University of South Carolina Libraries
... . . ' Hi __ lewis m. grist, proprietor. J Jnbepmbent Ifamilg llrtospaper: Jfor tjie |)rontotion of % |joIitiral, Social, ^gricnltnral anb Commercial Interest! of t|e Sont|. |TERMS--$2.50 a YEAR, IN ADVANCE. "VOL. 26. - YORKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, MAY 6, 1880. NO. 19. 2\ ?oroau(o of EIXEMGi o: KING'S M 1JY MRS. MAR' CHAPTER XVII?Continued. "I presume you have received intimation of your exchange, Graham," said Davie. " Yes; I received it yesterday. By the way, Hardy brought it. Why did you never tell me of that atrocious attempt on your life ? I'll have him answer for it, yet." "Oh I that is nothing," said Davie, lightly. "I suppose he thought it all fair in war. And he was here last night?" "Yes; and I am somewhat surprised to see you venture here just at this time." _i_ 4 .tm. i T "T or iear 01 lariewu, eu i wu j x uauu more friends in the country than he can, besides knowing every foot of the ground about. I could entangle him in the by-paths, and then take the main road to the camp, while he was extricating himself." "I do think, Henry," said Mr. Willoughby, "you ran a great risk in coming here to-night. Think of the imminency of your peril before." "I do think of it," said Davie, gravely. "I am not so fool-hardy, as you suppose; but am oq my way to Greene, with dispatches. Morgan had not quite prepared them ; so I begged a few hours for you, and Sevier will i be on with tbem to-morrow." "And you leave us in the morning ?" said Mr. Willoughby, with more interest than be had yet manifested. "Yes, I must be off. Cornwallis is growing uneasy at our many depredations, and we anticipate the pleasure of hearing from him shortly. I would be back to assist in the warm welcome with which we hope to greet him." "And you intend to stand a fight?" said ^"SfiN^WUioughby. DavTN^^iled. "We'll be^jtto defend ourselves, sir." "But their suffcfcyor numbers, their discipline?for I understai uf^they have twelve hundred regulars?will ) lot this intimidate you ?" "My boys would not understand you, sir, and their major is ji ist as obtuse. We know no such word as ?ntii nidation,'' replied Davie, proudly. "But whe } do you act on your exchange, Graham?" "1 do not know," (replied he, coloriug. \ "I suppose I should do) it immediately ; but my arm is rainer sun yc*. "You must not think of it, Graham. We cannot give you up, ^said Mr. Willougbby. "You might be vreujry of my prolonged visit, sir, and duty's callft should not be unanswered," said Graham, hesitatingly. "Nay, then, Ellen must plead with me," said Mr. Wil lough by. "Perhaps her persuasions will have more influence." "I doubt if Miss Ellen would think it worthy of her pleadings." he replied bitterly. "And I know to the contrary," said Mr. Wiftoughby, emphatically. "Here is Miss Ellen, herself, to decide the vexed question," said Davie, as she entered the ^rooru; and advancing to meet her, he took her hand and led her to a seat. "And what Gordian knot do you expect me to uuravel ?" asked Ellen, looking up at Davie, who leant upon the back of her chair. "Graham started as he looked up at her. What metamorphosis had thus changed her, who had so lately been the pale and silent girl, to the radiant beauty beibre him. She was attired in a pale biue silk dress, which contrasted admirably with tiie clear white skin, so transparent as to show the delicate tracery of the veins beneath. The soft peachy tinge of her cheek, flushed and faded with every emotion. Her dark blue eyes seemed swimming in a sea of liquid tenderness, and ever and anon, the heavy lashes drooped as if unable to bear their sweet burden. Smiles, like cupids, played around her arching lips, and the dimples merrily chased each other in glancing flight The square bodice was laced over a rich lace stomacher, which but partially concealed the swelling bust, heaving in rapid respirations, tremulous in bounding joy. "What Gordian knot do you expect me to unravel ?" Her eyes drooped, and the rose on her cheek tinged to damask blue, ere Davie replied : "Graham is to leave you. What inducement will you offer for his remaining?" She started as she heard it. This was joyful news ; but courtesy as well as the kind ness of her nature, forbade her wounding him. "If the inducements are to be offered against the calls of duty, far be it from me to counsel against his interest," she replied. There was no flush now, no dimpling smile, as calmly and coldly her eye met his. He laughed bitterly. "I told you so, Mr. Willoughby. My departure shall meet with neither opposition nor regret." "Nay," said she, with great sweetness, "do I not fill the office of true friendship when I counsel and encourage you in the pursuit of honor? Would I not be recreant to that trust, did I not assist you in the discharge of the duty T" (i A ~ A hah HiAiil/1 Ki'/I Ki?n rrrt fn fiffhf Z1UU J\J U TTUUIU V1U UUU vr ?^..V against the cause you have espoused ?" said Mr. Willoughby, reproachfully. "That cause is hie honor," said Ellen gently "But ladies of old persuaded men to what they considered truth and justice, and then armed their knights to higher achievements," replied Mr. Willoughby, anxious that Ellen should be interested in pleading with Graham. "Nay, uncle, you mistake. The knight adventurer must himself weigh the justice and danger of the cause, and it would ill be come me to influence one, so far from every friend who ought to advise cn such a step. Our cause, desperate as it is, is founded on the great principles of truth and justice, and to induce him to take the irretrievable step, would, in ray judgment, be neither the one nor the other." "Sweet monitor! I have but one fault to find with you," said Graham, throwing him self on an ottoman by her side; "you are too reasonable by half."' "If that is her only fault, Graham, she will, the next moment, reach perfection. A woman steadily sensible, would be an anomaly," said Mr. Willoughby. "Then I will sit here and wait the propitious moment," said he, "for, alas ! fatal self indulgence has made me such a creature of imagination, that I cannot