many things weigh upon me," he replied; i "hard work with scanty pay, the difficulty of j making earnings cover expenses, and, above ; all, the wretchedness of seeing you persist, as ! you do, in killing yourself with sewing? must not the knowledge of all this oppress ! 9" iuc : j "But that is not all ?" she gently persisted. J "We are in many respects better off' than we i used to be ; we cannot be so ungrateful as to i complain. It is something more than pover' ty and its effects that has crushed your spirits , thus." Ralph was silent. It seemed to him as if I nothing could induce him to betray his se| cret; but mother-art finally prevailed. With I tender craft, she approached the subject by ! every conceivable method of persuasion, un: til by degrees she won the knowledge of it | from him ; and, his reserve once broken, he i gave full vent to his sombre and passionate ! feelings, and poured them forth with a vehei mence that almost terrified her. "My poor boy !" was all she said when she had heard his story; but the tone in which I the words were spoken showed how deeply i her heart was stirred. "You see, mother, for this wound you have no remedy," he bitterly exclaimed. "You have had your wish in finding it out, only to be tormented by the knowledge of it, without having power to give relief." "Time will heal this wound, as it has done others as deep, and deeper," she rejoined. "Don't offer me any of those cant phrases of consolation, for I can't bear them," he exclaimed, with violence. "It is nothing to me that others suffer, must suffer still, or that others have been and can be healed. I suppose, after years and years of torment, my pain will be blunted in some degree; but it is none the easier to bear now for that." "No," she said, softly. "I can well believe that it is hard." "Yes, you can believe that, of course. You think you understand it, and to a certain extent you may. But only those who have jell it?who have yielded their hearts to a blind, idolatrous worship, and have known it rejected, despised?can tell the sharpness of such a pang," he retorted. A strange, wan smile passed over his mother's face. Heavens! what had she not suffered? This boy's present grief seemed a bagatelle compared to her own, past and blunted though it now was. She felt a sudden impulse to tell him of it, to divert him thus, perhaps, from the contemplation of his trials; but she checked the impulse. She could not tell the son of the father's dishonor, and stamp his memory in that son's heart with the baleful shadow of a crime. "As to this adventurer, this Barstow as he calls himself," pursued Ralph, hotly, "I don't believe he has any right to the name at all. He has come here, nobody knows whence or how, and made capital of his looks and accomplishments to pass himself off as a gentleman, and force himself into society. A crazy old Frenchwoman falls in love with him and makes him her heir; and so he revels insolently in a position which he has won by no efforts of his own, while better men who slave and toil in vain must see themselves defeated in every hope, and grind their teeth in impotent envy at his good fortune, but I'll keep an account with him, and see it settled one of these days, by?!" "Ralph! Ralph! what madness is this?" cried Fanny, alarmed. At that moment, madness indeed appeared to have seized him. His eyes glared, and the look of a demon rested on his face. But the next instant he subdued himself, and broke into a harsh, scornful laugh. "Don't be frightened, mother," he said, turning away with assumed carelessness of manner. "I shan't hurt you, at any rate." "Nor any one else, I trust," said his mother, solemnly. "Remember, Ralph, this young man has done you no wrong, He is not to blame if fortune has favored him in preference to you." "Oh! well, let him pass," said Ralph. "Of course, I am a fool to blame him. The fortunate in this world, should always be exempt from censure." "But you will not seek to do him any harm ?" she anxiously persisted. "Oh ! why should I ? I spoke hastily just now ; my words were as idle wind ; the tempest has blown over; forget it, mother, as I shall. In future you need fear no more such childish displays of anger," he replied, in something like his usual tone. In spite of his assurances, Mrs. Barstow was not satisfied. The outbreak of violence she had just witnessed, had revealed to her the slumbering fires in his heait, which, like a volcano, might again burst forth with destructive fury, at some future time. Passionate and revengeful she knew him to be, but of the extent to which his passions dominated him, she had not been aware until nowNever had they been thus called forth in her presence before. From that evening a haunted fear that he might do Wilfred some injury, gave her no rest. Her thoughts, thus attracted towr.rds the latter (whom she had never seen) dwelt upon him with strange persistence. She felt a fresh anxiety to discover, if possible, his identity. She wanted see to him, tospeak