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lewis m. gkist, proprietor, j Jitbrpcnbcnf Jamilo ftctospaper: Jfffr fjjc promotion of f \tpolitical, Social, Agricultural anb Commercial Interests of tjjc Sonfji. |term&--$2.50 a year, in advance. VOL. 26. YORKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, APRIL 29, 188Q. NO/18. fUwwucr of MEI Gi O] KING'S M BY MRS. MAR' ? CHAPTER XVI. . What valor when a cur doth grin, For one to thrust his band between his teeth, When he might spurn him with his foot away? Shakspeare's Henry V]. "Your perspective is not good there, Miss Ellen. Give a little more distance to that landscape; tinge these clouds with greyer hue and soften these vivid colors." "No, no!" 9he cried, "you would make ray Indian summer sunset, a hazy English day. I will not spoil my brilliant tints." "Your sky is too glowing to be natural, Ellen," said Mr. Willoughby, who generally managed to agree with Graham. She painted on in silence. Graham, absorbed in the art of which he was complete master, did Dot dotice her again for some time, but, at length, looking up, said: "Your colors are not yet softened enough. Those crimson tints are gorgeous, but not natural." "I have not softened them at all," said Ellen, carelessly. Graham bent over her in wounded surprise. "Ellen," he whispered, "why is it you persist in acting so contrary toward me? Am I not ouly to be denied the love I would give ray being for, but the simplest courtesy of social life." She colored, ashamed of her petulance. "Would to heaven I could be more patient, Ellen; but in denying your love, spare me your contempt," and; turning from her, he left the room. Mr. Willoughby had been no uninterested witness of this little scene. Waiting till the footsteps of the young man died in the distance, he approached her. "Ellen," said he, "have you hurt Graham's feelings ?" "For heaven's sake, uncle, don't question me of Graham's feelings. I cannot be responsible for the caprices of his temper." "It is time, Ellen, we understood each other upon this subject. I have allowed you a reasonable tiuie for consideration. Are you prepared now to answer me ?" "What subject do you allude to, sir ? I am not aware I deferred decision upon any." "This is idle," said Mr. Willoughby, sternly. "You are perfectly aware that I allude . . to Graham." "The allusion is as unpleasant now as it ever has been, and as it ever will be," she replied, with a determined air. "And you reject him unconditionally ?" "I reject him unconditionally." "Will you be frank enough to tell me why ?" said Mr. Willoughby, in unnatural calmness. "It might be suificient reason to say I do not love him. If Lieutenant Graham is a gentleman, he will accept that." "I profess to be concerned in this matter," replied Mr. Willoughby, "and the reason is not satisfactory." "I can give no other," replied Ellen, deep ly flushing. "Then I will give it for you," said he, in bitter sarcasm. "It is because von love one who never wastes a thought ou a maiden, who thus dishonors every principle of tnodest.v in her spy hpp?i].se von love one who himself iovites you to fix your atKctions elsewhere; who, it may be, makes your love a jest aud a song." "It is false," cried Ellen, who had buried her burning face in her hands, but who now started up in a passion of indignation. "It is false! Perish .the tongue thut could bring you such a slander." "Your anathema, must fall on his own head then. Witness the letter written to Graham! Did not every line breathe a hope you would soon be another's ?" "His love has been wounded. I cannot tell how," faltered Ellen ; "and he wrote under some strange misunderstanding." "Foolish girl! Your trembling words belie your trust. He wearies of a passiou he cannot return." "Spare me, spare me," cried the wretched girl. "Ellen, God knows I would not willingly wound you ; but why waste the best treasure of your heart on one so unworthy ?" "Unworthy!" cried Ellen, roused by the charge. "My uncle was not wont to consider the child of his deceased friend in such a light; was not wont to hear aught against the generous youth who so esteemed him ? against the brave patriot whose purity none has yet dared to doubt. Why a stranger, and that stranger an eueiny, should so steal the attections oi one nitnerto so tonci, i cannot understand; but one thing 1 know, no compulsion shall ever make uie give my hand where my heart cannot accompany it." "And this is your resolve?" said Mr. Willonghby, struggling for a calmness he could scarcely obtain. "Firm and unalterable!" replied Ellen, meeting his gaze in unflinching determination. "Then hear me," said he, in low, wrathful tones. "If ever words of love pass between you and Davie, you leave my roof, never to see my face again. Choose between the two. With the one you leave my house, and my curse follows you; with the other, I open my heart to you, my Ellen, and bless you while 1 liv? " 'Tor Heaven's sake, uncle, what is this? How has Harry offended you ? What traitor has poisoned your ear against him ?" "T hiicp nnthino- n train at. him hilt this 5<s ray will." "Oh ! uncle, what strange madness is this?" said Ellen, in trembling terror for her uncle's reason. "That a stranger should so infatuate you." "I speak the words of truth and soberness, and so help me God, I will abide by them," replied Mr. Willoughby. "Then God help me," said Ellen, bursting into tears. "Ellen, is it much I ask you?" said Mr. Willoughby, more kindly. A youth, handsome, generous and devoted, with every quality to make a woman happy, asks you to be his wife. What miserable infatuation forbids?" She wept sadly. "But I plead sternly. Perhaps more tender lips can plead to more purpose. Remember your promise not to betray your love to another." And ere she understood why, he had left her. "Ellen?and in tears?" said Graham. "Have my foolish words wounded you? God knows, dearest, I would give my life to spare you a single one. Look up, look up, Ellen, and tell me I'm forgiven," said