Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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> lewis m. grist, proprietor. J Jitbepenbint Jamilg ftetospaper: Jfor % promotion of % ^political, Sottal, Agricultural anb d-ummeraal Interests of tjje Sontji. |terms-$2.50 a year, in advance. VOL. 26. YOEKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, MAY 13, 1880. NO. 20. Jt ftomancr of ELLMGJ o: KING'S M BY ICRS. MAR" CHAPTER XVIII?Continued. "Captain Hardy, this visit is unexpected. Walk in." Ellen's cheek was blanched to deadly white, as she strove to return calmly, his greeting. She would have left the room, but fear paral1 1 1/%/vlr aP imnlorlnor yzeu ner. out: toot uuc iuu> u> terror at Graham. He did not understand her, for wrapt in his owu thoughts, he interpreted it as sympathy for him, and frowningiy turned away. Another look was better understood. Graham's eyes lighted with triumph. As he resolutely turned from the pleading gaze, a shadow of hate crossed his face. It was but for a moment His generous soul could not entertain such passions. His face was almost as white as Ellen's, as he arose to enter the library. But he suddenly thought, if the door opens, the voices will be heard. He must send ElJen while heengages Hardy's attention. These thoughts passed through his mind with the rapidity of lightning, for scarcely a moment had elapsed since Hardy had entered the room. Rising and standing between Ellen and Hardy, he col lected the pictures ou the table saying, as calmly"as he could? "Miss ElleD, I will trouble you to place these with the others in the library, and please place the originals in safety, also, or they will be disturbed." He spoke with emphasis. Giving him one hasty look of gratitude, Ellen arose as fast as her trembling limbs would permit, and hastened to the library, fc A hand was already on the lock, and ere L she could reach the door, Davie stepped into B the room saying? S& "Sevier is late ; what can be keeping him ?" B Hardy sprang to his feet, gazed for an inslant on the faces of consternation around, |W then placing his hand on Davie's shoulder, said, with a sneering smile? "You are my prisoner." "Never!" said Davie, dashing his hand y from him and springing to the door. "Oue step farther and you are a dead man," thundered Hardy, drawing a pistol from his belt. Without heeding him, Davie sprang down the wide hall and entered the piazza. Alas! twenty troopers were drawn up before the door. It was useless to struggle. Hardy was behind him. "You are my prisoner," he again cried. "Surrender." Davie turned contemptuously from him, and drawing his sword, offered it to Colonel Graham. Taking it for an instant, Graham returned it with courtly grace, saying? "It is as safe in your scabbard, Major Davie, as it is in my possession. Keep it, sir; your word is sufficient that you will not use it." "You may not be aware, Col. Graham, that you will find some difficulty in establishing your own poiition'before Lord Cornwall. I would warn you against too much indulgence to a rebel. As my prisoner, Major Davie must deliver his sword." "It is immaterial, Grah m. I could not give the promise you require, for I shall certainly use it the first opportunity," said Da vie, returning it to him, and completely ignoring the presence of the other. A lowering frown gathered on Hardy's brow, and calling a guard to attend the prisoner, he requested Graham to re enter the house. Ellen was sitting in the same place they had left her?pale, but calm and collected. Mr. Willoughby stood near her, with marks of intense suffering and recent tears on his face. As they entered, Ellen arose aud left the room. Hardy followed her with his eyes till the library door closed upon her, and then said? "It is necessary, Col. Graham, that you should make immediate preparations to accompany me to Lord Cornwallis, and I must beg you will do it with as much dispatch as you can, as it is important for us to joiu my Lord as speedily as possible." Graham bowed haughtily. "Did not my Lord send written instructions to that effect?" he asked. "It is sufficient that I give them to you," replied Hardy, his ruddy face turning crimson, more at the tone than the words. "It is not sufficient for me to receive an order from an inferior officer, without questioning his right to enforce it," replied Graham ; "and if your mission requires dispatch, I advise you to return at once and not allow my movements to retard you, as I shall certainly not accompany you ;" and he folded his arms proudly, as he carelessly leant against the mantel. "Then you compel me to place you under the same escort with the rebel Davie," said Hardy, with a coarse laugh. "I can tell you, sir, your position is not very enviable just now, and if you would not be deprived of your sword by other than Cornwallis, you had better obey my instructions," said he sig y nificantly. Graham^ eyes were literally scintillating L with passion. "What do you mean, sir?" said he fiercely ly, involuntarily clapping his hand to his ^ side; but he was UDarmed. "I think I spoke plainly enough. You are dull of comprehension, Colonel," said Hardy, with a malicious smile. Graham's voice was low and deep, and strangely calm as he replied? "I understand nothiug but the impertinence of your language, sir, for which, as sure as there is a God in Heaven, you shall answer. The rest is as cowardly as malice and brutal hate can make it." "Do you understand, this then?" said Hardy, in toweriug wrath. "You are accused of disloyalty to your King and sovereign ; of a cowardice that will not allow you to unite with the rebels, and traitorism that forbids? "Hold !" shouted Graham. "Another word from your lying lips, and I will choke it back ere it pollutes my ears with its foul dishonor." Hardy's sword flew from the scabbard. For an instaut he met Graham's unflinching gaze; then dashing it back with a rattle to its place, he said : "As you are unarmed, and I responsible for your safe appearance before ray Lord, I cannot now revenge the affront; but, by heaven, your