brook the colder dictates of reason. Davie, can you not recommend a friend who will teach me to redeem my errors." "Nay, I need too much stern discipline myself, to advise others," said Davie. "Then, Miss Ellen must direct me. Say, Miss Ellen, where shall I meet such a condescending friend ?" '"In your own besom, when you will listen to the still small voice," she answered. "No, no," he replied ; "too feeble by half for my reckless nature. I need a power before which I must bow, tremble and adore." the gtMiulutifltt. LMDPBELL; R, OUNTAIN. Yi EWART. > "Graham, you should have lived iu times of chivalry and tournaments. Then dreams of love and ladies' charms would have mingled with deeds of honor and of arms," said Davie. "Bah ! you know no bride but honor. You could not stoop to love. Your heart is frozen?trenched in ice." "What do you argue from, Graham." "Oh! you know lovers and madmen are | alike, and I have never sefen you yield your self to the mighty ill." "Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and love's heralds are thoughts," replied Davie. "He who can show all his love, loves but lightly, I have heard." "As if it were possible to conceal its presence ! As if we could not read the heart's hushed secret in the changing cheek, the soft dark eye; as if we would not call her "mine," though our reason cursed the falsehood," replied Graham. "Ah, Graham, we must get back to camplife, lest inglorious ease lead you to forget "none but the brave deserve the fair," replied Dtn ie. "Hush, Davie. I would dream forever, 'Secure from trouble toil and care, A world than earthly world more fair.'" replied Graham, bending upon Ellen a look of impassioued tenderness. "Say, Miss Ellen, shall I speak my dream ?" "To tell me 'tis as fair, as flitting, and as frail, as idle dreams generally are?" said she, turning coldly from him. | "Aye," said he, in low bitter tones, "to tell you 'tis mild and broken, to tell you the fairy bliss is lost, to tell you the surging wave of despair has forever buried the fair vision." "Nay; to tell me the trumpet call of duty, of fame, has thus aroused you, and shaking -fl1 Jmamai-'D ohanlrloa with lntrie akin UU bllC uicaiuvi a oiJMVHiwj *> Q to FalstafFs, conclude that when war is at hand, although it were shame to be on any side but one, it were worse shame to be idle than be on the worst side, though->blacker than usurpation could make it," she replied, with a manner of playful reproof, intended to soothe, but which more frequently bewildered, "like fire to heather set." "Are these your paintings, Miss Ellen ?" said Davie, taking up her port folio, wishing to change a conversation that be saw annoyed Ellen. "They are nominally mine. They owe all the merit they possess to my teacher," said Ellen, with a graceful inclination to Graham, who was standing with knitted brows leaning against the mantel. Davie glanced over several, with words of commendation, but at length said ? "Why, Graham, where did you ever see such blazing sky as this? You robbed your pallet man, to spoil your picture. Miss Ellen, you should have protested against such waste of colors." "I was in a brilliaut humor, I suppose," replied Graham, at once perceiving that it was the picture Ellen had refused to soften. "Let me see," said Ellen. "Oh ! that was my obstinacy. He wished me to shade it, but I fancied the rich autumnal tints." "Yes; but your coloring is not natural; you need some fleecy clouds in that royal purple, and that gorgeous crimson would oe better caught in glimpses through those arching trees. The blue of your zenith is too intense?it needs softening, and vapory clouds would not be amiss there also." "I see," said she, "it all needs a greyer cast; a softer tone." "Yes; you lack a twilight haze. Now here is. one. Ah! it is Graham's?it is perfect. This was your model was it? Now, I fancy I hear the lowing of the cattle as they plod wearily home ; the falling of that brook and all the drowsy sounds of evening quiet. There's rest in that picture. You have not done your model justice, Miss Ellen," and with the eye of a connoisseur, and the taste of a true lover of the art, he criticized the work. Graham listened, amazed at her unwonted patience. He bad never dared, but in the gentlest manner, to correct her; and Davie was really unsparing in his criticisms. And yet she was not only patient but eager to discover the faults he was so cooly pointing out. "I see the faults very plainly now," said she, "and wonder they never struck me before; but I will correct them." "Well, Davie," said Graham, "you have done more in ten minutes that I have been able to do in two months. I have repeatedly pointed out these very faults to Miss Ellen, far more tenderly than you have ventured j to do, without being able to convince her in | the slighest degree; or if she was convinced, j the remodeling wad done alter she tnougnt 1 had forgotten it." Ellen colored deeply, and drew back the unfortunate sketch. "You know, Graham, some people's charity is so sweet as to be sickly. Perhaps your rebukes were too tender to correct," replied Davie, with a quick glance at Ellen. "Ellen must either rule or be ruled," said Mr. Willoughby. "She knows 110 middle course?listens to no compromises." "And only bows to a master mind," said Graham, scrutinizing her glowing face. "Do you know, Mr. Willoughby, I think Miss Ellen's education has spoiled her for yielding ? Iustead of the stern and rigid studies which she has followed, I would have taught her the gentle Una; given her the romantic, poetic fiction of Spenser and Dryden ; and checked the fascinating theme by the sterling lessons of Shakspeare and Miltou. Again ; I would J encourage the brilliant fancy by the powers of i my own luxurious and brilliant land ; the ro- I mantic memoirs of the French, and their daz- j zling histories. I would have taught her of J war and chiva'ry, from the splendid and heart' stirring pages of Froissart, and from the romantic love and Kuight-errantry of the Spanish Cavalier. And 1 would have read such legends in the corner of some sombre library,; where the deepening twilight