with him, to form her own judgment concerning him, to assure herself that he was not her husband's son. If he should prove to be what she feared, what thought more appalling than that he should suffer violence at his brother's hands. No effort, she felt, should be spared, to avert such a calamity as this. She cast about in her mind for a means by which she could manage to confront him without invoking the assistance, or awakenthe suspicions, of Ralph. It was long before she could fall upon any feasible plan ; but at lonf Ann Annnri*ar1 +/\ RKp WAlllfl QPplf I inot V1JU WVUtlVU HV *<V*i K/??V II VU<V* wwwm Mr. Courtaine's office on pretence of expecting to find her son there, for some reason which she could invent; and thus, in all probability, get an opportunity of seeing Wilfred, who she knew was there daily. Such a casual glimpse at hiin could do little good, but might possibly lead to farther results. At all events the experiment was worth a trial. She put on her bonnet, the very next morning after the idea had occurred to her, and started for Mr. Courtaine's office. Her heart beat fast as she approached it. She knew th* locality perfectly, for she had taken care to find that out beforehand; but she almost wished, as she ascended the marble stairs and knocked at the door, that she might find herself mistaken, the errand she had undertaken seemed such a foolish one. "Come in," said a clear, pleasant voice. She tremblingly turned the latch, and entered. Wilfred was the only occupant of the room, and her heart stood still as her eyes fell upon his face. She felt as though in a bewildering dream ; for she could have declared that her husband's own self, as she remembered him, stood before her. CHAPTER XIV. MORE DISCOVERIES. Wilfred, with all the courtesy habitual to ' him, drew forward a comfortable chair, and invited the visitor, who stood silent and spellbound just within the door, to take a seat. "Mr. Courtaiue is not in, Madam ; he has left town for a few days," he replied, to a faltering inquiry relative to that gentleman, which she raauaged to propound. She was too confused to know what she was doing, for she had not meant to ask for him, and had he been at hand to respond to her inquiry, would certainly not have known what to say next, as she had no business with him whatevever. "Can I do anything for you ?" he continued, seeing her agitated look. With a strong effort she controlled her emotion. What must this young man think of her ? "No, thank you?you are very kind. It does not matter at all," she said. "I thought, perhaps, I should meet some one here?Mr. Baratow. Do you know him ?" "Mr. Ralph Barstow, do you mean ?" "Yes." "I am slightly acquainted with him?that is, we are not very intimate. He never comes here, however. Was it him you expected to meet?" asked Wilfred, rather surprise'd. "It was him 1 meant," she replied, evading the question. She had kept up the dialogue solely with a view to enable herself to study accurately the features, the expression of the young man, to listen to the tones of his voice?tones as familiar to her ear as ? ?? tr tnose or ner own uou. tie?jimipu??? uu? half, or a quarter, aa like hie father as this Wilfred was. The absolute certainty of his identity had flashed upon her the instant she had seen him. She could have no better chance than this, for finding out all about him that she desired to know. There was not a soul in the office but themselves. Why should she not linger a little while, on pretext of resting herself, and talk to him if he would let her? "It is very warm,*' she said, "and I have walked some distance. Could you be so kind as to get me a little water ?" "Certainly," replied Wilfred, and he complied, with alacrity, with the request. "It is, indeed, terribly warm," he remarked, as he received the glass from her hand when she had drank. "If you walked here, you must be fatigued; pray stay until you are rested." "You are very kind. But I fear I shall be intruding, Mr. Baretow." She brought out the name purposely. | "You are not intruding at all. You know me, then ?" he rejoined, smiling, but surprised again. "I have heard of you?through my son. I am Ralph Barstow's mother." "Indeed 1" it was not to be expected that he * 1 T 1 ! _ 11 ? J.l! Li.J ^ i. xl snouia oe specialty aengnieu at me auuuuuecraent, seeing that he and Ralph were not the warmest of friends. Still the cordiality of his manner did not diminish. "Yes; and hearing your name, I have naturally been interested in you. I understand that a possibility exists of a relationship between us." (Oh ! thought Wilfred, perhaps this is the real object of the old lady's visit?to find out all about me. Well, let her go ahead.) "I really can't say anything in regard to that fact, Madam," he replied, with a coolness siguificant of his indifference on the subject. "All I know is that my father's family originated in one of the Southern States. I, as you have perhaps been informed, was born and educated abroad, and thus feel cut