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lewis m. grist, proprietor, j A11 litbcpenbent Jarnilg ftetospaper: Jfor fjje Ijromotton of % political, Social, Agricultural anb Commercial Interests of t|e Sont|. |terms--$3.00 a tear, in advance. "VOL. 25. YORKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, MAY 29, 1879. NO. 22. JVh Original ftotg. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. RACHEL RAY'S SECRET. CHAPTER VIII. What is thy enterprise?thy aim, thy object ? Coleridge's Wallenstein. The night, passed by Mr. Vivian in such troubled meditation and wakefulness, had proved a disastrous one for Albert Philipson. j He had sought the gambling rooms in a state of unusual excitement, having fortified himself, by over indulgence in strong drink, for a } desperate venture which he had decided to | make, in the hope of retrieving his losses, which had been very heavy of late; and instead of winning, as he had trusted to do, he had lost his sole remaining chance, and found himself, at the close of the evening, terribly involved, and not knowing where to turn for aid. He had already borrowed so heavily that he could not hope to negotiate any farther loans. Yet, if he could not raise money in some way, total ruin must be the result. He sought his chamber in no enviable state of mind; but, with his usual recklessness, he dismissed his anxieties, as well as he could, for the present, and throwiug himself on his pillow soon managed to fall asleep. With the morning, however, his perplexity returned in full force. Indeed, now that sleep had cooled his brain, and he was able more calmly to review his situation, the plight in which he found himself seemed a more evil one than it had at first appeared. He arose, ^ made his toilette, and after a scarcely tasted W breakfast, sauntered out without any particular object, except, perhaps, to divert his . thoughts by a little stroll, for he made it a f rule never to indulge in uneasy reflections if, ^ by any means, he could shake them off. Ou his way to the bowling alley he encountered t Madame d'Estay, and from mere force of habit, stopped to exchange a few remarks, i though in no mood to enjoy her society just now. "Que voiu avey V*ir Iriste, mon ami!" she exclaimed, as she laid her hand familiarly within his arm. "What has arrived to you? Permit that I share your troubles." "They are too heavy ones for you to assume even a share of, raadame," replied the young man, speaking gloomily, in spite of himself. IUU nave DUUC1CU Bt w > I perceived last night that you were unlueky," she rejoined quickly, and in a low ton**-- "Come apart with me and let me hear all aoout it It may be that I can help you." "You! impossible," said Philipson, though a ray of hope was awakened in him by her words. He suffered her to lead him to a retired path, and there by dint of questioning she drew from him a full confession of his 1 losses. "Cielf it is an enormous sura," she said, shaking her head when he had revealed the "* extent of his liabilities. "One which you ..have no means of replacing." "You tell me what I know only too well already," he replied. "There is not a chance left me, that I can see. The best thing I can do, I suppose, is to put a pistol to my head, as poor young Watchel did the other night. That would end ray difficulties effectually." "Mon ami, do not* jest so horribly," exclaimed his companion, with a real or affected shudder, of dismay. "But listen. Is there no one here of whom you could borrow a few r hundred pounds? Even that much would help you." "Of course it would," said Philipson. "If I could raise one hundred. I'd try my chances again, and I feel sure that I would win. It is impossible that luck could go against me any longer; after such a break down as this, the tide miut turn. Besides," he added, with a forced laugh, "entre nous, I learned a trick or twc last night that would be of great use to me now if I could but put them in practice. But I learned them just too?late!" Madame d'Estay made no immediate reply; she seemed, for the moment, engrossed in thought. "Suppose," she said presently, "that you apply to your fellow-countryman for a small loan. He ought to be willing to assist you." "Who? Vivian?" he rejoined. "Yes." "Oh' that would be utterly useless," explained Philipson. "He never condescends to bestow any notice on me whatever; therefore it would be quite out of the question for me to ask any favor at his hands." * "And yet he is rich?so rich!" murmured Madame d'Estay, half to herself. "I saw him open his purse yesterday, and it was full of glittering gold coins. If he carries so much about his person, how much more must he keep put aside, within his reach!" "I doubt it," said Philipson. "He would not risk keeping a very large sura on hand, in such a place as this ; probably what you saw was the extent of his present resources, though his bank account is very likely unlimited." "But, tnon ami, even what I saw was no trifle?it would be a fortune to you, in your y- present straits," rejoined the Frenchwoman. Albert Philipson gave her a glance, half of suspicion, half of inquiry ; she spoke with a sort of suppressed eagerness in her tone, as though she had some object in view. She avoided meeting his eye, and toyed with the clasp of a bracelet on her arm. "And would you have me go to him and say, 'Sir, I have need of the contents of your ; purse; please to hand them over to me without delay?" asked Philipson, ironically. "Nay ; tell him of your need, and ask him merely for a temporary loan. Surely he would not be so churlish as to refuse." "And what security could I offer?" rejoinf ed Albert. "You do not suppose that my countrymen are, as a rule, of such a Quixotic disposition as to be willing to lend money to strangers without any guarantee of its being returned ?" "Could you not pledge him your word ?" asked