conjured up the ghosts of the past, to scare us with their imaginative terrors; or, stealing to the fireside, with no other light than was afforded by the glimmering brands of its deep and ponderous hearth, the sorcery of thought should raise the spirits of forgotten generations to people | my ideal world, and thus chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancy, her vivacious talent should extract honey from every study." "If your object had been but to awaken the imagination, you would have succeeded, no doubt," said Davie. "But the sickly food would have enervated, perhaps destroyed the understanding." "Poh !" said Graham ; "we only need woman to adorn life. What business has she with practical details." "A woman that could not add dignity to society?could not only adorn but support?I can neither admire nor respect," said Davre. "Why, Davie, my pupil would be a being of exquisite sensibility?of vivid powers?of ardent temperament?one born to love and be loved." "I grant you ; one who can understand the misery of living, but never the joy of it. One who would captivate our fancy in the morning of life, but who would be incapable of engaging our maturer minds?an April maiden of smiles and tear3?never the matron that renders bliss secure." "Miss Ellen, how can you listen to such matter of-fact views! The philosophy of love ! I would not be surprised at his advocating the Platonic creed at last." "Nay," said she, "you know my education leads me to agree with him. I am disposed to think esteem is the only true foundation for happiness." "And you object to my course of studies?" "In so far as it would unfit nie for all the duties of life. I am afraid if I sought instruction but for the sake of amusement, I would reject all ehe that lacked the charm, onrt fkno lnaa fr>rfiVP?> thftt. nnnnrtunitv of 8C quiring the habit of controlling and concentrating my powers upon what would tend to utility and happiness." "Utility! There it is again. I told you, you were too reasonable, Miss Ellen." "Is it not a gift rare enough in our sex to admire ?" said Ellen, laughing. "No, I cannot endure its never-varying lines. It would chafe me to madness, always to follow its cold dictates." "You view it as a tyrant instead of a counsellor, Graham," said Davie. "I believe that there are impulses in the mind of man, that reasons cannot constrain?that she looks upon with awe, not seeking or daring to investigate them." "I am not in the humor for metaphysical discussion now, Davie. Tell me when you leave in the* morning," said Graham, with one of his quick tr^psitions. "As soon as Sevier arrives, which will probably be before the sun is an hour high," replied Davie. "You leave in the morning ? So soon," said Ellen, involuntarily. "I must," said he. "Can you not give me an hour alone?" he whispered. She blushed and shook her head. He smiled, and said in a low tone? "I must have it." She glanced at Mr. Willoughby and Graham, who were in conversation together. "I will arrange it, if you will grant it." She nodded her head in blushing assent. "Meet me at sunrise, in the Glen." She shrank and hesitated. He watched her a moment, and again whispering, "at sunrise, Ellen," he joined in the conversation, without giving her opportunity to refuse him. CHAPTER XVIII. "Shall I go on ? Or have I said enough?" Milton. At the foot of the garden which lay be youd the mansion, was a lovely and secluded spot, called the Glen. A narrow path, sha ded by magnificent oaks, led to its boundary. Here the trees widened and enclosed a sylvan amphitheatre, waving with oaks, hazel and birch trees. Mossy banks, crowned with evergreens, were broken #and interrupted by fragments of rock, placed under the direction of Ellen, which added to the grace and romantic beauty of the scene. A limpid brook ran rapidly along at the opposite extremity, and seemed to issue from between two large rocks which had been placed for that purpose. Its course was placid and even, till it reached the centre of the retreat, when falling in mimic water falls, it eddied and bound?11 fnnmin/* t inxAO>< fill O froin if tXT OT1 f CU, aii iuauilug upi uai f mi uguiu AV ?>v??v murmuring down and was lost in the woods beyond. A thick natural growth on its opposite side, formed an impenetrable screen, and though not lacking in summer its summer verdure, the clambering ivy and dark evergreens, relieved it from winter dreariness. The morning was still gray, when Davie entered the Glen. He threw himself upon one of the rustic seats that were placed around, ant. waited with what patience he might, for Ellen. Time dragged wearily. But a few moments had elapsed ere he sprang to his feet and restlessly paced the enclosure, casting impatient glances at the lingering sun. He walked to the verge of the avenue; then slowly back again, to turn and be disappointed. "What can keep her?" he murmured. "Ah ! day is yet on tiptoe. More light! more light! and patience too." And with a resolute will, he threw himself upon the embowered seat near the entrance. The vapory twilight was melting into morning. Its glimmering light gradually dilated to a rosy glow. Nature was clad in dewy beauty?the earth "sowed with orient pearl." The hoar frost sparkled on every spray, and the congealed dew drops hung like gems on trees and shrubs. The horizon deepened to vivid crimson, and swift beams of gleaming light darted up the zenith, touching the pendant icicles with their main rays, till diamond drops fell from their sparkling points. With a timid boldness, an eager shyness, an elastic yet lingering step, Ellen advanced to the Glen. The frosty morning air deepened the hue of health and expectancy on her cheek, and her eyes sparkled with more briliancy than nature's diamonds around her. For a moment she stood at the entrance of the Glen?a picture of glaring beauty. Her 6carf falling from her shoulder enhanced the grace of her beautiful form, while the richness and purity of her complexion, the expressive eagerness of her dark blue eyes, as she stood a moment poising her graceful figure in hesitating search, made a picture of exquisite and