off, in a great measure, from all home connections, such as they may be." "It seems likely, however, that the family may be the same, especially if your father came from Virginia," she urged, anxious now to come to the point she desired to settle?desired, yet dreaded, to have his own words confirm. "It may be so," he replied, still speaking I ...:?U /Kno Orista Vi<? a?rmlrt hfivft WILU ViiWU MV > WV..V. M-, v _ cepted the suggestion with pleasure, but Ralph's behavior to him had quite robbed him of all desire to trace out the relationship. "Would you mind telling me your father's name?" she asked, hesitatingly, almost timidly. She felt frightened at her own daring. "Not at all?it was Ralph. The same as your son's." "And your mother's?" The question was put still more falteringly than the last. "She was a Miss McGregor; Lucy was her Christian name. Did you know her ?" he asked, suddenly. She had grown white, now, to the very lips; but she still managed to answer with outward composure.. "I think?I am not sure?I have beard the name. Did I know your mother ? No. j Your father's name being the same as my son's seems?to?to indicate the possibility of a relationship ; but I am not certain about it. I must really go now," she added, rising, and looking confusedly about her. "I have detained you too long." "Pray don't hurry yourself," said Wilfred, politely. "Oh, thank you, I am rested now." "You do not wish me to be the bearer of any message to Mr. Courtaine, when he returns?" "No, no. There is nothing?at least, it doe3 not signify. Good morning." "Good morning," replied Wilfred, as he I ?-J in r>opfoinlv ft lit.tle UJJCIJCU IIIO UUU, UIIU w J _ queer in her manner," he added to himself when she had gone down stairs; "perhapsshe is not quite sane. I wonder, I do wonder, if I am related to these people, as every one seems to think ?" But the postman bringing him letters just then, among which was one from Daisy, he soon ceased to wonder, or indeed to think about the matter all. Mrs. Barstow, as she got herself out of the building and into the blinding glare of the street again, felt that she had acted queerly; but that consciousness did not trouble her. She was too much absorbed in other thoughts to care what impression she had made on this young man, to whom she had so unexpectedly presented herself. Ralph's son!?Ralph's son ! she kept repeating below her breath, as UiiHtMar? olrvnnr Yes the fart was estab- I one uuiugu (uvug? * -vj lished now?established beyond a doubt. She had been so engrossed with this one idea that she had neglected finding out what she had wished to know?the date of her husband's death. She had fully meant to ask Wilfred that, but had forgotten. No matter. It could affect her but little now to learn when and where he had ended his dishonored life. Enough that the grave had closed over it He was beyond all earthly retribution, beyond her reproaches now. It could not now awaken one pang of remorse within him, to know that on her heart a still deeper shadow than before had fallen. And had he been living and conscious of this fact, would he have felt such a pang? Alas! no?it was little likely. It had needed but a short experience to assure her that she had ever been an object of indifference to him ; nay, was not the existence of this boy?this offspring of an unholy union?proof of a feeling worse than indifference, which has led to his desertion of her, and the forming of new ties ? What those ties had been?whether sanctioned by the outward form of marriage or not, she knew not and hardly cared. In any case, this Wilfred was no lawful son; and thinking of this, a strange feeling of pity for him arose in her heart. Insensibly she had been drawn towards him. It was not only the likeness to his father, so striking, so wonderful, that had touched her; something in the young man's manner, his sweet, bright look and winning tones, all joined with his own utter unconsciousness of shame or reproach, had appealed strongly to her sympathy, and effectually prevented any motion of dislike, of aversion, to him personally, as the witness of her husband's infidelity. Looking at him as he stood before her, she had felt how sorrowful a thinnr it toao that he flhrmld he what he was? b "?> * how hard, how crushing a thing it would be, for him to know it! "He shall never find it out," she mentally resolved. "Never if the chances of his doing so lie with me. For his own sake?for my sake, and Ralph's also?such a discovery would be terrible. Let the secret stay buried, as it has already done so long, in oblivion. It is better for us all." And more than ever she resolved to prevent by every means in her power, the chances of a quarrel arising between Wilfred and her son?between Ralph's two son's; Lucy McGregor's son and her own. She had heard this Lucy McGregor mentioned once?once by Dr. Franklin, her uncle, when in an unguarded moment of wrath he had betrayed to her that he knew something of her husband's former love. But she had never dreamed