Madame d'Estay, with an infantine assumption of simplicity. Philipson laughed bitterly. "It would be a valuable pledge, no doubt," said he. "I gave you credit, madarae, for a greater business capacity than you seem just now to possess. If you have no better suggestion than this to offer, to help me out of my difficul, A- ties," he added, rising as if to go, "I fear our ' interview may as well terminate at this point, since it can do no good to dwell any longer \ on so dull a subject." \ "I am so unfortunate?I desire to help you, \ and I cannot," sighed Madame d'Estay. I "Believe me, your troubles excite my warra| est sympathy?but alas! I am only a poor, j ignorant woman, and I can do nothing to give you aid. I thought my plan such a sirnI pie, straightforward one, and now you tell me it would be of no avail." "About as simple and straightforward as yourself," soliloquized Philipson, as he walked away without much ceremony. "What was the woman driving at, I wonder ? She had some object in view, of that I am almost sure. But she's as deep as the infernal regions ; I believe all these Frenchwomen are." "I've put an idea into his head that I think " ^ a >? | Wlli come 10 SOnietUlllg, ?aa umuaui 9 uuspoken reflection as she watched his retreating form. "If he' gets that money it will be a considerable benefit to me; and if he doesn't get it in one way he may in another." All day long a feeling of restlessness, of envious discontent, gnawed at Philipson's heart Madame d'Estay's suggestion, absurd as it had seemed, had .awakened a train of thought within him which he could not put aside. Not an altogether new one either, in one respect. It had long been a source of vexation to him that Mr. Vivian, with his supposed wealth, should stand by and look indifferently on at his losses, and that he could find no way of turning this prudently guarded wealth to his own advantage. As to asking him to help him, he felt that it would be of no avail, for what claim could he offer in excuse for such a liberty ? But was there no other way of getting possession, just for a short time, of at least a portion of that golden treasure to which the Frenchwoman had alluded? A purse full of gold coins! How tempting was the picture thus presented to his mind! How indescribably he longed to grasp the reality! A comparatively small sum might save him; for, with the infatuation common to gamblers, he felt convinced that by perseverance he must succeed at last, and with a few lucky throws all his losses might be retrieved. His evil angel?his good one, alas! had long lost all influence over him?prompted him that day to drink heavily and hard. Not enough to intoxicate him?he was not easily overcome by liquor?but enough to put an amount of recklessness and devil-may-care " Ilim maito him tcillintT trt flR. uiavauu 441 444114, uiav tuuuv u**u .v ? sume any risk which might result in his profit. And the fiery stimulant working in his brain, seemed to create a new capacity for forming brilliant, wicked schemes, and set him revolving a dozen possibilities which he had not thought of before. What if he should, masked, meet Vivian in a lonely place, and take his purse from him by force? He would be clever enough to avoid discovery. And when he had used the money and regained what he had lost, he would restore it, and clear his conscience of all stain. In circumstances as desperate as his, a desperate expedient was necessary. No half-way, uncertain measures would help him. As evening came on, he watched for Vivian, but the latter did not make his appearance as usual. He was, in fact, closeted with his envoy. Benedict, who was to set off again that night, on a new errand of discovery and trust. Philipson's covetous desires would have received a fresh impulse could he have seen the lavish sum placed in the hand of this confidential messenger, as his employer dismissed him with the injunction, "Remember, Benedict, do not fail to let me know if more should be necessary ; and, above all, be sure that she wants for nothing? it would be death to rae to know that she suffered any privation." Exhausted by exciting feelings and previous wakefulness, Murrell Vivian, as soon as Benedict was gone, prepared to seek repose ; but first he replaced, in a small leather portmanteau, which stood on his dressing table, a pocket-book, containing various bank-notes as well as gold and silver coin, from which he had taken the sum he had transmitted to his messenger ; and having glanced through sundry papers to assure himself that everything was in order, he turned the key and removed it from the lock, stowed away the portmanteau in a closet and then retired to rest. He had slept for perhaps two hours, when he was awakened by a slight noise apparently not far off. The consciousness was at first a vague one, and he lay awake for a minute or more without being able to determine whether it was the result of a dream or not; but presently a^epetition of the noise, which was that of a cautious, stealthy movement as of a person feeling his way about in an unaccustomed place, convinced him that it was no fancy, but the actual truth. There was a faint glimmer of light in his chamber, from a lamp which was kept burning in the corridor without; but though he looked around him in every direction, he could distinguish no one. He perceived, however, that the door, which he had locked on going to bed, was slightly open. There was no doubt, then, of the presence of an intruder, and for this intrusion, at such au hour, but one cause could be assigned?that of an intention against either his money or his life, or possibly both. Silently reaching out one hand, he grasped a pistol which lay on a small table close to his head. and waited in anxious suspense for the proper moment to make use of it. He did not have to wait long. Presently the moving outlines of a form