enchanting loveliness. Ere a shade of disappointment could gather on her lovely face at findiug the retreat unoccupied, Davie's arm was thrown around her, and words of fond chiding fell upon her ear. She smiled and pointed to the rising sun. "Old Sol was a laggard to day. My Elleu should not have awaited his drowsy summons. I have been chafing here for an hour; but I will not quarrel with him, now you are here. I have so longed for this interview, dearest. I have so much to tell you?so much to hear. And first, Ellen, that cruel note which your generous love forgave without explanation." And he told his doubts, his fears, his certainty that it was needed for her happiness; and Ellen listened, as fond women generally listen, and forgave as women do, when resting against hearts warm and loving, and lips pressed against their own, plead for pardon. "But tell me of Graham, Ellen. He loves you ; but that is not strange?who could help it ?" And again lover's tongues were "silver sweet." "Graham deserves perfect confidence from me. I should have told him of?of?" "Of what Ellen ?" said Davie. She could not meet the arch tenderness j of the look, and with a pout and blushing embarrasment, turned her head from him. "I will not tell you," said she, "I will not encourage such sauciness." "Then let me tell you, Ellen," he replied, drawing the half resisting form in his circling embrace. "You should have told him that dearer than all the world beside, my Ell len was to me. Nay more ; she was my hope of heaven. For losing faith in her, belief | in all things pure and true would be destroyed. You should have told him of my pride in you, the treasury of your mind, your heroism, your woman's fortitude, your cheerful spirit, your calm, resolute will ; and told him these graces, these virtues were from the earliest childhood worshipped in the only woman I ever loved. Then bid him look at your peerless beauty, at your winning grace, and tell him how often my heart in its pas aionate worship, placed its idol between it and heaven. Then whisper these graces? this enchanting loveliness is as nothing to the moral excellence and purity of the soul which rises superior to all. To that heart, to that soul, my spirit turns with more than eastern adoration, as the Mecca of my life; and though rude storms may assail, and friends betray, or foes oppress; though danger or even disgrace await me, still in my Ellen's love will I find solace; in her trust, renewed courage. Firm without sternness, gentle without weakness, sensible without vaiyty, my Ellen is to me the embodiment of all things tender and true in woman. From my soul, I pity Graham, but I cannot resign you." She looked up and smiled. "Would vou let me. Ellen ? Tell me what would your love do for oe?'' "Nay, Henry," said 8he, drawing herself from hia arm, the shadow of a holy purpose resting upon her face, "that I never can tell; my life must teach you that." "Answered like a woman," said he; "and well I know the patience, the sacrifice contained in it. God grant that I may not be unworthy. But tell me, why your uncle favorsthis? I have heard of almost sternnesB to enforce it." "Alas, Henry, I cannot tell. Sternness! Call it rather cruelty. He will listen to no appeal." "You cannot mean he will force you to this against your will." "He will. I have prayed to him as I thought my proud nature could never stoop to mortal, without avail." "But when he knows that you cannot love?nay, that you love?that you love another." "It is all useless. I have told him what my faltering lips would never dare tell you, Henry," said she, blushing deeply. "My own love, I did not dream of this. But I will myself go to him and demand the hand your love would give me?the hand his own kindness led me to expect." "You need not, Henry; you need not? you cannot imagine his bitterness, his infatuation. He has even forbid me, on pain of his eternal displeasure, ever to speak with you again." "Impossible ! What madness is this?" "Madness, indeed," replied Ellen ; "but a madness that will admit of no mercy." And she here recounted the ditlerent trials to which she had been subjected. Davie, wondering and indignant by turns, heard her to the end, then firmly said : "I see but one course to pursue in this matter. I will go to him and understand the reason of this cruel proceeding, and failing of gaining his consent, I will not permit him longer to persecute you." "But how ?" said she innocently, raising her eyes to his face. He did not answer save by a look, which caused her to hide her face upon his shoulder. "As my wife, Ellen, he can no longer control or annoy you." "Yes, but that curse, Henry," and she shuddered. "Do you suppose Heaven would answer such an unholy prayer. Come, dearest, where is the firmness I boast of! A union that he himself encouraged, the blessing that he gave us, if not by words, at least by every look and act, to be thus madly and capriciously revoked. Nay, dearest, I cannot submit to be thus dealt with, and my itilJen must rise to this emergency and help me to meet it. Tell me, have I your heart in this, as, I trust, in all else?" "My conscience condemns the cruelty that so persecutes me. My heart is with you Henry, but do not act rashly ; patience may yet conquer for us." "By Heaven, no!" said Davie, more indignant than he cared to show. "I will go to your uncle, and ask for what is so truly mine. Nay, dearest, to please you, I will even plead the encouragement he himself gave me, and if he refuses, he but gives my Ellen more quickly to my love." She did not answer. "Pardon me, if I have plead too boldly. I have not cunning to be strange, and my tongue is little used to pleading. Speak, dearest, ?s it too great a boon to ask ?" "You could not ask too much, Henry," she whispered. "Bless you, Ellen. I fear I am selfish in thus urging, but I cannot brook the thought of leaving you to a fresh trial." "You do not propose to act immediately ?" "Have you not learnt among my other faults, that I am very impatient?" said Da*rio 1 o nrrViin nr T nrnnnoo tn B0P> vntir linclp TH., '""g'i.MJ. * ^ V.J/V.UV. j ^ this