he, in glad surprise, at this uuwouted yielding. She did look up, but with a look of despair which startled him. "What is the matter, Ellen? I cannot understand this. Your uncle bade me meet you here, to plead, as only lover can plead, for love and happiness. Say, my Ellen, that you listen to me." "I can listen," said she mournfully, "but my heart gives no response." the gtevototioH. ilmT R, OUNTAIN. r A. EWART. "What!" said he, "have I again been too precipitate ?" "We must understand each other," she replied. "You ask love and happiness. I minhf o\vp. nontent: but never happiness." ""J " o 7 "You wrong yourself. You wrong me by such a thought?you who are so fitted for domestic felicity. You, who possess an enthusiastic tenderness and an earnest devotion. And I?my affections and opinions shall be moulded in yours; and if ardent, devoted love can make you happy, you will be blest indeed. "Is it not possible that you do not comprehend me ? I cannot love you as you ought to be loved. I esteem you more than any man I have ever seen, but I can never regard you otherwise than as a valued friend." "May I not hope ?" said he, much agitated, "that time?my future conduct, your uncle's influence?" "Forgive me, Graham. I do not willing ly distress you; but better the disappointment now, tfan that you should hereafter discover that my silence had deceived you." "And you would tell me you cannot love me?" replied he, passionately. She was silent, unwilling to pain, by repetition, the heart she had already wounded so deeply. "Ellen, tell me ; have you preference for another ?" The crimson tide bathed neck and brow. "Our birth is equal, our fortunes favorable, our tastes similar. Tell me, Ellen, what is between me and happiness ?" She clasped her hand and said : "You have every right to exact sucn a mark of my esteem and confidence. Would I could meet you in the same generous spirit; but, alas! my lips are sealed." "Ab," cried Graham, misunderstanding her allusion. "It is because I stand against you as nil enemy, that you think me unworthy of your encouragement and favor. Next to my honor, Ellen, you are dear. Its call is sacred eyen were it a summons to the tents. Would you have me sacrifice all for love, and think it well lost?" "God forbid," said she. "Much as I would like to see every man of honor enlisted in our cause, I would not wish to influence you. Nay, for such weakness, I would despise you." "My noble Ellen, I knew it," said he, much relieved. "Then, what is it, Ellen? Do I not plead warmly enough ?" and flying off the reserve he had evidently been chafing against, with all the warmth of his passionate nature, he poured out his love. Startled at his fiery vehemence, she strove to check him, but in vain. The warm blood of his Italian nature was roused and swept like a torrent over the cold barriers of au English training. "Ellen," said he, "you must be mine. My love wit not brook a refusal. Do not tell me you cannot love me. My soul must find in you its supply ; or, failing of its fountain, it will bun-t its wretched tenement in despair. Look at me. Ellen. Give me vour hand and count, if you can the, beatings of .my pulse, and your woman heart will not so condemn me. Ellen, Ellen," said he, in tones of passion's tenderest cadence ; and unable longer to restrain the impetuosity of his fervid nature, he threw his arm around her, and pressing her for an instant wildly to his breast, whispered, in rapid utterance, "To hold you thus, as wife? the intoxication maddens me." He snatched a burning kiss from her flushed face, and ere she could utter the indignant words that rose to her tongue, he had left her. Unable longer to control the emotions of his nature, and fearing her coldness might tempt hint to be guilty of some strange, wild impulse that would forever frighten her colder spirit, he sought refuge in solitude. While struggling for a calmness that was almost unattainable. he met Mr. Willoutrhbv. ? - - j Q ^ "How have you succeeded ?" said he, anxiously. "I do not know," replied he impetuously. "I fear my violence has startled her calm nature to an indignation she will never subdue." "What do you mean, Graham?" said Mr. Willoughby, frightened at the flushed face and excited raanuer of his young friend. "I mean this," said he: "Better have my brains blown out and be rid of this misery at once, than suffer this torture longer." "Good heavens, Graham, don't speak so wildly," said Mr. Willoughby, shuddering. "Speak miidly ! You should see my heart? you should feel these bursting temples. Why was I ever cursed with this fervid nature, if it entails such suffering as this?" And he struck his clenched hand against his brow. "For God's sake, be calm, Graham. I cannot bear, indeed I cannot bear this agony ;" and the old man burst into tears. "Oh ! what fate is this that follows my wretched life ?" "Had you told me Ellen could never be my wife, I would have guarded myself against this sorrow," said Graham, moved by the tokens of such sympathy, from his wild passion, to a more wretched despair. "But you encouraged me. You were never happy but when we were together. You learnt me to see in her every quality to make life happy, and you still curse ine by encouraging me to grasp what you know can never be mine. Fool, fool, fool that I was to be so deceived, and doubly double fool yet to trust in "it." "Hold, Graham, ere you kill me," said Mr. Willoughby, gasping for breath. "God help me, this is terrible," and he staggered to a seat. "And if it is terrible to you, who in caprice of friendship would give this peerless treasure to my keeping, think what it is to me, who, having it held out to me panting to grasp it, should, in the very moment of fruition, have it snatched from me by au indifference that _t_ 11 1 n l QM emus auu ures my suui t "Graham, be patient," said Mr. Willoughby, trembliug like an aspen leaf. "Be patient, and ?" "Patient, patient. By Heavens, sir, you drive me mad. Bid an avalanche stop its thundering