in one corner of the room, where the clothes of which he had divested himself lay upon a chair, became unmistakably visible; and it was clear to him that the object of this midnight visit must be the rifling of his pockets, since that was evidently the work in which the visitor was engaged. Without hesitation he raised himself in bed and fired ; there was a groan, a heavy fall, and all was silence. Springing to the floor, Mr. Vivian struck a light, and proceeded to investigate the case. What was his amazement when he found that the victim of this well-directed shot was none other than Albert Philipson! A hasty examination assured him that the wound which he had inflicted was not so far a fatal one, though likely to prove serious enough in its results. He rang his bell and-the affair was quickly made known. The proprietor of the hotel and a number of other persons were eoon on the spot; the wounded man was conveyed to his own apartment, and a surgeon'6 assistance procured. The latter considered it doubtful whether he could survive. "If your aim was so accurate in the dark, | mein Herr," said this professional, admiring1 ly, to Mr. Viviau, "uhat must it be by daylight! I should not like to fight a duel with you." "Ma foi! nor I either, remarked a little I French Count, who had been a favorite ad versary of Philipson's at play. "You have done your work effectually, Monsieur. "I regret very much that the result is what it is," was Mr. Vivian's reply. "I acted, of course, as any one else would, under the circumstances ; but I was quite ignorant of the identity of my visitor?had I hnown who he was, I should have endeavored to secure him without shedding his blood." "You know him, then ?" asked another. "I know simply that he is a countryman of my own; like myself, away from his home and from all those who are connected with him by the ties of relationship. My personal knowledge of him is very limited." "Opeaking of his relations," remarked the surgeon, "if he has any, they ought to be telegraped to immediately. His case may be a lingering one, and they might have time to cross the ocean to pay him a farewell visit? though it's doubtful. In any case, they should be told." Mr. Vivian was ready and willing to undertake the transmission of the message; but no one knew to whom or whither it should be sent. It proved necessary to wait until Philipson recovered consciousness, which he did after a considerable time; but though he understood the inquiry addressed to him, he was either unable or unwilling to give a satisfactory reply. "Don't bother any one about me," he said, with manifest impatience; "my people are too far away to be sent for, and, besides, seeing them would do me no good." "But let me tell you that this will be about your last chance of meeting them again in this world," urged the Burgeon, who seemed anxious tp impress upon everyone the serious nature of the case. "As to your offence, they will overlook that. People are not usually hard upon others at such a time." "My offence?bah!" said the wounded mon ?' 'tian't. wrnvoat T have committed in ray lifetime, by a long shot. That does not worry me." "Then all I have to say is that you are a reprobate," said the surgeon, turning off in disgust. "Act as you please in the matter. I've given you my advice, and my conscience is clear." Notwithstanding his show of hardihood, Albert was secretly more troubled than he cared to confess; and Mr. Vivian, who assumed the post of watcher, at least for the present, beside his bed (feeling, as he did, real concern in regard to bis condition") had the penetration before long to discover that his bravado was put only as a mask. As soon as a good opportunity presented itself, he once more approached the subject which had appeared so obnoxious, and represented to the patient the obligation that he was under not to conceal from his nearest relations the critical state in which he found himself. "As to obligation," returned Albert, "I do not see that any exists in the matter. My mode of life has cut me off, for years past, from my family, and I imagine that it will make little difference to them whether they hour of mo or not. It might, it is truo, ho a source of satisfaction to them," he added, with a forced laugh, "to know that the disgrace of my existence is about to be wiped away from the earth." "It is too serious a subject to jest on," returned Mr. Vivian. "Reflect what a source of pain it will be hereafter to your relatives, to know that you refused to communicate with them in your greatest necessity, and I cannot but think that, however complete the estraDge ment which has existed between you, they will be eager and grateful now for an opportunity of being reconciled." "It is odd that you should take an interest in the matter," said Albert. "Not at all," replied his self constituted guardian. "I feel it particularly incumbent upon me, as the author of your present misfortune, to do what I can to lighten the evil, though I fear it is past remedy." " You are not to blame," rejoined Albert, with an effort. "It was ray own cursed folly. If you really think it best to send," he added, "I'll give you my mother's address. You will find it in that portfolio lying on the table." Mr. Vivian immediately found the address, and before another quarter of an hour had elapsed, Mrs. Philipson and her daughter were telegraphed for, to the station nearest Drowsieville, which, of course, boasted no telegraph station of its own. CHAPTER IX. Oh that 't were possible, After long grief and pain, To find the arms of my true lova Round me once again!?Tennyson. To return now to Rachel, who so suddenly and unexpectedly disappeared from the little firmament of Drowsieville; where, it need not be said, no small wonder and gossip was excited by this singular occurrence. We find her, a month later, established in a new