arrogauce shall not go unpuuished. I'll find a place to settle these scores yet." "And in order that you may not forget it, there is my challenge," cried Graham, dashing his glove in Hardy's face ; and with a cool and haughty contempt, he turned on his heel and left the room. Hardy's curses, low and deep, followed him; but choking his wrath as best he could, he said : "It becomes my painful duty, Mr. Willougbby, to attach your person in the name of the King, for conniving at and otherwise encouraging this rebelllion." Mr. Willoughby started. "This is sudden and strange, Capt. Hardy. How is it possible that I have offended his Majesty's government ?" Hardy smiled. the HtwaMan. yffilELJL;" " R, OUNTAIN. ? i r A. EWABT. "You will hear it more fully at the court martial that will try Graham. I know that you are charged with aiding and abetting this rebellion, not only by your encouragement, and the countenance you give to rebels, but by your means, inasmuch as you have sunnlied those means for their outfit and sup port." "This is as foolish as it is malicious. It is impossible to prove it," replied Mr. Willoughby, trembling in vague terror, "What enemy could have thus maligned me ?" "I fear, sir, it can but be too readily proved," replied Hardy, in affected sympathy. "The fact of Davie being now twice discoverI ed under your roof?each lime as an honored guest?would be almost sufficient. But it is known from sources hhpossible to doubt, that since the unfortunate battle of King's Mountain, you have more boldly encouraged the rebels, and by every means in your power. And allow me to say, the lengthened sojourn of your proud guest here, will work against you." "What! Graham? Your own officer!" cried Mr. Willoughby, in consternation. "Yes; our own officer it is true; but one whose loyalty has been of late much questioned." "For God's sake, Hardy, tell me his honor and loyalty is not doubted," crie'd Mr. Willoughby, every feature working in strong emotion. "If to 3pend months in the house of one suspected; to aspire to the hand of a lady known to be devoted to the rebel cause; to neg i- * .L. ?i lect me excuunge eueuteu ivi uiui, nu.vu should to every soldier be not only significant as a recall, but a glad summons to bis duty; is enough to create dishonorable suspicionsthen Col. Edward Graham stande in a most awkward positiou, and one I would not like to fill for a good deal," replied Hardy. "It will kill him ! it will kill him," said Mr. Willoughby. "His honor aspersed ! and I?I, wretch that I am, the cauBe of it," he groaned in anguish. "Come, Mr. Willoughby, do not take it so hard. We will try and fix it for you. If you say the word, I can do a great deal. In fact it rests with me pretty much, not only to clear Graham, but to release you," said Hardy, significantly. "What do you mean, Hardy? Do but this and 1 will bless yon while I live," said Mr. Willoughby, grasping his hand while tears gathered in his eyes. "Well," replied Hardy, in a confused manner, "I am more than willing to do what I can for you. But to tell you the truth, it is at some risk, and you know no man likes not only to work for nothing, but to risk his all in the bargain." He looked curiously with his keen gray eyes at Mr. Willoughby. "Go on," said Mr. Willoughby, impatiently; name your price. Anything I have shall be yours, if you but free Graham from this dishonor." "Graham, again," muttered Hardy, with a curse. "Better think of your broad acres." "I do, Hardy. You cannot know what a sorrow this is to me," and the tears hitherto restrained, coursed down his aged cheeks. "But we should think more of life and what makes lif3 dear," he said tremblingly, than of silver and gold. Pledge me, Graham shall be safe, not not only from public but private revenge." "I pledge it, much as 1 hate hira," said Hardy savagely. "Now grant ray guerdon." "It is yours, Hardy," replied Mr. Willoughby, breathing more calmly ; "you have but to name it." "Ellen Campbell," said Hardy, a triumphant leer on his brutal face. Mr. Willoughby recoiled. "My child ! my pure child ! never!" said he in momentary determination. A gathering scowl warned bim. "Anything but this, Hardy; do not ask this," said he in pale horror. "Nothing else will answer," said Hardy, doggedly, who had failed to notice the repulsive ir inner. "My lands are broad; my wealth even more than you imagine. Look out on it all and choose what you will ; but spare my child." He clasped his hands iu fervent entreaty. Hardy gave a bendish laugh. "In getting her I get all," said be. "I but want her to deck my proud wealth. By Jove, won't she make a regal mistress." " ^ - ? ?-L - - 1 l-i- ?"-in?M 1 f? '' wAf\liorl "uu urn, cuicuiaie iuu ucilquiij*, icpu^u Mr. Willoughby, sternly. "It is optional with me whether she gets any or not. Your avarice may overreach itself." "You seem to have forgotten, Mr. Willoughby, there is a law of confiscation, and the faithful soldier who in the zealous discharge of his duty discovers the secret or more open abettors of this rebellion, does not go unrewarded. We have a court of sequestration, where these things are managed without the interference of third parties. I may be nearer the rich prize of these good lands than you either expect or desire," replied Hardy, unheeding-the pain which he saw every word inflicted. "Graham?the home of ray fathers?Ellen?all taken from me ! Good God, this is retribution," cried Mr. Willoughby, staggering as if under a stroke. "A word from me will redeem them all," replied Hardy.' "And if every breath were a world, Ellen would not listen to the base proposal," said Mr. Willoughby, indignantly. "What! Not for the home you so much value ?" said Hardy. "You do not know Ellen Campbell," said Mr. Willoughby, contemptuously. "Your words would be as idle as chaff blown on summer wind. "The honor, perhaps the life, of Graham ?" questioned Hardy, more hesitatingly. I "Alas !" he replied, shaking his head, "what she values more than life, forbids it." "If you allude to the rebel, Davie, I'll soon put him where hopes and fears will not