of her, until now, in any connection with Ralph's after life. She w as so engrossed with all these thoughts, that she threaded her way heedlessly through the maze of vehicles and foot passengers on the crossings, not noticing anything around her; but her pre-occupation had like to have coat her dearlv. for suddenly a coupe drawn by a pair of spirited horses came dashing around a corner, and very nearly knocked her down. A passer by seized her arm and drew he:r back; at the same instant the driver of the coupe pulled up, and an old lady, who was its only occupant, put her head out' of the window and anxiously asked if any one was hurt. Seeing Mrs. JBarstow standing pale and trembling at the edge of the sidewalk?for she had been much startled and terrified, and could scarcely stand, for the moment, without support?she insisted on her entering the vehicle and allowing herself to be driven home. The offer was gratefully accepted, and the old lady having inquired the number of her residence, and given the necessary direction to the coachman, proceeded to devote herself to the task of soothing and composing her companion's much-shaken nerves. This old lady, as it happened, was none other than Madame d'Arcy, who had been making one of her usual visits to the gentleman who had been superintending the building ot Wilfred'8 house, and also enjoying a thorough inspection of the same, now very nearly completed. On her way back, some commotion in the street had frightened one of the horses, which had become rather unmanageable in consequence. Hence the unusual speed at which they had been driven, and the difficul - J i? 1? ty eipentiuueu uy uic ui/auuuiau 111 iciumg them up in time. She explained all this to Mrs. Barstow as they drove aloDg, assuring her that Stevens was always the most careful of drivers. She blamed herself for having allowed the restive horse, which had been shut up for some days, to be driven in the coupe without being exercised first. "Are you perfectly sure you are not hurt, in any way ? Did not the pole of the carriage touch you ?" she asked, more than once. Mrs. Barstow declared that she was not hurt, only startled at the danger which had unexpectedly threatened her, and which she might easily have avoided if she had taken more heed to her steps. She still looked so pale, however, when they reached her house, that Madame d'Arcy volunteered to go in with her for a little while, hearing that no one else was there, until she should feel settled again. Indeed, she was anxious to send her man for a doctor, but this Fanny would not hear of. "You are taking entirely too much trouble on my account," she said, as Madame, with her own hands, removed her bonnet and mantle, and made her lie down on the parlor sofa. "I shall soon be quite well again. Indeed, I am not ill now, only foolishly nervous. I am, as you see, a little lame, and ought, therefore, to be particularly careful when I go abroad. But this morning I have been a good deal troubled, and my anxious thoughts, i suppose, made me forget to be prudent." "You should not walk alone, my dear," said the old lady, sympathizingly. "I must," she replied, "since no one lives with me but my bou, and he is abroad at his business, all day. I do not very often go out, however.''1 Madame d'Arcy, sitting beside her, gently * J i? wu;i? +u..o ianneu ner iur some mumeuus. ?? mug muo engaged, her eyes naturally wandered around the little apartment, and presently rested on one of its few ornaments, an open case, containing a miniature, which stood on the mantelpiece. As she looked, her gaze became fixed and intent. Her countenance changed, and suddenly rising, she walked across the room, in order to be able to examine, more closely, the picture which had thus attracted her. When she again turned toward Mrs. Barstow, who was watching her, her face denoted strong, though suppressed emotion. " W hose likeness is this ?" she asked abrupt1 ? - 1 x 1 LI.. iy, aimosi narsmy. "I cannot tell you, Madam," replied Mrs. Barstow, surprised at her manner. "I have always supposed it to be a family heir loom, but, strange to say?" "Where did you get it?" interrupted her visitor. "It was left, among some other things, by my mother, when she went abroad, years ago. I suppose it belonged to her. Perhaps, before my father's death, to him." "What was your father's name?" was the next question, in thesamequick, concentrated manner. "Tracy?Philip Tracy." "Tracy!" echoed Madame d'Arcy, almost with a shriek ; "and are you Philip Tracy's child ?" Fanny, alarmed, had risen from her recumbent position. She merely made an affirmative gesture, for she could not find voice to reply?she seemed to have lost her breath. "liis eldest?his only child ?" pursued her questioner, becoming more and more eager and excited. "His only child," faintly responded Mrs. Barstow. Madame d'Arcy, apparently striving to conquer the almost insupportable agitation which had seized her, took two or three swift turns, up and down the room, in