situation ; that of nurse to the children of a family residing in a small village not far from the city of New York. She had obtained this situation quite by chance; having fallen in with her present employers on board of a ferry boat, where one of the little children had been taken suddenly ill, and she had been able to render prompt and acceptable assistance to the distressed mother. Mrs. Winfield (that was the lady's name) overflowed with gratitude for the service thus voluntarily rendered, and begged to be told in what way she could best recompense Rachel for her kindness. The latter replied that she would be greatly obliged to her if she could help her find a place, as she was out of employment just now. It chanced that Mrs. Winfield was looking out for a new nurse, her former one having recently left her, and she engaged Rachel then and there to fill the situation. It was not, in all respects, a congenial one, or one that she would have chosen for herself. The Winfields were from a common class, and though wealthy, possessed none of the refinements of a higher order of society. But what did this matter? They were, in the main, not disagreeable. If Mr. Winfield was purse-proud and vulgar, she saw but little of him, and his wife and elder daughters, though somewhat fussy and overbearing, were really kind at heart, and did not mean to be offensive; and she was in no condition to be critical as to her surroundings, or to wait until something more desirable should offer itself to her acceptance. Besides, their home was a retired one, which suited her exactly ; and she was more than glad that the position she occupied in it was one which precluded the necessity of her ever encountering any of their visitors. Her charges were three in number, the eldest a girl of four, the two younger a girl and boy aged respectively three years and eighteen months; they were dull, quiet children, moderately good-tempered, and sufficiently well-behaved to cause her but little trouble. She was required to do a good deal of sewing for them, but to this she was accustomed, and the occupation was one which afforded her ample time for thought?more, pjrhaps, than was wholesome for her. And, oh, how far and wide her thoughts fmwpldH ns she :sat hour after hour in the spacious nursery, drawing the darning-wool through many-colored stockings, or mending little frocks and aprons, or fashioning new ones, while the three plump, sober children amused themselves decorously with their respective playthings around ! How strange a life of change had hers become; how strange were the chances which placed her here! And in these hours of self-communion, most of all in the night-watches, when not even her hands were occupied and there was nothing to interrupt her, busy Memory took her back to the past, so blest, so fraught with a joy brief, but exquisite beyond words, and recalled every look, every smile, every fond tone and word and caress, that had created a halo of brightness and beauty around her life, until a yearning too intense for utterance seized the fibres of her heart and wrung them with anguish and despair. Was the sunshine of love blotted out from her path forever, and was her portion to be naught but longing and grief until she died ? For she loved her husband still. With all the fervor of affection with which she had first yielded him her heart; with full and free forgiveness of the wrong he had done her; with a patient sufferance of the woes he had brought upon her; with a never-dying, evergrowing desire to see him once more and be reconciled, and cancel all the misery of their separation, without a question as to the right or justice of his inexplicable conduct, she loved him still. She felt that to be reunited to him, to know herself once again the object of his tenderness, would be a sufficient recompense for all the agony she had endured. And yet, feeling all this?knowing that to be brought near him, as of old, would be a heaven upon earth to her, and that being parted trom him was unspeakable pain, she had been forced to fly from him, to watch his approach with dread, and hide herself trembling when chance brought him in her way. On that evening when, seated on Mrs. Stanton's piazza, the unexpected apparition of bis face and figure had passed before her startled vision, so distinct and unmistakable in the moonlight, that made the street as bright as day, the keen thrill of terror that it had awakened, made her realize how dread was the barrier between them, how impossible it was that she should ever be the one to seek the reconciliation for which she longed. Alas, that her unchanging love should be mingled with such bitter fear! What, she wondered, could possibly have Uim m Drf.-wsieDille? There were UlUUglib II**** ? moments when the possibility would force itself upon her that he had come there in search of her. But then, how could he have learned of her being there, and if he had, with what intent had he gone to seek her ? Had he not warned her to keep out of his way, to let no chance bring her across his path again, on peril of her life ? Had not she sickened at the sight of the murderous gleam in his eyes, which had never before rested upon her with aught but tenderness in their glance, and felt that his words were not idly uttered when he threatened her thus? How, then, could she have dared to linger where fate had brought, him, when such risk was involved in the fact of his being near her? In haste and fear she had gathered up the small belongings she was able to carry, and fled, under cover of the night, from the roof which sheltered her, feeling it impossible to stay for any explanation or farewell. She felt a pang at the idea of being deemed ungrateful by those who had so befriended her; but the greater trouble swallowed up the less, and chiefly absorbed her thoughts. "Rachel," said Helen