career; bid the torrent rest on its giddy height, nor suffer oue mad wave to fall. Then stop, if you can, these burning pulses? still this bounding heart. No, cursed in the day of my birth ; cursed in the mother that bore me, giving me, in these mad passions, a heritage of woe?cursed in the father that begat me." "Hold, rash boy. What would you say ? For God's sake, hold ; one moment, be calm, and I swear by the He&vens above us, Ellen will be to you all you wish. Nay, more, her own lips shall declare it." "You would again deceive me," said Graham, incredulously. "Give me your hand, boy. Now, before Heaven I s /ear, ere another mouth roll by, Ellen shall be your wife ; or may my lying lips besilen, in the grave." "You will not force her to this?" said Graham, his generous love still checking all baser passions. "Will it not suffice to tell you she will do it?" said Mr. Willoughby, frowning. "No," replied the impetuous young man. "My heart must not be her tomb. My love must not be a sepulcher to bury every emo! tion of her nature. It is her love I want? J the soft and pure tenderness of her soul that will radiate my life with such joy as weaker i mortals dream not of. Give me this, and I i will bless you while life and being last. "It shall be so," said Mr. Willoughby, compressing his lips firmly. "Quickly then ; I would not go through this agony again for myriads of worlds." "Give me one kind word then, Graham, to encourage me for this duty." "Do you need it ?" said he, in surprise at the tenderness of Mr. Willoughby's manner. "Then God bless you, as you have blessed me. "Ah," said Mr. Willoughby, in tremulous horror. "Would you kill me? Boy, I asked a blessing. Good God, you have cursed me. "Not so, sir," said Graham, surprised at the suffering before him. "I did but thank you for what you have done for me; but I will add yet more?I pray your forgiveness for all the wild words I have uttered in my madness, and may God spare me to return four fold all the mercy I have received from you." "God help me; lam doomed," muttered the wretched man, recoiling as if from a blow ; and whose incipient madness seemed almost on the verge of maniacy. "But this will atone," he said, "and before heaven I record the vow. God bless you, Graham ; all will yet be well." "Strange," said Graham, looking after him in surprise. "Ellen told me of a mortal terror which sometimes overcame him. What if all these promises were but thelurings of a madman. He talks sanely enough, though. But does not his wonderful iuterest in me, a stranger, an enemy, argue his imbecility? I should have thought of that before; but if *? ? J ?? . i_ -i L:_ ne is niau, mere s a memuu m ma mnuncaa equal to Hamlet himself. Ah 1 if he can but make his words true, it will be the most bliss ful madness that ever befell mortal." "Capt. Hardy, bearer of dispatches from Cornwallis, awaits you in the parlor, sir," said Jerry, interrupting his reverie. "Who?" said Graham, in surprise. "Capt. Hardy, sir, from Lord Cornwallis." "Bid him wait," said Graham, impatiently, "No use tell him dat, sir; he gwine to wait till he got ready to go." "Cornwallis might have sent a gentleman, when he was sending," muttered Graham, as he slowly advanced to the house. He there found Mr. Willoughby exercising a strained kind of courtesy, which Ellen's contempt did not allow her to second. "Capt. Hardy," said Graham, with military stiffness, exacting the salute due to a superior officer. "You bear dispatches?" said he, not noticing Hardy's officious inquiries as to his convalescence, save by a haughty bow. "I do, sir. They give you the joyful intelligence of your exchange," said he with a malignant smile. "They will, no doubt, explain their own purport," said Graham, haughtily. Hardy bit his lip in chagrin, and turning to Ellen with what sauvity of manner he might command, said? "It has been sometime since we have had the pleasure of meeting." She did not think it necessary to reply, save by the slightest inclination. "I fear you will be disposed to quarrel with me, Miss Ellen, for robbing you of a guest, whom I have no doubt, has proved very entertaining." "I can relieve you on that score," said Graham, who had rapidly scanned his dispatches. "Miss Campbell" (laying a stress on the name) "does not condescend to such pastimes as quarreling ; or, if she did, doubtless she would seek a worthier subject?and excuse me?a nobler adversary." Ellen's quick glance thaqked him far more gratefully than words could possibly have done. "Nevertheless, I know that Miss Campbell cau take a much more active part in such a matter, than you suppose possible," replied Hardy, maliciously. Ellen looked up imploringly. "I must take it there was a worthier subject, as the adversary in the case was the same," he continued, with a coarse laugh. "Capt. Hardy, I beg you will not refer to scenes which, for the sake of all parties, had better be forgotten," said Mr. Willoughby, in trembling for Ellen's cherished secret. "Certainly," he replied, in affected astonishment. "I had no idea^/iss Campbell would be so affected by an incident that, for her sake, I am thankful, ended so happily." And he bent a curious gaze upon her blushing face. "I have no doubt Miss Campbell will be obliged to us all, if we could find other themes for discourse, said Graham, who could not uuderstand the allusions; but seeing they were paintui to J&lJen, continued: "lvnss Ellen, there are some prints in the other room for your inspection. Allow me?" and extending his hand with graceful courtesy, he conducted her to the next room. How her heart gleamed toward him for this tender watchfulness! Looking up in his face with glistening eyes, she whispered "Brother." He shook his head mournfully. "It will not satisfy. I can never call you 'Sister,' again and pressing his lips to her hand, he returned to Hardy. "Where is Cornwallis, now, sir ?" he asked. "Moving up to King's Mountaiu." "Ah! why is that?" "Going to pen Morgan, who has grown too audacious of