silence. Then suddenly stopping again, she caught the miniature from its resting place, and held it toward the trembling occupant of the sofa, who almost feared, from her strange manner, that she had lost her wits. "Child, child!" she exclaimed, in trembling tones, "do you see no likeness?can you trace no lingering expression in my features, reminding you of these? Look well, and judge wheiher I could ever have resembled this painting?for it was I, I as I looked five and forty years ago, who was its original!" Almost breathless with astonishment, her hearer scanned alternately the two faces. Yes, there was the same arched brow, the flashing dark eyes, the same sweep of the luxuriant hair, now, in the living one, bleached white as snow. She even fancied she could trace the same outline, though in the picture so full and round, so delicate in color and in bloom, and in the original faded and sharpened by time. "You knew my father, then, Madam ?" she *-1* J miieieu. "Knew him! Only too well." She was silent for a moment, then continued, "He was the curse of my life; but for him, I should have been free, happy?; tell me child," she suddenly added, "were you fond of him ? Was he good to you always?" "Good! He was kindness itself," replied Fanny, warmly. "I loved him dearly?better than any one else in the world." "Better than your mother?" asked Madame, with a peculiar look. "My mother was different," replied Fanny, hesitating and looking down. "She never caressed me, as he did." "Ah!?and where is she now? Is she dead ?" "Yes; she died several years ago. I had not seen her, before that, for a long time, as she went to live abroad. Did you know her also ?" "No I never met her. It would not have been well for us to meet," was the reply, accompanied by a bitter, scornful laugh, which made Fanny shrink again. As before, Madame restlessly paced, for a few seconds, the little room; then stopping once more beside the sofa, she continued in a softer tone? "You must consider my behavior, my questions, very strange; but I have a vital interest in finding out all about you. You will hear from me very soon. I must now go home, to ponder a little on what you have told me. Promise me to come, if I should send for you at any time. Don't be afraid," she added, as the other did not immediately answer; "I know I have frightened you terribly by my vehemence; but I shall not be so unguarded again." ft r ?\/l ?AlTT " wa. 1 mil 11 Ub lllgutcii ;u uuit, uinuaui, av>plied Fanny, with a faint smile. "And you will come, when I send ?" "Yes, X will come." "Thanks. Remember, it may be soon? to-morrow; perhaps this very evening. Before I go, however, you must tell me your name; I have still to learn it." "Barstow," was the reply. "Barstow?Barstow 1?not the mother of the young gentleman of that name who is employed in a bank here?Ralph, he is called ?" "The same," replied Fanny. Madame d'Arcy's countenance grew very serious. She looked perplexed, as though some question of grave import, of a different nature, had occurred to her. She mused for a little while in silence. "I must go," was all she said, when she roused herself from this abstracted mood. "There is much, much, for me think of and arrange. Good-bye?you will kiss me, will you not?" Fanny, of course, acceded to the request She felt inexpressibly relieved when the door closed upon her singular guest. Her head was aching with its confusion of thoughts, arising from the varied experiences of this exciting day, and she longed, if possible, for a little quiet and repose. [to be continued.] fjfpswUatteDUjs fkadiag. THE HOMESTEAD EXEMPTION. WHAT ARTICLES A DEBTOR MAY CLAIM UNDER IT. The following is the full text of the recent decision of the State Supreme Court touching the homestead exeption: State of South Carolina, in the Supreme Court, November Term, 1878.?D. P. Duncan va. S. Barrett.?Opinion by Willard, C. J. The Circuit Court discharged a rule against the sheriff for a failure to enforce an execution against personal property, consisting of cotton in bales, seed cotton and corn, the defendant claiming that they are exempt under the provisions of the act of March*Jl3, 1872, (15 stat. 229. sec. 9,) he being an "agricultural laborer." It is stated in appelant's argument that the contract upon which the judgment was obtained bore date prior to the passage of the act in question, contending that such exemption could not be claimed as against an antecedent contract; but that fact does not appear in the brief, and, therefore, is available to the appellant. The question to be considered is, whether the Legislature could create new subjects of exemption in addition to those enumerated in the constitution. The provisions of the constitution relating to the exemption of personal property from execution are contained in sec. 32, art. 2. After providing for a homestead exemption on the land of a debtor, the constitution goes on to say : "To secure the full enjoyment of said homestead exemption on the person entitled thereto