Winfield, the eldest daughter, coming into the nursery one day, "here's a letter for you. I do believe it's the first you have received since you have been with us, isn't it ?" "Yes," said Rachel, mechanically, as she extended her hand to take the letter. Some one in Drowsieville must have found out her new hiding-place! A strong tide of agitating doubt, mingled wonder and apprehension, rushed over her, but sh6 was skilled enough now in mastering her emotions to conceal the sensations from Helen, who, actuated by a somewhat intrusive curiosity, lingered after * __J-_ 4. i._L 1 delivering tne missive in oruer lu w?w;u uci open and read it. She was disappointed, for Rachel, not knowing of what nature were its contents, would not venture to investigate them in the presence of anybody, and, with an outward calmness which belied her real excitement, she concealed the letter in her pocket from the prying eyes that were upon her. "How funny you are," remarked the young lady, turning away with a laugh ; "when I get a letter I don't put it in my pocket. I read it at once. I guess you don't care much about the person it's from ?" "Perhaps I don't," quietly rejoined Rachel; "at any rate, I must finish sowing this frill on Bertie's dress before I do anything else." "But as soon as Helen was gone, and she felt safe, she tore the envelope open with frantic eagerness. A bank note dropped out as she did so and in utter amazement she read: "Miss Ray :?I am authorized to transmit to you the sura of two hundred and fifty dollars for your personal use and expenses, and to inform you that you will receive a second remittance of the same amount in a few days. No reply to this is needed. "Respectfully "H. V. B." "H. V. B!" murmured the astounded Rachel, as she read and re-read the mysterious communication, trying in vain to find a clue to the identity of the writer. None presented itself to her perplexed mind; the letter was post marked New York, but bore no other date, and neither the handwriting nor the initials of her correspondent were familiar to her. She picked up the bit of paper, which represented a sum larger than she had had at her disposal since she had been thrown upon her own resources; it was evidenly genuine, there was no doubt of that, but who the donor was she could not imagine. "H. V. B." stated that he, or she, was authorized to transmit to her this sum ; it must have come to her, then, from another source, one desirous of not being made known. She put away the money and the letter, resolved to keep both carefully until some development of the puzzle should occur. Ten days later a precisely similar enclosure came to her through the post; the only difference being in the accompanying communication, which was briefer and more carelessly penned than the first. "H. V. B." simply stated that she would hear from him again from time to time. The more she puzzled over this mystery, the more bewildered she grew. One solution MMAAAV^A/1 ? iftAl V i>A U AM Ullf TttAO WAlAA^ A/1 O I pi CSClilCU 1USC11 LU HCly MU L YT?0 lcjbbicu a a wild and impossible?that of her husband being the source of these presents; for, if he felt a sufficient interest in her welfare to trace her out in order to provide for her, why did he exclude her from all opportunity of vindicating herself from the offence, whatever it might be, of which he must suppose her guilty ? If he concerned himself at all about her, his affection, it seemed to her, could not be entirely dead ; and if any spark of it remained he surely could not so unrelentingly maintain the barrier between them. Still, the very possibility, or shadow of a possibility, that he might be striving in this indirect way to establish a sort of bridge over the gulf of their separation, thrilled her whole being with a vague, indefinable hope ; yet on farther reflection this hope would vanish, and she would chide herself for being so foolish as to have permitted its entrance even for an instant into her heart. On the other hand, if it was not he who made this provision for her support, who else could it be ? Her thoughts reverted to her Drowsieville friends, but nothing seemed less likely than that any of them should communicate with her in this way. It was useless for her to try to explain the problem; it was quite inexplicable. Wherever the money came from, she resolved not to use it unless necessity should require. So she locked it up safely in a drawer, and only touched it when she added to it other sums which, according to promise, came from time to time. Her store increased so |jy degrees that at last she found herself in condition, if she chose, to leave her present situation and establish herself independently elsewhere. But somehow she had a feeling that here she was under the supervision of some protecting agency, from which, humble as her duties were, she was loth to go away. Her action in the matter, as it happened, was not left to her own choice. One day she was summoned to Mrs. Winfield's apartment, and found that lady in a state of manifest exultation and delight. "Well, Rachel," she exclaimed, "tfhat do you think of my luck? Mr. Winfield's going to Europe, and I've worried him into taking me and the girls with him. We are going to sail on the bfteenth of next month." "Indeed, madam!" rejoined Rachel. "Will the children go also ?" "No ; not the three young 'uns. I mean to send them to my sister, Mrs. Butterfield, in Jersey, until we come back. I sent for you to tell you at once, because, of course, you can't go with them. I'm sorry to have to part with you, but you'll be obliged to look out for another place." "Very well," Rachel answered, simply. She was not conscious of feeling either glad or sorry, only it was a perplexity to decide where she must go next. This had been a resting-place to her, and now she must leave it and set out in search ot