morning, and if he refuses this wish of my heart, you will meet me here to night, and an hour's ride will take us to Mr. Adams, under whose protection I will leave my wife," he whispered, pressing her to his heart, "till happier days enable me to take her to my own home." Ellen started. "So soon, Henry ? To night? and her face grew pale. "So soon, dearest! Every minute will be an hour till weary time speeds night. I could almost hope he would refuse me, that I might the sooner claim you. My bride, and dearest yet, my wife. Nay, Ellen, the joy is too sweet to be relinquished. Speak, love; say yes, and bless me." "No, Henry, I cannot," she said, her pale cheeks testifying to her emotion. "This is too sudden, too unadvised?I have no joy in it. Do not counsel me to forget in a moment of passion, hours of tenderness and love. I dare not, H^nry. Give me more time--Graham will soon be leaving. Lei; me try what affection and patience can do." He bit his lip impatiently. "Now comes the rock in Ellen's character. Come here. I will not plead with you sitting so cold and motionless. Lay your hand again on my shoulder; nay, I must see your eyes. Now listen," and bending his lips to her ear, he whispered low and lovingly, with many a fond pressure and tender caress. "Now, Ellen, answer," said he, as he drew her yet closer to him. "The cup is very, very sweet," she replied, raising her bowed head, "but it does not satisfy. 1 shrink from the bitter dregs." "You are unjust to yourself and to me, Ellen," said Davie, with some sternness. "This is simple superstition.. You owe no duty to one who would force you from the path of truth. You disappoint me, Ellen," and he turned in some coolness from her. A tear fell upon the hand that clasped hers. "My own Ellen, I do not willingly grieve you. Forgive me if I plead too earnestly; but think how miserable I would be to have you exposed to these trials, not knowing what new sorrow this madness would make you undergo. Be generous?listen to me." She did not answer. He waited a moment. Again a tear fell. "Forgive me, Ellen ; I do wrong to urge you thus. It would be a cruel fate that would link your gentle fortunes to a soldier's rude life. And if this war should terminate otherwise than in freedom, it might prove not only a sad but terrible one. And yet, believe me, it was not all a selfish love. I would have saved you from trial ?" "Hush, Henry, hush. Do not speak of any fate being cruel, with you to share it. Oh! you do not, cannot know the strength of the temptation," she whispered. "I do not wish to win your heart to this," he said, "against the convictions of your reason ; but I fairly challenge that reason to a calm and impartial view of the case." "Alas, Henry, my heart pleads so loudly as to drown all calmer reflections. It's whole burden is love," "Dear Ellen, let it plead on then, and I will no longer urge it, till we meet here to-night." Give me till you return," she whispered. "I will promise all you wish then." "To night, dearest," he urged. "No, Henry; give me more time for thought. This suddenness startles me. Do not doubt me. I will be prepared. But come," said she, rising,". /ill be.missed. Let me return." He drew her arm within his. "You will go back with me?" said she, stopping and blushing. "If you do not fear me, Ellen ; for I fear no mortal," said he proudly. "As you will," she replied, replacing the hand she had withdrawn. "It is better perhaps. I cannot brook anything clandestine, and this I trust is our first and last secret meeting." . T-ni >t _ j i : aL~ "iliXCept one, JCiiien, saia ue, preamug me hand that bad rested on his. "My faith will not even make that exception," said she, smiling. "I trust some happy fate may prevent its necessity." "You acknowledge its necessity, then ? Do you know I came very near quarreling with you, for what Graham would call your reasonableness, this morniDg?" "Do not try it again, Henry," said she, her eyes filling with tears, "I cannot bear it." How he cleared the bright drops away, any lover can tell you; but I do not think it fair to betray any more of Ellen's secrets. I know her smile was warm and blushing when entering the breakfast room, on Davie's arm, she found Mr. Willoughby and Graham had been awaiting them come time, and the breakfast growing cold from the delay. Mr. Willoughby took his seat in frowning displeasure?Graham in contending emotions too chaotic to be analyzed. Fortunately for Ellen, her calmness seldom deserted her, and the rosy hue of her cheeks might be attributed to the early morning walk. Davie was really the only assured one of the party. He talked to Mr. Willoughby?spite of cold courtesy; laughed with Graham, who committed more solecisms in etiquette than he had ever been guilty of, and sustained and relieved Ellen on all occasions. "You have stolen Aurora's roses this morning, Miss Ellen," said Graham. "You must have had a pleasant walk." "Come Graham, do not compel Miss Ellen to utter civil politeness. Of course you oblige her to say yes, as I accompanied her." Graham elevated his brows, and Mr. Wil loughby frowningly said? "I thought Ellen was aware that I did not approve of these morning walks." "Permit me, sir, to bear the blame in this case. I argued for long syne, and she is too true to friendship to refuse such memories." replied Davie, looking fixedly at Mr. Willojighby. "What an eloquent champion you have, Miss Ellen," said Graham, with some bitterness. "Only a determined one," replied Davie, ere Ellen could reply. "Camp life, if it taught me nothing else, taught roe a power of will." "I am disposed to think with a celebrated physiologist, that heritage has more power over our constitutions and character than all the influences from without, whether moral or physical," replied Graham. "Then you would make the parent answer for the sin of the child," replied Davie. "Certainly, I do, to a very great extent," answered Graham. "The practice of the parent becomes the passion, the irresistible im1 U * 1 r-1 ?n/i mVion V\ flofl atrnnf* puiOC Ui tuc wniiUj auu nuou iiumw ovtvug impulses are connected with a feeble will, then