or the head of any family, the personal property of such person of the following character, to wit: household furniture, beds and bedding, family library, arms, carts, wagons, farming implements, tools, neat cattle, work animals, swine, goats and sheep, not to exceed iu value in the aggregate sum of 8500, shall be subject to like exemption as said homestead, and there shall be exempt in addition thereto all necessary wearing apparel." The question is, whether the subsequent attempt to add to the list of articles exempted "one third of the annual products of the agricultural laborers" by the act of 1A73 woo nnnciatent with the nrnvisions of the AVI W I.MW VVMW.WV... * I constitutional exactraent or tended to deny the proper force due the same; and if the latter conclusion is reached, such conflicting provision must be he held unconstitutional and void. This involves the question of intention on the provisions of the constitution. It is contended that the enumeration of kinds of property intended for exemption is exclusive, and general rules of interpretation are urged as leading to that conclusion. It will not be necessary to resort to such general rules, or to place the decision on any technical rule or reasoning, as the nature of the subject with which the constitution deals, points very distinctly to the solution of the question at issue. The question allowing legislative exemption to debtors is in its nature fundamental, as involving an inquiry in the principles of government. Until within a few years it has not been regarded as a legitimate exercise of legislative power to place the property of the debtor beyond the reach of his creditor, except to an inconsiderable extent. Not that i the competency of the Legislature to make such exemptions independently of the constitutional restrictions W8S doubted, but because the spirit of the laws was supposed tc oppose such exercise of legislative power. It may well be considered that in solving the question of the legitimacy of such legislation, the constitution had in view a limit that should be imposed to its unrestricted exercise. When it is treating of subjects that have been constantly dealt with by legislative bodies, with the sanction of the courts and community, such an inference does not necessarily arise. In such cases some special ground would have to appear by inferring, in the absence of an express declaration to that effect, that the constitution, in prescribing the mode in which a power of that class should be exercised, intended to exclude its exercise in any other mode. But the the present case, where the constitution was dealing with a principle fundamental to the policy of our jurisprudence, and which, by its abuse, might unsettle the very corner stone on which that jurisf>rudence rests, it is obvious that in opposing imits to such power of exemption, regard was had on the general question, to what extent government should go in relaxing the laws for the enforcement of obligations. There can be no doubt that the object of the section in question was to limit the Legislature. If the constitution had been silent altogether on the subject, the Legislature would have, doubtless, been competent, as affecting future contracts, to create such exemptions, and to give them any measure of extent that might appear desirable. Again, sec. 20 of art. 1 confers express powers on the Legislature to grant homestead exemptions to a reasonable extent, leaving the determination of what is to be regarded as reasonable to the Legislature, so far as unfettered by subsequent clauses of that instrument If that section had stood alone it wonld leave us in doubt as to the power of the Legislature being unrestricted. But the constitution was not content with establishing this as a principle,' and in sec. 32, art 2, assumes to give a more accurate definition of the kind .of legislation contemplated in the 20th section of art. 2, enumerating the subjects to which it should extend and the limitations that should be established as affecting these subjects. Such a definition as applied to a kind of legislation not sanctioned at the time of the adoption of the constitution, but introduced by that instrument, must be regarded as intending a limitation of the legislative authority. True, it is not the case of a pow er entirely new and not before capable of being exercised, given upon conditions and subjected to limitations, in which case such conditions and limitations must be regarded as limitations of the right of exercise as well as the mode cf exercise; but it is a case within the same principle as calling into exercise a function of general legislation that had lain dormant through the conviction that it was not a legitimate exercise of legislative power consistently with the principles of our jurisprudence. This view leads us to the conclusion that the exemptions allowed by the constitution cannot be extended or restricted by any act of the Legislature. This view does not conflict with what was