trouble him" said Hardy, coolly. "You will not again attempt"?said Mr. Willoughby in horror. "I'll attempt anything that stands in the light of my interest," interrupted Hardy. "It is useless to afTect delicacy about this matter. Give me your approbation on my suit, and leave the rest to me. Jt,nen, as my wife, and I the master of her heritage, will make a home for you by the fire-side that you love, and I pledge you my possession shall be but nominal till your death gives me a perfect title." "Out upon you for an avaracious villain," j i cried Mr. Willoughby, in towering wrath. "To dare to appropriate my proud heritage? the wealth of a house who were lords of the soil when you were in the mire from whence you sprung. You dastardly ruffian ! to calculate on my death before my very face. May my right arm perish by inches from my 1 body, ere I subscribe to such an unholy pledge. Out of ray house, scoundrel! ere the stones fall and crush your miserable carcass.', "Hark you, old man," said Hardy, "I was willing to show you mercy, and you have refused it. When you come as a beggar to the door you so proudly claim, I will thrust you | ; from it and throw these words in your teeth. You may prepare to go with me in half an hour; and while I hold a parley with the! ; proud beauty in yonder, you may take a fareI well of the place which, God help me, you | will never see again." . j CHAPTER XIX. Yon grey lines That fret the clouds, are mossengers of day. Shakspkare. "Miss Ellen, it seems as if I am never to appear before you except in an unfavorable light," said Hardy, as he entered the library. The supposition was too true to need con-, tradiction, and Ellen did not think it necessary to reply. "I fear Davie's mischievous character will go much against him," said he, determined to touch her on the most tender point first. "As I am not particularly anxious to hear his dirge chanted by one so unable to understand him, you will excuse me if I retire," said the spirited girl, rising to depart. Hardy quickly arose, and ere she eould reach the door closed it, and placing his back against it, said, with his coarse laugh? "Now, you are as much my prisoner as the rest of the household, and as such you must consent to remain till you hear what you would not allow me to tell you a day or two ago. It is useless to tell you that I love you. You have known that for some time." Her lips curled contemptuously. "You do not believe me. By heaven, I do?more than your favored lovers, the haughty Davie, or the supercilious Graham. They would relinquish you in a love they would call generous, if circumstances opposed them ; but I swear never to relinquish the hope of calling you mine, but with ray life." "The thing you call hope, is too iutangible for me to understand," replied Ellen. "If I am detained to hear such rhapsodies as this, I must be as patient as possible, though my patience will scarcely lessen the infliction. "Proud girl," said Hardy, "you little know how you'stand with me, or again you would be at my feet as a suppliant." Ellen blushed crimson, but she undauntedly replied? "I do not fear you. Do your worst." "Aud that will be to condemn Davie ere another day passes," said be, with a profanity so > i - i : 1 nauuum, il whs m> uiuuimjr. She smiled scornfully. "He is not in your power. He will be tried as a soldier. Officers and gentlemen will understand justice, if not mercy." He started violently. "Ha ! Have you been contemplating his chances? You are keen, but not cuuuing. Evidence, danming evidence, can be brought against him, and it shall be my care to see it forthcoming." "You can prove the purity of his patriotism, the untiring zeal of a faithful soldier; nothing else," said Ellen. "By heaven, I will prove what will work his death if it perjure my soul," said Hardy, with vehemence. "He has a friend who will protect him, though even such friends as you would plot his ruin," replied Ellen. "Who? Graham? Ha! ha! Do you not know he will be court inartailed?perhaps disgraced ?" said Hardy. "Nnt. Graham ! The pen; s?the noble ? Oh! do not tell rae th; and her bowed head was hid in her hands. "Ha!" thought Hardy, "is this the lover after all? But no; it cannot be. His dishonor grieves you worse than Davie's death, Miss Ellen. Can the high born English officer have stolen the heart so lately wedded to patriotism ?" She did not notice the taunt, but said without heeding him? "There is a sorrow worse than death. Oh ! Graham, from my soul I pity you." Suddenly turning, she said, "what refinement of cruelty is this that would sacrifice such a noble spirit? What is his crime?" "You, Miss Ellen, I have no doubt have been the chief cause," he replied, mockingly. "I," said she incredulously. "You are enigmatical sir. I cannot understand you." "You cannot! Then you are not as keen as I gave you credit for. Graham's offence is grave aud serious, and his punishment will be what generally befalls traitors to their king and country. How much your charms may have tempted to a neglect of duty, you can best tell." "This is terrible,!' said Ellen, pale as death. "Terrible, indeed. Not much to be hoped in that quarter." "My uncle will go. He will plead for the life that is so dear to him. He can confute all your evidence. Let me pass this instant. I will entreat him to leave all, for Graham's sake." "It is needless, Miss Ellen," replied Hardy, without moving. "Your uncle goes, it is true; but goes as ray prisoner." Ellen gave a startled scream. "Davie?Graham?ray uncle?all sacrificed? Oh ! dear-bought freedom, when such spirits are martyred ! Stand aside, relentless and cruel man. Let me go to those your malice and hate have condemned." "Nay, Ellen," said he catching, her hand as she would have passed him, "it rests with you, whether such sacrifice shall be made. Hear rae but a moment," said he, as she wrested her haud from him. "By the henven above us, I will save them if you let me." She turned her flushed face to him. Tears hot and burning trembled in her eye ; Niobe herself was not a truer picture of despair. "Ellen, your