another. After some deliberation, she resolved to seek out a cheap lodging in some retired quarter of New York, where she could stay at any rate for a little while, until someth/ng in the way of fresh employment presented itself. She could always fall back upon her L?edle as a resource, if she found nothing better, and in the heart of that great busy city she could be as completely lost as she desired to be. She had not much difficulty in. finding the sort of home she wanted. And a few days before the Wind fields' departure for Europe she removed to ber new abode, a dull respectable lodging-house, kept by an elderly spinster who faithfully endeavored to carry out the compact which she made to afford those beneath her roof "the comforts of a home," though perhaps her success was not altogether complete. And here she settled down into a dreary, absolutely unevently life, feeling herself more completeful alone than ever before. There was not a soul among her fellow lodgers between whom and herself she could possibly feel the slightest bond of sympathy, the most trifling sentiment in common. Not thatJ this troubled her; she was anxious to shun, rather than seek, any intercourse with those around her. But it was an unhealthy mode of existence, and she grew insensibly more morbid and wretched as time went on. "I shall die if I continue in this way much longer," she said to herself, one day, in a sort of desperation, when she had been at Miss Smithson's a little more than six weeks. "I shall have to get work of some kind. Anything is better than sitting idle and brooding, day after day, and hour after hour, over a grief which can never be healed." She had passed, in her occasional walks out, various repositories of ready-made underclothing, and she decided to find out whether at some of these she could not obtain employment, or at any rate, be directed where to go. After some unsuccessful efforts, she found a place where additional workers were needed. She was asked for a sample of her work, which she gave. It proved satisfactory, and she was engaged. The remuneration offered was small enough, but sufficient for her needs, in addition to what she already possessed. And if her chief aim had been to secure steady occupation, it was fully answered, for it was soon evident, that in her new place, she would not have a single idle moment. From seven in the morning until six in the evening, she was required to be at her post, with the intermission of an hour at noon, which was allowed for the employes to go to dinner. Her fellow-workers soon discovered that it was useless to try and draw her into their set, and desisted from their first well-intentioned efforts to do so. She silently, but resolutely, kept herself apart, here as elsewhere, and bore the imputation of being "one of the queer sort" There was one delicate girl among the rest, however, towards whom she felt a secret attraction in spite of herself. Her name was Magdalen Gray; she was an only daughter, and worked for the support of her aged mother and a brother who was a cripple. Bachel could not se? her pale, patient face, her slight form continually bent over her machine, and listen to the low weak cough to which she occasionally would give vent, without feeling a | thrill of compassionate interest. Then, too, Magdalen like herself seemed one apart; not that she shunned her coarser companions, but there was an evident gulf between them, a total dissimilarity of mind and thought, and it was easy to see, notwithstanding her poverty, that her social position was or deserved to be, far superior to theirs. There was a refinement in her features and in her whole bearing, that marked her as one born to a higher sphere; and this added to the spiritual delicacy which characterized her face, and the pathetic softness of expression wljich spoke in the glance of her dark eyes and in her rare, very rare smile, insensibly appealed to Rachel's sympathies, and drew her from the contemplation of her own forlorn situation to that of this new aquaintance, who, she felt sure, must also have a weight of sorrow to bear. - _i r it Happened tnat me piaces appuimeu iu? Magdalen and herself to occupy were sepa-. rated by the length of the room, and thus they rarely came in contact But one day, when all the others had gone to their dinner, these two remained behind, neither .feeliDg any appetite for their customary meal. Rachel saw how wearily Magdalen leaned upon her elbow, with a look of patient endurance in her face; and after watching her for some time in silence, she rose, impelled by an impulse which she could not resist, and walked quickly over to where she sat. "Are you feeling ill to-day ?" she asked, in a gentle tone, lightly touching the young girl's shoulder with her hand. Magdalen looked up with a faint flush of surprise. "No, I am not ill, thank you," she replied, "but I'm a little tired." "It is tiresome work, sewing all day," Rachel continued, "especially if one is not strong?and you do not look very strong." "Oh ! I am quite strong, usually," Magdalen rejoined, quickly; "but to-day I have a headache, and that tires me, I suppose. I am subject to headaches, sometimes." "Do you live far from here?" asked Rachel. "No, quite near," replied the other. "If vmi will walk with me this evenin&r I will show you where it is. I should be glad if you would come and see me sometimes." [to be continued.] fUading. AN ELEPHANT ON A CRAZE. The elephant described in the following narrative will be remembered by many of our readers as the one which was almost ungovernable when on exhibition at Yorkville in 1855, only a few days before it was killed: Mr. George F. Bailey is the manager.of B. T. Barnum's Circus Company, and Mr. J. J. Nathan is the general agent. They were found yesterday afternoon in Mr. Barnum's office in Houston Street. On the wall, over Mr. Bailey's