late," said Hardy. "But how does he expect to do that? Morgan is over here to the west." "Oh! he has sent Tarleton to drive him up ; and you know it does not take long for him to execute business." "They want to prevent his escaping, I suppose. As he flies from Tarleton, Cornwallis will be down on him." "Exactly so, and we will make King's Mountain the scene of another drama, with another finale," laughed Hardy. "May not Morgan stand a fight ?" said Mr. Willoughby. "Scarcely, with Tarleton's superiority of numbers, in the proportion of five to four, and particularly of his cavalry, standing three to one," said Hardy. "What force has Tarleton ?" said Graham. "Twelve hundred regulars, and five hundred of them are his legion that carries terror and conquest to every quarter. Morgan will have to use light heels to escape him." "Did Cornwallis crive you any private in structions for me ?" said Graham, who had evidently been very uneasy since reading his dispatches. "None," said Hardy. "Is the country pretty quiet now ?" said Graham, seeming much relieved by the answer. "Quiet for us," replied Hardy. "Cornwallis and Tarleton make it no risk for us to ride about. I could not have ventured so near the rebel camp alone, were they not protecting me. "It is as well to respect the prejudices of those whose guests we are," said Graham, in a low tone. Hardy elevated his brows, his coarse mind scarcely comprehending the delicate reproof. "I was not aware of offending any prejudices," said he, "and if rebel is too rough a word, why, I'll call them cursed traitors," said he, with a fierce oath. "Graham colored, and rising, said : "I will at once reply to my Lord, and not detain you, sir." "You may write if you please, Colonel. I ' will not leave before morning." ! Graham glanced at Mr. Willoughby, his I high-toned breeding not comprehending the ! waut of delicacy that should so boldly extort : hospitality. But Mr. Willoughby was too j well practiced in the art of the times to be other than the conciliating and courteous host, j Calling Jerry to attend the unceremonious 1 guest to a chamber, he, for a while, dismissed I the intruder. "I do not wonder," said Graham, unable longer to restrain his impatience, "that the British officer's character has fallen into such odium, when such men as Hardy are invested with the dignity. How do you suffer such impertinences? And to have your house made a common hostelry ; it is mortifying in the extreme." "Oh ! we are used to it," said Mr. Wiiloughby. "We have ceased to look upon it as a nuisance. It is now a necessity that we meet patiently, because unavoidable." "What a miserable policy," cried Graham. "How infatuated our commanders are ! The more I see of it, the more I am compelled to wonder at their blindness. But what wa9 the meaning of those allusions to Ellen ?" ' Oh!" said Mr. Wiiloughby, striving to speak unconcernedly, "it was a very natural interposition of Ellen's. Davie, who was here on some business matters, was caught by a party of Hardy's troopers and they were on the point of executing summary judgment ou him, when I, and then Ellen, interposed for his life." "Good God, Mr. Wiiloughby, you don't tell me they would have murdered him ?" "I believe they would," replied Mr. Wil loughby. "How can you speak so calmly of it ? And they let him off on your interposition ?" "Indeed, no. They would have strung him up, had not his own troop came to the rescue." "Hung him? Horrible! And Hardy was the instigator of this ? He shall be reported. By heavens, such barbarous cruelty shall not go unpunished." "Alas! he read Comwallis' order to the effect that every rebel should be immediately hanged. The order was peremptory, and admitted of no evasion." "You cannot believe, Mr. Wiiloughby, that such rigor as this was intended. Why such measures would kill the purest cause in the world. No wonder our conquering arms give us but barren ground." <. "I do not believe such rigor was intended ; but I believe it would have been winked at, replied Mr. Wiiloughby. "Strange, 1 never heard ot tnis Derore, said Grahutn. "Why was it kept from me?" "My dear Graham, it is useless to wound your ears with these terrible tales," replied Mr. Willoughby, in some confusion. "Better let them be forgotten." "I cannot understand why Hardy should be so bitter against Davie. He's a bloodthirsty villain, it's true; but I never knew him to be engaged in such a wanton murder as this would have been." "Oh, that is easily explained," replied Mr. Willoughby, anxious to be rid of the subject. "He has been aspiring to Ellen's hand for some time, and he fancied if Davie were out of the way, he would stand some chance." "The brutal idiot, to dare raise his eyes to her, and to imagine he could gain her by such means. But it shows the coarseness of his nature. I could not endure him before ; but this makes me despise him to positive loathing." ?: "I do trust, Graham, you will not let him see it. He is a bad and evil disposed man, and would not hesitate to injure you if it Jay in his power. I pray you be careful." "The viper ! I would crush him as I would any other reptile," replied Graham, grinding his heel as if he were already under its power. "Yes: but it is instinctive to shun the loathsome reptile that bears its poison in its sting. I would not court a danger that might be deadly. "And I shun only those that lack the charm," said the high-spirited youth. CHAPTER XVII. "I cannot love; to counterfeit is base, And cruel too? 