hand can buy your uncle's life, aud with that life, all he holds most dear. He has come under suspicion, and these broad lands must be the forfeit. You know his devotion to the home of his fathers; you know he cannot survive the loss of his heritage. Answer me?will you redeem them ?" "And be a partaker in your perjury ? Never. Such threats are idle. What power can you have to give or with-hold my uncle's possessions." "The power the law gives me. The power right gives me. Foolish girl! they are not idle. I hold even now in my hand a grant for the estate. Think well ere you decide." "I want no time for decision. Take the hearts from my home aud you destroy it. I no longer value the geraless casket. Your ill gotton wealth may serve you for a little while; but a God of justice will never let you enjoy it. I do not fear your boastful threats." "This is your decision, is it? Your uncle turned out in his old age to a life of penury and hardships. Graham disgraced, seeking it may be the death by his own hand, that honor and glory forbid him. Davie, suffering the law's extremest penalty, and ending his life on a gibbet, and each doom sealed by Ellen Campbell. I thought woman I was generous. Are you, fair enslaver, the only exceptiou ?" said he with deliberate calmness, marking every word, as it entered like an arrow, her struggling breust, "God help me then, so let It be. And know that Ellen Campbell would weep more over a dishonor that would sacrifice every holy principle of her nature, than over the blighted prospects and ruined hopes of her own house. The famine?the distress, I could endure; but never the calamity and woe by which you would relieve me. You speak of Graham. His generous love would loathe a life bought at the sacrifice of woman's I truth. Would to God, he had died in a j noble cause! Murder by sword or gibbet, ; the oppression and robbery of a private fam| i.ly, are actions that must sully all connected I with them, aud I mourn that one so formed I to defend, to enlighten, to bless a cause, should be the companion and brother in arms of unprincipled and profligate men. But God only can judge the heart. Your malice may condemn the brave spirit, but never disgrace it. And Henry Davie, he too!" said she, clasping her hands and raising her undimmed eyes to heaven, while a heavenly : smile Eradiated her face. "Know that I glory in the death of a martyr patriot, and he is worthy of the high honor. One in whose scale few are fit to be weighed ; and when vou launch him from time to eternity, tell him that Ellen Campbell gives him joy and mourns; her woman's nature forbids'her sharing his glorious crown. I welcome the fate that links my unworthy name with the pure faith, the warm affections, the noble spirit of such a man. And in later times, when God spares my-life to see this fair land the home of freedom, I will bless the fortitude that gives me strength in this trying hour to refuse to purchase, by perjury and coward fear, a life dearer than all the world besides, and which will enable me to give my love to a memory, that will write on ray tomb in maiden widowhood, the unsullied name of Ellen Campbell." % CHAPTER XX. "Friendship above all ties does bind the heart, And faith in friendship is the noblest part," "Saddle my horse and bring him round, instantly," thundered Graham, as he entered the piazza, booted and spurred, for riding. "And Jerry, bring mine also. It appears that I must ride with you," said Mr. WiLoughby, following him out. "You, sir; how so ?" "My person is arrested. It seems that I have come under suspicion," replied Mr. VYilloughby, who seemed much more calm under the circumstauces, than one would have supposed. "And Ellen ?'' "She can get Mr. Adams to remain with her a few days, till these unhappy matters are settled. I trust to be able to arrange them in that time. I would advise her to go to them, but the place must not be left unprotected, aud her presence may preserve it from ruin," said he, sighing deeply. "What it position for a young girl! Alone and unprotected. Can nothing better be thought of?" said Graham. "At present, no," said Mr. Willoughby, "and our women are used to such trials. Mrs. Adams is as good as- an army herself. She is a perfect hero, and you know Ellen is not easily intimidated. Mr. Adams, too, will be much help, though be will have to take - - _i p supervision OI rns own place, iur me same reason that mine needs protection. But my time is limited, and I have much yet to attend to," he said, as he left him. Davie was standing at the extreme end of the piazza, with his arms folded, leaning against a pillar, calm and collected. A guard was slowly passing to and fro, on either side of him. Graham stood for a moment, hesitating?contending emotions battling in his breast. At length, with a firm step and resolute air, he approached the place where Davie stood. > "You can retire to a little distance," said he to the guard, as he passed him. "Well, Graham," said Davie, without moving. Graham stood near him in silence. "I hear you are to accompany me ; out wnac is this about Mr. Willoughby ?" said Davie. "He, too, goes as a prisoner," replied Graham, with lowering brow. "My poor Ellen," murmured Davie. Graham started violently. "I told you this morning, Graham, I would remind you that the brave are ever generous. Will you let me do it now ?" Graham did not answer, but the hitherto flushed and angry face, became as pale as death. Compressing his lips firmly, he turned a full, fierce look on him, as he haughtily bowed his head. Dashing the clustering hair from his high brow, aud erecting his manly figure, Davie returned the defiant look, challenging with his bold, free gaze, all suspicion. "I had hoped this morning, to give you a confidence which I considered my own honesty required me to make, and which I believe your friendship demanded. How I was interrupted, you know. The trust I have in that friendship urges me to ask a favor, which, in other circumstances, I would hesitate to demand." He waited for an answer. "Sneak." said Graham, in