head, was a picture of six trakene stallions, and on the opposite wall was a lifesize showbill portrait of "Miss Katie Stokes, the daring equestrienne," done in attractive colors. In Mr. Bailey's hand was an evening newspaper containing Mr. Henry Bergh's denial that a red hot poker had been driven into the trunk of the Emperor, one of Barnum's elephants, in the Central Park Museum, and an opinion attributed to him (Mr. Bergh) that there ought not to be a zoological collection in the world, since he could see no benefit to humanity, no advantage to art, nor any promotion of science in the confinement of a miscellaneous herd of dumb brutes. Mr. Bailey and Mr. Nathans did not choose either to deny or admit the use by their employ^ of a red hot poker to subdue Emperor. What they did do was to justify it, provided the elephant was in a "craze" at the time. "Let me tell you," said the former, "what happened to George West, for the want of a hot iron. I bought Bolivar, the finest and largest elephant I had seen up to that time, " - orn TIT * ! _ cases considered and decided. Twenty-four cities, counties and towns, seeking to evade, upon various pretexts, the payment of their obligations, have brought their cases by appeal to this Court of last resort. In twentythree instances out of the twenty-four, the Court has decided that the bonds must be paid. Of these twenty-four cases, all but four came from Illinois, Missouri,. Kansas, Arkansas, Iowa and Louisiana. Precious Fruit.?They were out riding. Said Theodore, "What tree, Angelina, bears the most precious fruit V Angelina?uO I Dory, I can't tell, unless it is a cherry tree." Theodore looks unutterable sweetness, as he gases into Angelina's eyes and says, "The axle-tree, darling." at Zanesville, Uhio, in 1000. west was nia keeper. Bolivar was, for a long time, very gentle, but every elephant is treacherous. He went with the show to South Carolina. Late one night, while we were traveling, West was riding a little distance behind him, not expecting to meet anybody on the road at timt hour. The first thing he knew was that Bolivar had caught up a horse on his tusks. From the horse dangled one of the little carts used in that part of the country. The driver had tumbled out, but the horse and cart were tossed into the*ditch beside the road where the horse soon bled to death. West hit Bolivar several cuts, and he seemed to yield, but I said to him, "George, that elephant will kill you yet." I paid the man $40 for the loss of his horse, and we went on. "Two or three days afterward, on a Sunday morning, on the road from Camden to Lumberton, we came to a wooden bridge over a mill race. The millpond lay directly to one side of the bridge. Bolivar approached the bridge, but stopped with a suspicious air before he stepped on the planks, as if doubting the strength of the structure. West, who was on a horse just behind him, pushed him a little with his .whip, when Bolivar turned upon him, and catching the horse on his I . i . j i j j? L:_I?_ IU9K8, losaeu Xiorst: uuu nuei mguci tuau iuc eaves of the mill.- Both fell in the millpond. The horse was got out, but was so badly hu^ that I ordered him to be knocked in the head. West swam ashore unharmed. In the meantime the elephant stood with his trunk hanging straight to the ground, as if what occurred did not concern him in the least. I warned West to beware of him, but he said : T guess he doesn't mean me.' We then took Bolivar below the mill, and allowed him to ford th6 stream. West got one of the musicians to ride his horse while he started to go on foot. Hn gave the elephant one or two cuts with a whip and the animal broke into a run, but at iLc cross roads near at hand he turned into the wrong road. Forgetting his usual caution, West ran ahead to turn him. No sooner did Bolivar see West in front of him than he made for the man. West ran for a high bank, and would have saved himself before the huge beast could have got under headway, but his foot slipped at the bottom of the bank. The next moment he was dangling in mid-air on the two' long tusks. There was a fourteen-rail fence on the other side of the road, but Bolivar moved through it as if it had been made of cobwebs. He did not seem to know where he was going, but kept tossing West up and catching him in the air as he fell. He ran in this way about a quarter of a mile. Then West fell to the ground. What more Bolivar would have done to the lifeless body I don't know. There were two elephant dogs with him, and one, the black one, Tige, I think we called him, went and lay right over the body?just spread himself out on it. Bolivar looked at the dog half a minute, and then, as if unwilling to hurt him, turned away and began to feed about the field. When we ven- I tured to approach the body we found that it had been pierced thirteen times by the tusks. West had all his clothes on when he was at- ' tacked, but everything had been torn fropi j him but his boots and his shirt which hung i to him only by the neck-band. I sent back to Camden for a lot of rope, and we tried to slip a noose on one of Bolivar's feet, but every time we would get it on, ready to be pulled tight, he would slip out of it or pull it off with his trunk. It was getting late in the afternoon, and as I did not dare to leave him, the dangerous brute, alive in that country, with nearly 1,000 negroes swarming about, worth over $500 apiece, I determined to kill him. So I rode back to Camden, where I found about thirty young bloods lounging about, dressed in their patent slippers and white socks. They all came out, on horseback, at my invitation, for au elephant hunt. a!A KiiiMin/v kof ko/^ fnrmflplv IUC1C ITOO OU U1U UUUUtllgi bUUV uuu been used as a mill, near the pond, and in this the young men took their positions. Then a man named Fletcher towed the elephant up to within fair