a madndly ensues which, I hold, should make such offsprings irresponsible. The child is no longer able to distinguish vice from virtue, and in sinning the curse rests upon the parent." "You are advocating a cruel doctrine, Graham," said Mr. Willoughby. "Suppose such children should be separated by death, or otherwise, from their parents, would their sins, in that case/be chargeable to those parents?" "Inasmuch as they derive their mortal and mental constitution from them. If passion holds the helm of my nature, reason is often wrecked, and if my parents gave me such pilots, let them suffer the loss," he said with a bitterness, almost violent. "You are wrong, Graham. "Circumstances may have put the curbing of these heady passions beyond the parent's control. Then it would be unreasonable to charge them with the faults or crimes of their child," said Mr. lirril LI? ? lilUUgllUjr. "I see, sir, we shall agree but to disagree," replied Graham. This is my theory, and if you will notice the different varieties of races, the Celtic, the Teutonic, your own Aborigines, you will find the law of like producing like, holding good. If peculiar forms of disease are transmissible, such as mental aberration, inflammation, Ac., why not the passions?even the idiosyncrasies of parents ? I, myself, trace a very peculiar one in my own constitution, to direct heritage. It is what is generally denominated pride of birth, and takes its peculiar character from a morbid sensitiveness to honor, that would make me punish as a crime, anything derogatory to the blood of a Howard or~ D'Este." (Mr. Willoughby started violently). "1 could calmly judge and condemn my own. father, were he to prove false to its nicest distinction ; and suffer no other pain, than the shame of his blood mingling with mine." "In such a case, would not love, like charity, serve as a cloak?" said Mr. Willoughby, tremulously. "No, it would out magnify the crime. A spirit of revenge would take possession of my heart against one, even were that one my parent, who could be recreant to the high souled virtue. Were it possible, I would drain every drop of such dishonored blood from my veins, and thus annull all duty, as his crime had annulled all affection between us." (iUT^.,1/1 ?" MAr\AMi?n/iA o lifla onrfAtr? yt UU1U liU 1 cjjcii lauug-?o nig ui ouitvn teach at least forgiveness?" said Mr. Willoughby. "No. I might forgive him in his grave, because then 1 would forget him; but his life would be a curse to me, as his memory would be a reproach," replied Graham. "The honors of a name is a trust lent from generation to generation to guard and reverence, and the man that fails to transmit such trust pure and unsullied, commits a crime not only to himself, but to generations dead, and those unborn. You see, Miss Ellen," he continued, "what an invincible aristocrat I am, and how I cling to a pride of birth which I have been taught to consider weak. I confess in my attachment to the throne, to the institutions, to the habits of dear old England, I am truly English; nor do I believe I could ever reooncile my tastes to an Araerioan democracy." "I do not think you fully understand that democracy," replied Ellen, sweetly. "We claim to be English, too ; but something better than Englishmen. We have already testified our sturdy sense of independence, our strong will, our fearless assertion of our convictions, our religious sensibility, all of which I proudly boast of as purely English. But we are noble in our contempt of hereditary prejudices. Nobility, with its prerogatives, has no charm for us. We have larger and warmer sympathies. Our energy is our ohivairy ; the manly heart and honest purpose, our knighthood. The renown that these win, no one dares dispute, for It is won in conflict and sealed in blood." "Our patent, Graham, comes from nature, and if a man's sinewy arm and firm nerve win him a position, we are not ashamed to be either just or generous, but at once acknowledge bis right to rule. Or if the j brawny arm and fearless step bred to labor, I apprenticed to toil, overcome all obstacles and gain the wealth, earnest and honest labor merits, we do not ignore breeding, while we maintain the cardinal doctrine of labor from the moral and social influence it exerts," said Davie. "That is simply a position of might makes right. You would destroy precedents, and tolerate innovations," replied Graham. "I would make personal qualities determine place and position, destroy precedent where it interfered with independence, and tolerate innovation when injurious conventional restraints were to be swept away. We want individual genius and excellence for this work?not gartered lords nor abstract philosophers?but common-sense working statesman; and such confidence have I in our progress, that. T hplipvft men will be raised as the exi gency of the times may require, till perfect tranquility will give us that leisure and repose, which is necessary to intellectual culture." "You have au American passion that will forever bar you from such a position, Davie,' laughed Graham, as they arose from the table. "And what is that, Graham?labor ? Labor ! the glory of a noble manhood ?" "Pshaw, no," said Graham, "utility, put iu one scale, and literature and the fine arts in the other, and see how soon the former will preponderate." "I grant you we are practical," replied Davie, "but I argue from that very characteristic, a greater energy, a more earnest purpose. Our eloquence will not be so much words as acts. Our poems will be noble thoughts and holy aspirations, embodied in works of beauty and of triumph. Our statuary, our painting, will be sculptured in deeds glowing with our own fervor, and a knowledge of our great destiny will only make us more faithful." "Miss Ellen, I no longer wonder at your republicanism," said Graham, "if Davie has had, in any degree, the charge of your education. I see, with him America is the epitome of all things excellent, while he wonders, with those of old, 'can any good tbiDg come out of such a Nazareth as England.' " "Nay, Graham, you wrong me," said Davie, grasping his hand. "I know