'Twas his own voice?she could not errThroughout the breathing world's extent. There was but one such voice for her, So kind, so soft, so eloquent." "Miss Campbell, will you allow me to speak a few words with you ?" said Hardy, , who had tried in vain to obtain a few moment's conversation with Ellen. "Speak quickly, then," replied she, with her hand upon the lock of the door. "I would prefer a more private place," said he, glancing at Graham and Mr. Willoughby. "Nothing Capt. Hardy could possibly have to say, would interest me sufficiently to grant a private audience," she replied, looking at , him with her calm, clear eye. "I trusted I had been forgiven ere this," said he, "for that which you must have felt was but a discharge of my duty. But women can more easily forgive a wrong to themselves than to their lovers." He saw that he had nothing to expect from her, and his sagacity had already discovered, from Graham's watchful tenderness, that he could at least wound one of the party. Mr. Willoughby whispered to Graham to follow him into the next room, but Ellen's reply checked him. "If this interview was asked but to insult me, it is as well that it should be at once closed. I beg of you, uncle?Col. Graham, that you will not leave the room." "I am unfortunate," said he maliciously, "and must again ask forgiveness. I thought nothing bu: a love dearer than life would make a woman so far forget herself, as, on her knees, to petition the life of a prisoner; but I see I was wrong; and may I presume to congratulate our arms on the accession of a new royalist," and he glanced significantly at Graham. Ellen's face was one burning blush. She would have answered, but again Graham came to her aid. "Capt. Hardy, I command you, as your superior officer, at once to return with the dispatches you bear. I know something of the circumstances to which you allude, and shall make it ray business to enquire particularly into it on my return to camp. You will leave at once, sir, and you will ask my lord for me, that when he sends his dispatches again, it may be by the hands of a gentleman and a man of honor." "You shall answer for this," said Hardy, with one of his fierce oaths, clapping his hand to his side. "Moderate your own tone, if you please," replied Graham, cooly. "Recollect you are in the presence of a lady. "Your impudence shall not go unpunished, sir. I will see you about this," he replied, with another coarse expletive. "Any satisfaction I can give you, Capt. Hardy, I will be too happy to allow, sir," said Graham, in the same calm tone. "But spare your oaths. They are unfit for a lady's ears." "Curse your impudence," muttered Hardy, again. "You shall repent this;" and still muttering anathemas low and deep, he departed. "You should not have vexed that man, Graham," said Mr. Willoughby, in affrighted terror. "He may have power you know nothing of, to injure you." "I do not fear him," said Graham, smiling. "But I must beg your pardon, Miss Ellen, for the scene ; but it was the only way I could check his impertinence," "I thank you very much." she said, falteringly. "Tell me I'm forgiven for this morning," he said, in a low voice. "I would be indeed ungrateful to withhold forgiveness," she replied, the rich color again mantling her sunny cheek. He watched her for a moment in silence; then with a deep sigh, turned away. "Come here, Ellen," said Mr. Willoughby. "I am glad that detestable Hardy is gone. Did he agitate you, my love ?" "A little nervous perhaps," replied she, surprised at the unwouted tone of kindness ; for of late Mr. Willoughby had been both fretful and stern. "How nobly Graham defended you, and with what cool courage he rebuked that ruffian !" Ellen languidly assented. "You will see nothing good in Graham, Ellen." "Nay, uncle, you wrong me. I see in him everything that is good and noble and true." "My dear Ellen, and you will yet make your old uncle happy, by giving him this dearest wish of his heart!" "Do not persecute me, uncle. I am weary of this trial," she replied ; and, indeed, her pale cheeks gave evidence of it. "This once listen to me, Ellen. I love you, love you dearly, God knows how much. From your infancy until now, you have been the loving child, the dear companion of my lonely life. I have brought you up in the enjoyment of every comforrand luxury. All that I have is yours. You are dear to me, my child, as the apple of my eye. ' For this love, for this care, I have never asked anything of you till now, Ellen; and now I ask, by your gratitude for all that care, by the memory of all that love, as you would save my gray hairs from sorrow and your own soul from my curse, to grant me this one blessing. And, oh 1 Ellen, what is it I ask ? A union with one, that to every gift of nature, adds an intellect of no inferior order, a heart rich in every fine emotion. Your studies will be his studies, your wishes, your feelings, your hopes, your fears will all mingle with his. He will enhance your pleasures, share your sorrows and oh per vnnr melanehnlv. Oh ! El len, as you value my happiness; nay, as you value my life, turn not a deaf ear to my prayer. My child, my darling, say you will bless me I" He took her in his arms, he kissed her white brow, while his tears fell like rain upon her cheek. He called her by every endearing name and begged her for the love of God, to grant his prayer. She shuddered in the embrace, she shrank from the caress, aud withdrawing herself from his arms, with her eyes undimmed by a single tear, but her cheek blanched to the hue of marble, she answered him : "Tell me, uncle, how it is this stranger has stolen into your heart, robbed your Ellen of the indulgent love that was never till now de nied her, and would force her to a union that would forever perjure her soul and dishonor every principle of her nature? Oh ! uncle, what madness is this! have you no mercy?" And she clasped her hands the image of tearless despair. "Call it madness if you will, Ellen," he replied, turning away from that strong look, "'tis a madness that will bless you while I live, or in cursing, will bring down my gray hairs in sorrow to the grave." She shuddered, and with a tightening clasp of the clenched hands, continued? "I have no love to give. I would but defraud his affection ; or, oh, God! worse still, dishonor it!" and the burning face was hid in her hands. "Ellen," said Mr. Willoughby, more sternly, "is it possible, you cling to that dream ? Oh! Ellen, Ellen, I thought more of your pride, your principle." "I have no pride now," she replied, stung to calmness again by the latent sarcasm in .1- _ X tiT? .X T Ml !