a choking voice, turning his face from hira. "I am now in the power of one who will not hesitate at any crime to work my ruin, and though higher powers should decide my fate, I know too well that my partisan mode of warfiire has made me peculiarly odious to those powers. I neither ask nor hope for mercy," said he, proudly. "But there is one on whom this will fall with crushing power; of her I would speak?my plighted wife? Ellen Campbell." "And to me," said Graham, turning fiercely upon him. "Is it not enough that I have been encouraged, been duped, led on, fool that I was, to believe a lie?but you must insult me with the tale of your love. By Heaven, I have been deceived long ehough. It is time some atonement was made." "I do not know what you mean by atoneraeut in this case, Col. Graham ; but this I tell you, that ere you again couple ray name with such terms as you have just used, I will, unarmed as I am, revenge the insult on the spot, if my life, the next moment pays the forfeit," replied Davie, speaking in the low tones habitual to hira iu moments of strong passion, his fiery black eyes flashing and dilating. Graham uttered a deep curse, as drawing his sword, he cried? "Were you armed as I am, and we on yon hill side alone, I would better teach you what atonement is; but your helplessness tics my hands and saves you from?" "Hold, Graham. Another word and your own sword shall chastise vou." said Davie, springing on him, and catching his arm in his powerful grasp, he held it with the uplifted sword high in the air, while with the other he clasped him as he would a child. The commotion attracted the attention of the guards, who rushed to the place, and had not Graham interfered, would at once have made an end of Davie. But quieting them by declaring that he had provoked the attack, Graham again prevailed upon them to retire. The confusion incident to this gave Graham time to collect his thoughts, and always acting 011 the impulse of the moment, whether right or wrong, he said : "I have been passionate and insulting, Davie. Will you forgive me ? I cannot ask your hand for I do not deserve it ; but I ask you to forgive me. I do not fear to ask more of your generous nature. I ask you to forget what has past," "There is my hand without urging," replied Davie, frankly grasping his band. "No more apologies, Graham. It is forgotten. Let us talk of your circumstances. Do you anticipate trouble in clearing yourself?" "No," replied Graham, the veins cording on his temple. "My influence and position alone, would clear me, apart from ray innocence, which I can prove, and which will serve to punish the dastardly villain that Elauned my disgrace. But the dishonor, >avie, the dishonor, 'the aspersions on my loyalty. You cannot know how this enters my soul. But never mind my troubles? the favor you spoke of," said he, the ingenuous blood rushing to his brow. "What is it?" "It is unimportant, Graham; I have reconsidered it. Her own heart will teach her all my farewell would be," said Davie, sadly. Graham's lips quivered. "You have not forgiven me." Davie turned a look full of affection on him, as with his genial smile, he placed his hand on bis shoulder. "Prove it then by claiming what you desired of ray friendship," said Graham. Davie hesitated. "Nay, then, I will myself indite them, and my own heart will give them a tenderness that even your love cannot surpass; and I will bid her be of good courage, for I will move heaven and earth before one hair of your head be injured. And when happier times bless you with her love, think sometimes of one whose passion, though not equaling yours in purity, surpasses it in intensity, and who has lost with hope, everything that makes life dear." VGraham," said Davie; but it was some moments before he could continue. "Had I but foreseen this, I could curse myself for my folly. I might have warned you; but from earliest childhood, I claimed her as so wholly mine, I never thought of another disputing the right. Her cordial and affectionate manner?has it encouraged you!" said Davie, hesitatingly. "God knows?no," replied Graham, bitterly. "Though kept from some hidden cause to betray her feelings, yet every word, every action, taught me how hopeless was my suit, till I was fain to believe her soul was too pure, too free, ever to mingle with its chastity the alloy of love." "My truthful Ellen," murmured Davie, with a proud smile. "Then you came," said Graham, unheeding the interruption. "Then it was I read her cherished secret; read it in her stolen glance, tremblingly withdrawn when your eyes met; read it in the blush that deepened on her changing cheek when your voice addressed her; read it in the liquid music of her words . i t__ . 1J 1? T>?i ...L.. wnen ner low tones wuuiu repiy. jjul wujr curse myself with such memories? I learnt that even as my love was maddening, hers was fearful. Mine might overset the brain ; hers break the heart." He spoke low and vehemently, as in refinement of anguish, his jeal ous love heaped up evidence against himself. Davie's eyes sparkled like meteors, as Graham spoke, but touched with the hopeless misery of the look, he said: "Would that I had another Ellen for you, Graham; and now that I part from her, never perhaps to see her again, I would fain leave her, as a dear charge, to your keeping; and believe me when I say there is no other man under Heaven, whom I th uk worthy of the charge. But it would be idle. You say truly, her brave loving heart will break ere it can forget." "There is Hardy's voice," said Graham. "Quick, Davie; what would you have?" "Give this to Ellen," said Davie, hastily tearing a leaf from his pocket-book and writing hurriedly : "I am cast down, but not destroyed. I cling to a hope that is not safe to meDtion, and yet 1 trust to your discernment to understand it, and your courage, my brave girl, to hope in it. Your words have been prophetic. Fate has prevented the necessity I urged, but I doubt if you will agree that it is a happy fate. My interview with your uncle was painful and startling in the extreme. I