that the manfully honest will always meet consideration and respect from you, and while the Englishman is faithful to his own instincts, faith ful ia what he considers legal and right, never professing in the caprice of to-day what he will deny on the morrow, he will also bear with those who, possessing the same principles, advocate a different course of action." "Forgive my spleen, Davie," replied Graham, returning the friendly grasp. "The brave are ever generous." "They are, Graham, and I will pot yoors to the test, and remind you of this after awhile." "Mr. Willoughby, I have some private business to which 1 must beg your attention ere I leave," said Davie, who knew no other way of gaining his end, but by a straightforward course of open dealing. Mr. Willoughby, who had been painfully nervous under the morning's discussion, with a deprecating look at Ellen* and a more timid one at Graham, led the way to the library. To avoid Graham's scrutinizing look, Ellen took her portfolio, and arranging her colors, 'soon seemed completely absorbed in the business before her. Graham did not speak; but lean ?- *-i ~.:.l u:? ing agtunab mu luuui/ej, yvnw mo ua?u wu the bending figure, watched her long and earnestly. Suddenly taking a pencil, he hastily drew two sketches. One was a landscape of wood and water. Marks of labor, of toil, lay around. In the distance, tents could be seen, and the busy parade of martial life. The foreground presented two figures, a manly one in the dress of an officer, the profile, a striking likeness of Davie'; the other, a female, bending on his arm?the face hid as if in terror at the rude alarm of camp, yet clinging to him in a dependence touching and lovely. Beneath it was written,"Ellen Davie!" In the other picture, magnificent woods, hut partly hid a castellated mansion. Far in the distance, cattle browsed on the fruitful hills, and everything indicated peace and plenty. On a rustic seat beneath a wide spreading oak, a youth sat with a lovely maiden. And the hand was practised that could so faithfully and so rapidly sketch her features. His attitude bespoke the most impassioned tenderness, as be pointed to the castle with one hand, while the other clasped her's in earnest entreaty. She was looking up at him with a sweet smile upon the lovely face, as half in hesitation, half in consent she listened to the warm pleading. Writing under this "Ellen Oraham," he arose, and bending Kfl* ^ah o tit Villa fVian flavin or U V CI 1IC1 nottutu 1IVI ivt M HUI1V I VUWM "Here are some pictures for your inspection, Miss Ellen ; tell me what you think of them ?" and he walked to the window. "There is better light here," said he, as he held them so she could see her own face. She looked at the one marked "Ellen Graham." A shade of cold surprise passed over her face. "How do you like it?" said he, and in 3pite of himself, his voice trembled. "It is not truthful," she replied coldly. "Tell me what you think of this, then?" said he, as he held up the other. She saw nothing but "Ellen Davie." It was the first time she had thought of her name, in that dear connection. A flood of light danced in her eyes; her color flushed and deepened in its beautiful variations; one glad happy look startled Graham with its sparkling joy, then veiling the light under the long lashes, she turned away without a word. "You have not told me, Miss Ellen, how you like it," said Graham, almost fiercely, the passions of jealousy for an instant, taking absolute hold of him. "This is not generous, Graham," she replied, and pity lent her voice a trembling intonation. "We will not talk of generosity, now, Ellen," said he scornfully. "I asked but for truth. I would not longer play the dupe or fool," said he in bitterest tone. "And I never encouraged you to either," said Ellen proudly. "True; neither by kindness nor courtesy," said he, as he dashed the picture on the table before him. "Graham," said Ellen, in sad surprise. The tears forced themselves to his eyes, but they would have burnt the light out ere his pride permitted one to fall. She stood sadly near him ; she placed her hand on his arm as again she said, "Graham !" He turned and looked down on the pale pleading face, and dashing his hand across his eyes, said? "Good God, how I love you, Ellen!" There was a world of hopeless misery in the word. Ellen's eyes tilled witn tears. She would have answered, but a noise in the hall interrupted; doors were opened and hastily closed ; the clattering of a sabre struck ber ear, a hurried tap at the door, and while she was saying, "it is Sevier," Hardy stood before them. The breakfast room was in the rear of the house, and so abso. bed were they, they had not hoard, through the closed doors, the noise of his troops. The library communicated with the room, and Ellen trembled as she thought there was but a door between Davie and his deadliest foe. Graham was the first to recover. [to be continued.] fpjwlteiwww ffcadittg. THE PRIMARY SYSTEM. As in the last campaign, we are still in favor of giving the choice of State and County officers^ to the people by primary election. Because it is inherently Democratic to let the people rule. Because a small body of men, like a convention, can be improperly influenced with much more ease than the great mass of free and intelligent voters. Because the Convention system, in its very nature, tends to the formation of rings and cliques, which are calculated to eventually break up the organization. Because when dissatisfaction arises with the action of a Convention, the dissatisfied parties cannot safely go before the people without being regarded as malcontents. Because it compels everv candidate to run on his own merit, to stand or fall upon his own record, and not to lean upon those in power to help him along in the race. Because it is the system that will most certainly preserve the unity and harmony of the party. Because it should give an effectual quietus to ! the complaints and machinations of dissatis i fied members of the party, inasmuch as the I vote of the people is the judgment of last resort, from which there is no