_ ^1 me lone, \dui i win muse one more appeal. I will tear the veil from my heart, and if there is shame in thus exposing what my lips have never murmured, even to myself, let the cruelty that forces me to it, bear the disgrace. I love another; I love Henry Davie." Her voice trembled and her color faded and flushed like rosy waves, as she proceeded. "Before I knew what love was, I loved the fearless boy that so controlled me with his generous spirit. As I grew older, his coming was watched with delight, and unconsciously my cheek would flush and my eye kindle as he was praised. Then came a time of tremulous joy, when love first woke its echoes in my heart, and every sense was pervaded with fond emotion. Hush, do not blame me. Henry loved me; yes, he loved me," she said, her eyes swimming, a smile hovering on her lip, as the happy memory flooded her soul. "I knew it by a pressure of the hand, I read it in many a stolen glance. I heard it in the lingering tones of parting, and in the tremulous joy of greeting. Every cadence of his voice told me the tale, every act breathed it, and, ah! every pulse of my being responded. Then came a time of doubt, when the lover was lost in the patriot, and honor and glory were my rivals. Then I learnt that what to me was life and being, was to him secondary to a higher, holier, purer feeling, and I waited in patience, and loved him dearer for the manly virtue. At length, from his own lips, I learnt he loved me." Mr. Willoughby started. "True, we have exchanged no vows; but failing to be his wife, -every principle, every emotion of my heart, bids me be the bride of Heaven. And now will you bid me vow to another tne love that has so passed from my keeping ? Would you bid me stand at God's altar and vow, for weal or woe, so help me God, with my heart crying out at the perjury? Will you doom me to a sin, that will not only crush out my hope of happiness here, but will shut out every hope of heaven hereafter? Oh! uncle, spare me; do not make ? ? me curse me uaj ui my untu. "Ellen, Ellen, ray child, do not look so wretched. Oh! God, my punishment is greater than I can bear. Tell rae you forgive me, Ellen. Alas, alas, the curse attends all who are connected with me. This agony will kill mc," and he struck his clenched hand against his brow, as he groaned in bitter sorrow. Ellen did not weep. She seemed turned to stone. Her look followed him, as she waited for his answer. "You have said you could give content, Ellen. He will will not ask for more. I know when the irrevocable words are once spoken, you will never be deficient in the duties you have vowed, and after awhile, happiness will come," he said, falteringly. "Do not deceive yourself, uncle. His keen sensibility and enthusiastic tenderness would soon feel the coolness and indifference of a love that was all duty, and his misery would equal if it did not exceed mine." "And if it should be proved that Davie did not love you ?" he said. She smiled?such a smile of scorn, of trust! "I will doubt myself first." "Ellen," said Mr. Willoughby, knitting his brows as if nerving himself for a sternness be did not feel, "I did not expect to conquer you. My knowledge of your character, the history of your whole life, forbids that. I did not expect to persuade you; your infatuation equally forbids it; but I did expect you to grant me this. Your generous nature led me to hope it; your affection led me to trust it. You have disappointed me, how bitterly Heaven knows, and all for the selfish love that clings to another." "Selfish, do you call it?" said she, interrupting him. "Do you suppose if it were myself alone, I could not crush every mem ory, if not in oblivion, at least in subjection ? But it is he that would suffer; not only losing his faiih in me, but in every holy principle of our nature. It is the living death to which I would condemn him, making a sepulcher of his heart, and burying within faith, love, hope and truth. Do not ask me to build such a cbarnel house. Oh! forbid that my hands should raise such a tomb." "And you will not listen to the only request I have ever proffered, Ellen ?" "Ask anything else of me, uncle, and see how gladly ray love will fly to do your bidding. But this?and for an acquaintance of but a few months, a stranger, an enemy, oh ! uncle, why will you persist ?" Mr. Willoughby's features worked in a strong emotion. He strove to speak, but the words came low and gaspingly. "Ellen, I have sworn this. My life depends on it. Ungrateful, disobedient girl, as trrm HradH mv *<nrse ns vnn valnp mv bless Jv" ? ?J ~?-? ? J? J ing, heed what I say," and unable longer to restrain himself, he turned and left the room. Ellen sat, the image of mute despair. She did not weep?her sorrow was too deep for tears?but in sobbing agony, she bent her head on her hands. At length a step aroused her ; she drew closer within the shade of the window. "It is Graham," she thought, "and I will not be disturbed." But it stops close to her, and vexed that he should intrude, she would not look around. At length, drawn by the magnetism that compels one to look under another's scrutiny, she turned. It was growing late, the shadows were lengthening, and but dimly could she see the figure near her. Still the outlines of the manly form were strangely familiar; she heard low words of courteous greeting, and oh ! how that voice, dearer than all the world, thrilled her heart. She sprang up, but could not speak nor advance to welcome the comer. He came towards her, he took both those trembling hands in his, he drew her towards the open window. For one sweet moment he looked into the blue eyes that were so eagerly upturned, and that so slowly and lingeringly hid themselves under the long lashes. "Ellen!" and his dark eye again sought hers in earnest, eager, inquiry. It sufficed, for a smile played around the parted lips that had hitherto been so