had hoped to tell you all. He is more to be pitied than I could conceive. Still, I am satisfied ne is ucung iruui utiout&cu wumi/uuho of duty, and I have sworn you shall not be sacrificed. Our oaths stand opposed. X trust your love; he,a miscalled duty. I do not now'fear concerning you. Heaven bless you, dearest, and grant we may soon meet never to part, but in the relation love, honor and duty, my Ellen, demands of you. Do not grieve for me. "All will yet be well. DAVIE." Giving it to Graham, he once more resumed his calm position, and awaited the moment of departure. Hardy, who felt that he had been wasting time, now hurried his movements. Graham had but a moment to see Ellen. "I am commissioned to give you this, Mi38 Ellen," he said, as he handed her the note. She read it rapidly. The tone of cheerful courage did not deceive her. She burst into tears. "Ellen," said Graham, almost unmanned by the sight of the tears of the woman he so loved, "do not give way to grief. I trust Davie will yet be free. God knows how earnestly I shall work for it." She looked up with swimming eyes. "You will, Graham ?" "I pledge ray honor to it, Ellen." Her eyes fell?the color deepened on her cheek. "Your reward will be in gratitude," she said. "I know it, Ellen," he answered bitterly. Then his tone changing to sad reproach. ,cr\L i TM1? toll "UQ : li/UCU, TT11JT uiu jruu uvi uauaij tvu me this before ? Do you think I would have urged my pitiable claims against your greater happiness ? Did you believe me destitute of generosity and strength, that I could not say, "Bless you Ellen and be happy ?" ' "How willingly I would have done this. Eow I longed to say "it is wrong in you to speak?wrong in me to listen," Heaven knows. But I was bound by a promise extorted in a moment of trial, to keep the secret. Oh! if you knew how I have suffered to keep that vow, you would pity and forgive me," said Ellen. "Bound by a promise! A vow! What can you mean ? To whom V She did not answer. "Ah! I see; your uncle. Strange, strange, and yet thank God for this. It was the one fault in your character. I could not reconcile it with your truth. My ideal is now perfect?too distant for one so unworthy ever to reach ; but yet the angel whose memory will beckon me to higher hopes, nobler aspirations. God help me, Ellen. While near you there is nothing I cannot aspire to. I can welcome sacrifice, welcome even the trial and anguish by which my soul's strength is tested. But when I leave you, must I battle with a love stronger than life, with a will that will not brook denial, with a storm of passion that listens to no reason ! Alas ! why am I cut off from such aid?such encouragement?" "Be true to your noble nature, Graham," said Ellen, gently laying her hand on his arm, wuh inexpressiDie Kindness in ner voice. "Stand firm?the day of passion and fancy will perish. We are not living in a land of dreams, but of vital realities. Be steadfast, plant your aims beyond the reach of disappointment, and you will yet understand the blessedness, the happiness, of life." \ sj, Ellen. When I lose you, I lose everything. Don't talk to me of happiness. The future is a blank to me. I do not care where I go, what becomes of me, and now we part, forever?-Elleu'!" He staggered to a seat. "Give me one memory that I may carry into my darkness; the sweet sorrow, the bitter passion of this hour." Passing around his chair with all the woman rising in her heart, Ellen lightly touching his brow, and gently pushing the clustering hair from his temples, said? "Noble, generous Graham. Let me believe the quick impassioned, fervent nature will also learn to be calm, strong, tender and true. Dear Graham," she whispered, "learn that no love but the Heavenly, can exclude the evils of our human nature. God bless you, brother, and let these words prove how a sister trusts you." He sprang to his feet, the bounding blood flushed warm to his face, dyeing in crimson to the very roots of his hair. His eyes flashI ed in fire. "Go, Ellen; go now," said he huskily, "ere my other nature forgets itself, and my passion wildly claims the love I have forever renounced. Leave me. This struggle must be alone," said he, seeing her hesitate, frightened at his sudden violence. And then sighing? "Forgive rae, Graham. Heaven bless you." Another long and ligering look, and Ellen was gone. [to be continued.] THE WIFE'S PRAYER AND THE DRUNKARD'S RESOLVE. Hush, my dear ! the winds are moaning Through the ragged window pane, And the rotten roof is groaning 'Neath the torrent-failing rain ; Close thine eyes and let them slumber Through the darkness of this night, And hear not the awful thunder , That will roll before the light. Hark! seems now I hoar a footfall, Ah! 'twas but that hingeless gate Dashed again by storm-king's fury, Dealing out its due of fate." Sleep, my child ! the lightning's flashes May but calm thy sweet repose; But thy mother's tired lashes? When they'll rest butHeavon knows. Ah 1 upon my eyesight painted, Holy scenes of long ago, With the sparks of radiance tainted Sweet as clearest sunset's glow, When, within the harvest garnered, I a blushing bride was seen, With a youth whose brow was tarnished Not with sin's dark, loathsome screen. But the change! oh, tearful wailing! My poor heart can scarce contain All the woe that lies thore railing, In its bitter, sad refrain; When the tempter, vile and sullen, Tore the splendor from that browSwept the luster from his eyeballsDarkened orbs of misery now. Yes, he comes! I hear him Btumble; Oh, my God, bear me up! 