appeal. Because the only way to obviate the risks of a Convention, and to deserve and secure success, is for every Democratic voter, personally and individually, to take a direct interest in nominations. And now lot us make a few remarks concerning the first meetings and the club-organizations. In these meetings a fair opportunity to vote will be offered to every Democrat; and those wbc do not see fit to avail themselves of this opportunity cannot, with just cause, complain that the men of their choice have not been selected to represent the party. None can have a greater hatred of frauds, rings and trickery in political elections than we. In almost all sorts of political organizations there is always more or less danger of corruption. Hence the greater necessity why the people should be present at the very earliest meetings, take earnest part in them, and guard them with a vigilant eye and a controlling voice against the schemes of political tricksters. He is no patriot, no true soldier, who deserts his army because of'corruption in its ranks, and allies himself with the foes of his country. So be is no true Democrat, who, instead of working with its machinery to . purge it of all evil, fights against the main body of his party by lending aid and comfort to Radicalism, the greatest curse of American politics.?Edgefield, Advertiser. THE TEXAS FASHION OF CHURNING. I thought that I had seen a good many kind of churns before I came down her?? crank churns, dasher churns and ''chemical churns." But I will now describe a mode of ' churning butter that will, I think, make New England folks open their eyes. Commonly, they do not make much butter in this country, and the settlers here come. to get along without it; but by the time I had beea at the poesta two or three days, I began to want some but ter on my bread. M had a herd of twenty-five or thirty? cattle, which he kept for beef, and among them a number of milch cows. Ed was bidtn a?f thfi milk fnr twantv-four hours : and the next morning M told Lizardo, oar "Liz/' as we called him, to churn. They had done such a thing as to churn butter before, it appears. Liz went out and brought a bag of raw hide, about as large as a common meal bag. How clean it was inside, I am sure I do not know; but he turned the cream into it, and poured in new milk enough to fill it two-thirds full; and then he tied it up witLv a strong strip of hide. M stood with a broad grin on his face. I was already too much astonished to make any remarks. Liz now carried the bag ou t of doors, and then got his horse. Taking bis lasso oU tbe saddle, be made one end 01 is fast to the cream bag; tbe other end, as usual, being attached to a ring in tbe saddle. . This done, he jumped on the horse and tucked spurs to him. Away ihe went, and at th.; first jerk that bag went ten feet in the air, and fell with a squanch, close up at the horse's heels. At the next jerk it went higher still. He soon went out of sight, with the ba;; dancing after him. Sometimes it hit down along-side the horse, and sometimes it struck slap on the animal's rump. M was convulsed with laughter?at me, I suppose; for I must confess that this upset all my previous ideas of butter-making. In the course of twenty-four or thirty minutes, Lis came back, the horse looked pretty hot, and the bag very dusty. "Es mantica" (butter came), said he. Eel untied the churn, and sure enough, there wai; a good homely chunk of butter in it, and it proved to be very decent butter too. I asked if that was the way they always churned. They said it was, and Ed declared it was "a dale asier than turnin* a crank." So I respectfully submit the "method" to all ouir good people up North. Everything needed for it is a sole leather-bag, a clothes-line and a horse.? YouiJi's Companion. 0 ? n tT 4 k OHAVIKU tl> xvAlt)?i a v;KUr ur uaih. xk barber named Rancour writes to the Albany Argus: In every community there are persons who pass for baldheaded ones, and indeed to all intents and purposes they are such, and yet in fact are not, for if the spots which so often seem to be bald are examined, it will be found that there are just as many hairs?such as they are?to the square inch, as any other part of the scalp; but from their extreme i3neness and the lighter color they assume, they count for nothing. This wasting process?caused by insufficient nourishment?will, of course, result in baldness if left to itself, bat if properly attended to is one of the most hopeful cases we have to deal with. To shave a bald spot (which, according to Webster means a spot destitute of hair) would of course be perfectly useless, so for that matter would any treatment be. But to shave a spot such as is described above, where the hairs, instead of falling out and being lost entirely, are becoming more and attenuated, will coarsen and strengthen each individual hair, and cause it, like the wellpruned vine or tree, to take deeper root, and -- -h iMAMAnoAa if KonATYIflll US) CUUU liUIl 1UU1COOCO 1U UlOUIVlQi <V wvviuw; more and more capable of receiving nourishment as well an of appropriating the pigment or coloring matter. I presume it is well known that persons who never use a razor ort their faces?for instance the Indian?never have coar3e or long beards, in fact scarcely any beard at all. While the young maiii who longs and sometimes sighs for a mustache or whiskers, seeks to hurry up the matter by the frequent use of the razor. These things, together with considerable experience, convince us that great benefit may be derived in many cases by the application of these surgical means. And then, too, only ? certain length of time for shaving is necessary in order to attain the end in view. For, strange as it may seem, no amount of shaving on such a spot will coarsen the hairs beyond the thickness of the surrounding healthy hairs. < 1?" A Pittsburg minister has a veiy stubborn little five-year-old boy. The boy's mother determined to conquer him, aid, having administered a severe chastisement, she said "Will you mind me now, Johnny ?" Witlb. sobs and cries he- replied : "Yes, mamma, I will, but I hate to awfully."