stern. "Ellen!" and again her eyes bent and the rosy color flooded her cheek, as tremulous in in love, the name fell upon her ear. "Ellen 1" and his arm was around her. He drew her to his breast, and with a low, fluttering sigh, Ellen at length found in that broad, brave breast, the rest her weary heart so longed for. "You have been suffering, dearest," he whispered, after standing some moments in silence too blissful for words. "Not now," she answered, nestling her blushing face still closer. "And I added to your trouble; tell me, love?" "It is over now," said she, unwilling, in her generous love, to pain him. "Can you forgive me, Ellen ?" She made no answer; but one little hand stole up till it gently rested on his shoulder. He drew her closer to his heart. Impassioned words of love's low tenderness fell upon her ear. They needed no answer?he required none. The soft, sweet murmur fell like balm upon her weary heart, till in perfect peace and trust, she could have breathed her life away in the fond dream. "Ellen," said he, "you have not yet bid your soldier welcome. Look up, dearest, and if your lips forbid it, let me read it in your eyes, and far more eloquently than your lips would dare to utter." Gently he raised the dear head that yet sought to hide its blushes on his breast, and his dark eyes read in hers all they longed to know. Slowly he bent his head and pressed her sweet lips in one long lingering kiss. "P.T TTll on fkla momonf to txrnr+l"! I iitavtiJj uuio tuvui vu ii ?w It v? VM years of common existence. Nay, dearest, you cannot yet go," said he, as she struggled to be free. "But the lamps are lighting, Henry, and I must away, before any one comes in." "And why, dearest ? I do not choose you to leave me." "I could not meet any one with this burning face," she whispered, "and my tell-tale eyes must be taught in solitude more cunning." Again he looked into the glaring face; again into the drooping eyes. Again and again he kissed the parted lips that were pleading so murmuringly for release, and whispering? "Quickly then, my Ellen, for I would not be long parted from you," he let her go. "Davie!" said Graham, springing up to meet him as he entered the room. "Davie 1" said Mr. Willoughby, in agitated surprise, and with strained courtesy. "How did you come? When did you get here?" said Graham, warmly shaking his hand. "One question at a time," laughed Davie. "I came as troopeis generally come, on the back of my good steed ; and I have not been here long enough to wonder where my host and his guest were." "Strange we did not hear you ride up," said Graham, understanding from this that he had just arrived. "Has Jerry taken your horse ?" said Mr. Willoughby, rising as if to attend to it. "Do not trouble yourself, my dear sir, Jerry met me and knows his duty." Muttering something about telling Ellen, Mr. Willoughby again attempted to leave the room. "I must beg, my dear Mr. Willoughby, you will not inconvenience Miss Ellen on my account ; but allow me the privileges of an old acquaintance. I have already seen her, and she has granted me every indulgence." Davie's keen eye was fixed upon Mr. Willoughby, and without another word the old man sat down. [to be continued.] Sold Himself.?-A Correctionville farmer sold a load of corn at that town the other day. When it was weighed he slyly stepped on the scales, and then drove off to unload. When the wagon was weighed he took good care not to be in it, and congratulated himself that he had cheated the buyer in good shape. The grain dealer called him in, and after figuring up the load, paid him in full. As the farmer buttoned up his coat to go out, the buyer kindly asked him to smoke with him, and then talked over the crops and the price of hogs, and the likelihood of the Maple Valley railroad building up that way, till the farmer fairly squirmed in his chair with uneasiness about his chores at home. At last he could stand it no longer, and said he must go. The dealer quietly said that was not to be thought of; that he had bought the farmer at full weight, and paid him his own price, and that be would insist nn /Ininn. oo V>o nlonapf? with bin nwn nronertv. r*~- i <? -j The raiser of corn saw that he had indeed sold himself, in one sense at least. He acknowledged his cheat and compromised the affair. Now when he markets grain he don't stand on the scales.?Sioux Oily (/a.) Journal. t&* Think twice before you believe every evil story you hear, and think twenty times before you repeat it, especially if it is about a woman. Say to yourself, "This may not be true, or it may be exaggerated," unless you have proof of the veracity of your own informant. Persons sometimes tell falsehoods; they often make mistakes and they sometimes "hear wrong." fjpSttttaHMusi fading. IT MAY BE YOUR TURN NEXT. Judge not too harshly, oh, my friend ! Of him your lellow-man, But draw the veil of charity About him if you can. He was once called an honest man, Before sore trials vexedHe stepped from out the narrow way,? It may be your turn next. Fainting upon the great highway A suffering soul doth lie Go staunch his wounds and quench his thirst Nor pass him idly by. God will not brook the swift excuse,, The thoughtless, vain pretext; A fellow-niortal bites the dust? It may be your turn next. You hear, one day, a single word Against a person's name; Oh, bear it not from door to door, To further hurt his name. If you're the man you claim to be, Remember then the text, To "speak no evil," true or fahe? It may be your turn next. The world is bad enough, we own, And may need more of light; Yet, with true love to all, niav we Help in the cause of the right. Lift up the sinful and the weak, The soul by care perplexed, Well knowing that to arink the gall It may be our turn next. Staunton Spectator. THE FENCE LAW IN THE SOUTH. There is considerable interest manifested over the effort now being made, in some sections of the South, to abolish the old unjust taw whereby each farmer ia compelled to fence bis field; and