'Mid the thunder's pealing rumble, Help me dreg this bitter cup; Help me still tne wail of anguish That seems bursting from my breast; Blessed Jesus, waft me heavenwardLet me on Thy bosom rest! Ah ! the door behind him closes; Seems he walks with firmer tread, And those eyes seem not as burning As when tinged with Satan's red; As before the grate he's standing, In the firelight's fading glow, Seems I see a manly picture, fWis TM ooan vsars aco. "Wife.!" He turns, and o'er his features Gleamings of angelic light Seem to float in waves of splendor, Driving out the horrid night, Lifting from my care-worn bosom All the loads of sorrow there. Filling up that hour with gladness, Banishing all thoughts of care. "Ere to-night you hnshed the sobbings Of our boy in yonder bed ; Ere you'd brushed the golden ringlets That are shrouding his young head: While you were with tears bemoaning That this home should be his fate; When thou saidst the winds are roaring, And the night is dark and late. "I beneath the eave was listening, Listening to thy offered prayer; Heard you sobbing o'er our of&pring, Heard and treraoled standing there; As I heard the cold rain pattering On the roof above my head, I resolved to shun the tempter, 'Ere another tear was shed. "There I kneeled beneath the window, Gazing toward the clouded heaven, Asking God, if e'er his aid Unto mortal man was given, That he'd let it strengthen me, Through this scene, my hour of need; Help me save my labor's worth, The mouths or wife and child to feed. "And He heard me, wife; I've conquered; I no more will touch the cup That with bell's dark doom is mantled, That has burnt my earnings up f 1 no more on earth will cause thee In tby loneliness to shed Tears of anguish o'er our offspring, MAnt 1Ua rtn vTAnrlflr Xlitftb UUVT lit-3 vu j wuuui ww*? "But while heaveu is all aglowing, And all earth's a bounteous store, I will try to be more grateful Than I've ever been befove; I will try to heal the ruptnre That has torn thy heart in twain; I will try to soothe thy sorrow, And receive thy smile again." -? . BILL A BP'S POOR NEIGHBORS. "Mr. Arp, can I grind my ax on your grindstone?" "Well, yes, I reckon so. Don't grind on the middle, nor on one side. Hold your ax square with the rock." "Mr. Arp, we've come to borrow a shovel and pick to work on the road. They've warned us, and we haint got any tools." "Yes, you can get em. When you get done with em don't throw em over the fence, but bring em to me. The last time I loaned em a fellow throwed em over the fence in the leaves, and I never found em for two weeks." "Mr. Arp, mother wants enough wheat straw to fill a bed tick." "All right, sir; go to the barn and get it." "Mr. Arp, mammy says she wants to get a mess of turnip greens. She says yourn are going to seed mighty fast, and cutting em will hope em." "Mr. Arp, pap sent me after your sheep shears." "Mr. Arp, mammy says the baby is sick, and to please send her your paregoric and a little white sugar." "Mr. Arp, good mornin ; family well ?" "Yes, tolable, I thank you. How are you all at your house?" "Moderate. I come down to see if you'd let me get a board tree often our land; looks like you've got so many I thought maybe you could spare me one." "Mr. Arp, daddy says they are gwine to preach uncle Billy's funeral up at Bethel church to-morrow, and he wants to borrow your spring wagon and some geer to take mammy up in." "Mrs. Arp, mother says please send her some garding seed. The rats eat up all of hern." "Mrs. Arp, sis Sal says please let one of your gals stitch up this frock on your machine; she's got a felon on ber finger and can't sow." I like to see my poor nabors so friendly, though I'm obliged to think this sort of bisiness is a little overdone. Some poor folks can't help being poor ; and I like to help em along according to reason. The trouble with me is, I'm poor too; but they don't believe it. We put on a little style, and hold our heads up and have got some right nice things in the house, and a piano and some pictures hanging around on the walls, and that always fools folks who don't know any better. When people have rich ways they must divide out occasionally, whether they have a surplus or not. These poor folks do as well as they can, considering. And I havent forgot how they fought for my niggers in the last war. There are some living by me now who fought four years and wear the soars of battle, and since then they started in the world with nothing, and they have just about held their own, for they havent got much but a parcel of children that go barefooted and are al* ways hungry. A nabor come to me the other day and says he, "Well, Major, we are in luck again at my house?a power o'luck? the old woman dident have but six children yesterday, but she's got eight this morning." "Is it possible?" says I. "Yes, sir?she had had a coupie of pair of twins last night? both of 'em boys?and you see she hadent made arrangements for but one, and I've come down to see if Mrs. Arp diden't have a surplus of baby clothes lying arouq<J sorter loose like," THE BAD HABIT OF SWEARING. It may be a grievous truth, but it is true that very many men and women are addicted to the use of expletives, some of which are profane, some simply silly, some in bad taste, some meaningless, and all unneccessary if you criticise them closely. Many men use oaths, which are terrible in their intensity and bitterness, and yet their utterers have no feelings which need such language. They will condemn people to everlasting torment, curse their eyes, and call down the direst judgments of Heaven on persons who cause them slight annoyance, and when anything goes wrong with them they will curse and swear like pirates; and yet really they would do no man any harm ; and as to sending anybody's soul to hell, their lives would be miserable if they thought they bad done it. It is plain, therefore, that swearing generally if, only a habit into which men fall, .and t UnmA MAAnMa !n/l!/)nfna fUnf flinir q*?q nrn. umirxi uy jju uicaus luuivaina man vwuj ? ? juv fane in their thoughts or disposed to arrogate to themselves the divine function of passing eternal judgment on their fellows. The exclamations expressive of wonder or delight or indignation which women so freely use, and which serve the purposes of a safety valve for their feelings, and the dams and gollys of the boys, are, in their essence, about the same. Of course it is foolish to use them, and their employment is in bad test?