said in Homestead . Building and Loan Association vs. Enslow (S. C.,) where, speaking of the degree of authority possessed by the owner of lands in which a homestead might be claimed to incumber his land, it is said, "whether the Legislature had not the right to extend the measures of relief afforded to heads of families by the section above cited, under a more general grant of legislative authority set forth in sec. 20, art 1 of the constitution, need not be considered, for no such exercise of authority beyond the limits of sec. 32, art 2, has been attempted." This is a question sug gested, with no answer to it given; out it was not directed to the question whether the Legislature could afford relief beyond the limits impnfipd hy ffrp onnntit-nrinn hut n. mnw full relief witKin those limits. We must conclude that the provisions of the act of 1873, so far as they attempt to extend the exemption to a class of personal property not embraced in sec. 32, art. 2, are unconstitutional and void. The discharge of the rule must be set aside, and the cause remanded for proceedings conformable herewith. Mclver, A. J., and Haskelll, A.. J., concur. A DINNER ITVEBA CRUZ. A correspondent of the Philadelphia Times writes: There are two hotels in Vera Cruz, and travelers need not be particular in choosing between them, for one is in every respect as bad as the other. In the one that I went to they must have mistaken me for a family traveling in disguise, for they gave me a room fully twenty feet square and twelve feet high, containing three beds, three washstands, one large table, nine rocking chairs and no soap. They do not furnish soap in Mexican hotels, and if they give more than one candle they charge extra. I think they would feel grateful if you would wet the wick to keep it from burning fast. The first taste of Mexican butter comes in here. It is almost as white as lard, and contains no salt, but it is sweet and good. A large dish of snails is nearly always on the table, and although they look J am/] Amall fimoa UttU lUCJ' taoicauu OIUCll Uiiwu uuuutVM viwvw worse. Snails were made for examples of slowness?not to be eaten. They have no dessert here, and put no fruit on the table, although fruit grows on every bush; but they insist upon your taking cheese, and give you great quantities of it. The floors throughout the house are made of big bricks, about ten inches square, in the upper as well as the lower story. In the dining-room a stone about a foot square has a ring in it, and can be lifted up, revealing a sluice, into which dirty water is thrown. Yellow fever rolls through these ditches like grain through a hopper. But if they charge you a week's boara for a single meal, you can afford to smoke. I went up to the "bar," at one end of the dining-room, (where they sell matches, cigars and whisky, and have a small lottery) and asked for a cigar, laying down a Mexican reale, twelve and a half cents. The bar-keeper held out a box of cigars. Each one was about the size of a plump baby's arm. It was a good hour's smoke to say the least, and I was doubtful about the silver coin being big enough to pay for one of them. But I picked one out, and the bar-tender still held the box on the counter. He looked at me as if he wanted me to take another, which I did. He still held out Kav nnrl afill Via/3 tKo miofPnl lnnlr bUC UVA, OUU Oblll Uttu bUU TT40VAUA *VTVr*?< "Si Senor," said he. So I took another. That made three. "Si Senor," he said again, and still looked at me. I took another, making four, with half a mind to reach for the box. "Buena," said he, which is said to mean "good," and my four big cigars for 12J cents were almost equal to the Havana, and very much cheaper. Vera Cruz is called one of the hottest places in the world, and it has solid claims to the distinction. When a Norther comes, and the thermometer goes down to something like a living basis, the inhabitants go about wrapped up in their cloaks, imagining themselves cold. The wind in a Norther blows around the corners so that it is almost impossible to walk against it. There are no sewers, and the draining is done by gutters in the middle of the streets. The crosswalks at the corners are always about half way up the street, so that a pedestrian, in walking three or four blocks, describes a course like the battlements of a castle. The streets are clean?much cleaner fVian in "Mdw Vnrlr?lrnnf an Kr 4 Via siViao rwxat bunu tu 4.' vii 4 via ov uj vuv viivw^/wu street cleaning department in the world?the turkey buzzards. Dozens of these big blackbirds or crows, are always at work m every block clearing away the filth. This would be all very well if they would attend strictly to business, and then go off to some secluded place or die. But they choose the most prominent spots for roosting places. On the top of the Cathedral, of course, is a big cross, and I don't think I ever saw that cross without a turkey buzzard sitting on top of it. There is a fine of five dollars for killing one of them,