to compel instead, the owners of the stock to confine them. Whereever intelligence becomes widely disseminated, the injustice and folly of the present law is recognized, and the oppression of an enactment by which a farmer is compelled to build and keep expensive fences to preveftt depredation of other'6 cattle, becomes realized. In no civilized portion of the world is the farmer required to protect his field against stock; and it is a sad evidence of old fogyism, genv* i i i 1 /* _ l erai ignorance ana oacawaraness or agriculture in the South, that such a law as that now in force can exist. When the country was very sparsely settled, farniB few and the timber very abundant, the present laws were enacted, and like many laws and customs, it has outlived its usefulness; and from being for the greatest benefit to the greatest number, ii has become - operative for their greatest injury. A few facts regarding the expense of fences will demonstrate the wastefulness of the system. The average size of farms throughout the seven Southeastern States is 200 acres, and the yearly tendency is to further reduce the average size. Now the actual first cost of a rail fence around such a farm, where good pine timber is abundant, is about $250, 01 ok mam a a ma a 1mi4 inltAMA fa aaa ima ur QL.60 per auiv , uut nunc piuc 10 ovojv,o, and oak is used, the cost more frequently rises as high as $2 per acre. The actual statistics obtained from every county and published by the government at Washington, show that the number of acres in the Southeastern States is about 8,028,000, and that the actual first cost of the fencing for these farms was $177,200,000? an average of over $1.90 per acre; and that the value of all cattle, sheep and hogs is about $57,000,000. From tb.se figures it appears tbat, for every dollar's worth of stock, about $3 are expended to keep them out of the fields. Many of us have heard of the foolish boy who invested ten cents in a candle in order to look for the three cents piece he had dropped. The annual cost of repairs on the rail fence is knosvn by all farmers to he about one tenth of the fence; thus the amount spent every year by the seven Southeastern States must approach $17,000,000. Now, upon my farm, which is situated in one of the heaviest timbered sections of the South, I find that the annual cost of repairs to my fencing is about fourteen cents per acre; in other sections, where pine is scarce and oak is used, the annual expense is doubtless much greater. Moreover, the extent of land wasted under a rail fence amounts to 2 acres on a farm of 200 acres, or one per cent.; equal in value to about ten cents peracre annually. A farmer owning a farm of 200 acres grumbles loudly at being compelled to pay a State tax of about nine eents per acre; but without any disquietude submits to an annual imposition, under the present fence law, of an uni i xi i just tax equal to not lesa man iweuij-iuui cents per acre. The small farmers pay a proportionately heavier tax to the fence law imposition than the large, for it requires more rails per acre to inclose a small farm than a large pne, as is readily demonstrated by the fact that while one acre requires 850 feet of fencing, four acres require,, not four times as much, but only twice as much; say 1,700 feet. Thus, the poorer the farmer, and the smaller his planting operations the heavier is the rate of his tax; while the richer the farmer, and the more extended his undertakings, the lighter is his rate of taxation. Even if the present system of fencing is considered with regard to common honesty, its gross injustice is equally manifest. The land outside the farm is as much the property . of the farmer as that he may cultivate, and truly in essential justice no stock of others' has any right thereon, without his express ? ? XXTZiXrn. *t?ni aa WMt/kVi A/M illfTT VYIOTT perniuttiuu. tt itu just oo iuuv/u the law give all the world a legal permission to steal a farmer's corn out of his barn, unless it is locked, a3 it does now to other's cattle to destroy his crop, unless he fence it in. In addition to the oppressive injustice of the fence system, the experience of the civilized world has clearly demonstrated it to be a useless and wasteful one. Wherever farming has been brought up to the high condition it deserves, and to which it must be brought to be profitable, the law regarding the fence is directly contrary to that in force throughout most of the South. When farming stock is restrained, and the responsibility for their depredations is thrown on their owners, capital is released from the very unprofitable investment of fencing and made available for farm improvements. One of the very first effects is the improvement of the stock; only the good ones are kept,"and the inferior are killed or sold off. All the manure, instead of being wasted is saved, ar a tVia nrenared for the Ateadv imDrovemeDt www r*wr *??xr ? of the soil. None of the land is wasted, and the fields are cultivated down to the edge of the roads. The best proof of the advantages of the abolition of fences is found in the fact that no section of the country that has abolished fences crops 3a willing again to return to the antiquated system now oppressing the agricultural industries of the &)uth ; and if the farmers of the South would think carefully of this matter, and discuss it with the lights of actual experience, instead of stubbornly closing their eyes to facts, and hugging their antiquated prejudices, they would soon see where their own interest lies. I?" Nathan Orlando Greenfield, who is under sentence to be hanged next week, at Syracuse, busies himself with building card houses. The largest of these structures, which he hopes to complete before he goes to the gallows, is composed of 2,800 bits of colored card-board, and is a complete model of his father's residence. This employment, he says, enables him for the time to forget his doom, and makes the time pass pleasantly. r? ' *2 Sfe r. '. '* :sSt'v '