gunshot, and at a given signal the young men all fired at his eyes. He was not even staggered. Raising his trunk, he ran to the building and threw himself against it. It trembled, but withstood the shock. If you ever want to see a sight, look at an elephant when he's ugly. More than 200 bullela tvctb fired into irnn. ? He at last turned, and ran, half blinded, to a f iece of woods, the two dogs yet following him. n the woods he stood still, and, as it had grown pretty dark, we left him. "In the morning we returned in greater force, and with some guns of larger calibre. We found him yet in the woods, and almost in the same tracks in which he stood the night before. He was shot as he stood. Then he turned and run into the millpond. While he thus sought safety in the water, a slug penetrated to his brain, through his eyes, and killed him. "If," Mr. Bailey continued, "a red hot iron had been at hand when Bolivar first attacked the horse and cart, he could have been properly punished and cowed into submission. Then there would have been no more trouble, or if West had had a red-hot iron in his hand at the crossroads he might have been alive to day. A HUNT AFTER BATS. One of the funniest stories I have heard for a very long time, says a writer for the London Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic Newt, is my friend Mr. Eccles' description of how he caught innumerable bats one night It was many years ago, when he was young in hia nrnfpsainn arid whilp. on A tour with a provincial company, he had taken lodgings in a clean but rather dilapidated little house. Soon after going to bed he fell asleep, and soon after falling asleep he was awakened by a strange, fluttering noise, as of a frightened bird, in the curtains of his bed. He sprang up, struck a light, and saw a darkcolored little creature with wings blundering about the room. Not being well acquainted with natural history, Mr. Eccles did not recognize it as a bat, but determined to catch it if possible, and examine it carefully in the morning. Taking up a soft felt hat, he began the hunt, and tried to capture the intruder for a long time in vain; but at last he pounced upon it, carefully took it from under the hat, shut it in a drawer, listened to its ineffectual attempts to escape?wanting to be sure that he had really caught it?and went to bed to dream of flying dragons.. But he was not destined to sleep long. Hardly had he dozed off when another fluttering awakened him, and lighting another match, he found another bat. After this one, he had another hunt, caught it, put it in the drawer with its brother, and again went to bed. Again, however, he was awakened in a similar manner; bats came not in single spies, but?if the expression he pardonable?in battalions. Mr. Eccles hunted dilligently and enthusiastically', making quite a collection of specimens, and putting them all with great care in the drawer. Heated with the chase, he then opened the window, and, tired out, at last enjoyed a few minutes' sleep. Waking with the morning light, he jumped out of bed and opened the drawer very cautiously, a fraction of an inch at a time, to look for his bats; but, lo and behold, there were no'hats there! He opened the drawer wide, and then discovered that it had no back to it. He had, in fact, been passing all his night catching the samo bat, which had flown out the back of the drawer as soon as he put it in the front, and when the window was opened, had finally escaped. Slurs on Women.?Of all evils prevalent among ycung men, we know of none more blicrhtine in its moral effects than to speak lightly of the virtues of women. Nor is there anything in which young men are so thor- * oughly mistaken as the low estimate they form of the integrity of women. Not of their own mothers and sisters, but of others, who they forget, are somebody else's mothers and sisters. As a rule, no person who surrenders to this debasing habit is to be trusted with an enterprise requiring integrity of character. Plain words should be spoken on this point, for the evil is a general one, and deep-rooted. If young men are sometimes thrown into society of thoughtless or depraved women, they . have no right to measure all other women by what they see of these than they have to estimate the character of honest and respectable citizens by the developments of crime in our police courts. Let our young men remember that their chief happiness in life depends upon the utter faith in women. No worldly wisdom, no misanthropic philosophy, no generalization, can cover or weaken truth. It stands like the record of itself?for it is nothing less than this?and should put an everlasting seal upon the lips that are wont to speak lightly of women. An Improvement.?We are pleased to note the change people have made in the matter of swathing their children's necks. A few years ago the error of hogging a boy's or a girl's neck with a great comforter or scarf was general, but now-a-days we don't often see it; the feet and wrists are the proper members to keep warm ; the face and tnroat will harden , into a healthy indifference to cold ; but that muffler exchanged for an extra pair of thick socks and knitted gloves would keep a boy or girl really warm and well. Bronchitis and sore throat have declined fifty per cent, since the absurd use of high collars and twicearound neckerchiefs went out of fashion; and if the poor would take better care of their children's feet, half the infantile mortality would disappear. It only costs a trifle to put a piece of thick felt or cork into the bottom of a boot or shoe, but the difference is often considerable between that and a doctor's bill, with perhaps the undertaker's besides. Among the salient features of the business transacted by the Supreme Court of the United States during the term which has just ended, is the larce number of municioal bond