* They do not strengthen the speech, for they have lost any real meaning; their free and careless use has destroyed the force they may once have had. If men always had at their tongues' ends the fit words to express their ideas and feelings, they probably would not swear so much. But when the right word dosen't come easily, an oath is handy for emphasis. That is all there is in swearing. It can't be defended, for it is a bad liabit; and oaths, beyoEd question, greatly disfigure speech, which is most effective when it is calmest and simplest Yet that men took to swearing in a very early period of their developments, is probably unquestionable; and that they have gone on in the practice, however civilized they have become, is a truth . everbody's experience sustains. Christians, or those tfho nominally profess Christianity, often swear as much as the heathens, and | probably there was not more swearingt>efore ! our era than there is now. We have even ( retained some of the pagan oaths in their exact form, and to others we have given new forms learned under Christianity, while we have manufactured for ourselves a supply. The Duke of Wellington's Perilous I Nap.?Self-reliance may be carried too far, 1 and self-reliant great men are often very difficult tn talre carp nf in nlrf tk.crn when their V1-Mf v* " y * habita have survived their strength. The late Duke of Wellington was accustomed, during the latter years of his life, to driVe himself about in a curricle, a habit which caused his family considerable uneasiness, since, from his increasing years and tailing vision, it seemed probable that he would meet with some accident. . The Duke's well-known character, however, was such that nobody dared to hint such a thing to him; aadall the rohndabout methods taken to induce him to abandon his charioteering,^ having failed, he was left to enjoy its pleasures in peace. What rendered this so extrenJely dangerous was his habit of going oft suddenly to sleep, which brought him so many hair-breadth escapes that, at last, it was arranged for some member of-the family to accompany him whenever he could do so without awakening his suspicions. One day his second son, Lord Charles, contrived to be honored with the perilous invitation. After driving a certain distance along the road, the Duke went oft into a nap, and one of the reins fell from his hand, while he kept hold of the other, still feeling the horses' mouths with it The result was that the animals were gradually edged toward a deep and steep ravine which bordered the road. Lord Charles watched things meantime and prayed that his father might, as he bad done many times before, awake in time to prevent the else inevitable smash. The Duke, how-fc ever, continued to nod and to pull, until at last, as the horses were on the "Very edge of the ditch, Lord Charles seized the fallen rein, and giving it a pluck, pulled them short round into the road again. With a sharps turn the Duke awoke, and seeing the rein in his son's hand, asked, angrily, "What are you doing with the ruins, sir ?" "Well, jir," replied Lord Charles, "the horses were going straight over the edge, and I just pulled them off to preveut us being smashed to pieces." The Duke looked at him sternly, and said .* "T'l 1 ??An A *V?I.A/1 ttniiM Ainn Kneinooa " j. it 1*1 uuL'ic jruu. iaj juiuu juui un u uuoiuvw, "Old Dominion."?This term, which is so impressive and signiflcant to every Virginian, is said to have its origin as follows: During the protectorate of Cromwell, the colony of * Virginia refused to acknowledge his authority and declared itself independent Shortly after, when Cromwell threatened to send a fleet and army to reduce Virginia to subjection, the Virginians sent a messenger to Charles II., who was then an exile in Flanders, inviting him to return on the ship with the messenger, and be King of Virginia. Charles accepted the> invitation; and was on the eve of embarking when he was called to the throne of England. As soon as he was fairly seated on the throne, in gratitude for the loyalty of Virginia, he caused her coat ofarms to be quartered with those of-England, Scotland and Ireland, as an independent member of the empire, a distant portion of the Old Dominion. Hence arose the origin of the term. Copper coins of Virginia were issued even as late as the reign of George II., which have on one side the coat-of-arms of England, Ireland, Scotland and Virginia. + A Story of Jackson.?Andrew Jackson's peculiar liking and respect for laboring men is picturesquely shown by a story related in xt^11^ d/tmmam tavir* q mooan LliC IIMUYUIO UVUU \yijvi) M luuwu, was on several occasions engaged to build chimneys at the Hermitage, and while at work often observed the most refined and wealthy people of Nashville coming to visit the General and his wife. The good mason, having more or less of mortar ornamenting his clothes, would say to Jackson that he "would not gc to the first table to eat"?that he "was not fit to appear in 3uch elegant company." The General always replied: "You must go to the first table, sir; a laboring man ought to be as highly honored as any man in the community, for the support of the world depends on their labor. I will see that you are treated with proper respect at my table." This story is certainly to the credit of Jackson's Democracy. Cryer, frequently laughing, said that he had been more honored than any man in the world, for President Jackson had frequently waited on him and brought him brick and mortar, when his regular attendant was out of the way. Change of Clothes.?Another means of promoting personal cleanliness, is by the absolute change of all clothing morning and night, wearing nothing by night that is worn by day, and vice versa. Such clothes as are hung to sun by day and dry by night, and such only are fit to be worn by those who have a reasonable regard for personal cleanliness. And I may remark that when such clothes are removed for the change, it is of the utmost importance to the health that the skin should be subjected to a reasonable friction?as by a flesh brush, a crash, a coarse flannel, or the hand, as a means of cleanliness, and of improved circulation.