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lewis m. grist, Proprietor. J Jitbtptnitnl Jamiln ftetospaptr: Jfor tjif ^ro:ni)fion of tbc political, facial, ^gricultnral anit (JDommertial Jntertifsof tjw j terms?$2.50 a tear, in advance. VOL. 26. YOEKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, DECEMBER 9, 1880. ^ ^ NO. 50. fir ljvr r , '' 1 ^elected f?octog. From tlie Southern Presbyterian. ENTERING INTO LIFE. I stood beside the sufferer's bed, And saw the sufferer lie With pallid brow and drooping head, And dimly-glazing eve. I saw the hectic's fevered flush Fade from its wonted glow ; And faintly heard the dying hush, ? As life's lamp flickered low. The wasted form, upon the couch Like sculptured marble lay, As chiseled by a master's touch, Tho' crumbling in to clay. The King of Terrors saw I come With cold ami venoined dart, And strike, amid the gathering gloom, That feebly-fluttering heart. But fear or fluttering saw I none, Nor tremble in that glance, As with nnquuiling heart and faith She met his dread advance. A smile seraphic, soft, and sweet, Swept o'er that stiffening clay; Like sunlight from the spirit-world, .Like gleam 01 goiuen uay. I saw no glittering cherubim, And heard no rustling wing; Nor glimpsed afar thro'distance dim, Bright spirits minist'ring; But well I know, in viewless air, Unseen to mortal eyes, Celestial convoys hovered there, To bear a ransomed prize. Then came a gasp?a tremor slight, And drooped the weary head ; The tenant-spirit wings its llight? The maiden fair is dead. "Dead" did T say? And is this death ? And is it this, "to die" ? This slumber sweet?this parting breath, With neither sob nor sign ? This laying down all mortal woe? And pains and groans and strife? This surely is not death?no, no? ' Tis eterinff into life. Aye, entering into life?for them "Earth's turmoil all is o'er; And thpy who live that life again, Shairtaste of death no more. Cold Is the marble of thy brow, And pale the snowy cheek ; The rose has faded from it now? Thy lipti no longer speak ; The> death smile on thy features sleeps, And lingers beauteous there; The sore liereftone o'er thee weeps, Or breathes th' nnuttered prayer. And friends now- wail, aiu^ hearts now bleed, For thee, so long caressed ; They need not, for this day indeed, Thou'rt entered to thy"rest. For He who bought thee, He who bled, And gave his life for thine, To thee, soft whispering, sweetly said, "This day, fair one, thou'rt mine j|u (Ngiual Written for the Yorkville Knquirer. THE LADY OF LINTON. BY WALTER MORGAN. CHAPTER I. Linton Towers, a magnificent structure off the reign of Queen Anne, standing in the centre of one of the finest estates in Kent, and owned by a widow lady who livejJ there in perfect seclusion, was the object of peculiar interest to all the inhabitants of that part of the country, as being the seat of a singular and not altogether agreeable romance. Miriam Hepburn, the present "Lady of Linton," as she was always called, had been in early childhood, betrothed to her cousin, Sir Roland Hepburn, the heir of great wealth and the possessor of a noble name ; but his personal advantages did not correspond with those of his ancestral inheritance. He was, in fact, a cripple, having been deformed in infancy by a fall from his nurse's arms; had a stunted, sickly frame, a disproportinned head and feeble limbs, which rendered him an unsightly and pitiable object. When the little Miriam, then a mere child of seven or eight, first beheld her cousin, to whom she had, until this meeting, been a stranger, she ran to con ceal herself in her mother s room, declaring that she would never, never play with such a looking boy, or have anything to do with him. "You are mistaken, my dear," calmly and severely said her mother, a most resolute dame. "You will not only play with your cousin, but be careful to treat him with the utmost courtesy and consideration, and on no account allow him to perceive that you have any distaste dor his appearance. He is a clever and prom ising boy, and is to be your constant companion from this time forth. Moreover, he will one day bestow a great benefit upon you, since in making you his wife, he will render you the ! mistress of great wealth, and an elegant | home. But this you are too young to under- | stand." Miriam, however, did understand it, and j she firmly resolved that never, even to obtain j the advantages of which her mother had ; spoken; would she submit to such a sacrifice | as a marriage with Roland Hepburn. Lady Agnes Hepburn, her mother, had an | inflexible will, and seldom failed in carrying out any purpose she had at heart. She had usually fouud her daughter tractable, and felt secure of being able to mould her incli-j nations, in this case, as in most others, into i compliance with her own. She had manoeu- ' vered successfully to obtain the guardianship of little Roland, left, as he was, an orphan at the age of ten, and considered that she had gained an importaut pointiu thus bringing him ; under her direct influence, and into constant association with Miriam, his future bride. \ The boy was docile and gentle in disposition, but a tinge of bitterness and discontent shadowed his mind, and interfered with his en joyment of childish pursuits. Miriam, afraid [ openly to disobey her mother, ceased to avoid his companionship. They played and studied together, but there was no congeniality of feeling between them, and they never became mutually attached. Roland admired her, for she was both handsome and brilliant, and possessed some fine qualities ; but he had an j inward consciousness that she looked on him with pity, if not with absolute scorn, and was never easy in her presence. A morbid dread of the future marriage, which was made no secret of, but often aud openly alluded to in the household, crept over him, strengthening with advancing years, and he was quite as anxious as his betrothed to find some means, if possible, to avert such a consummation, from which, however, there seemed little chance of escape. The contract of their betrothal had been solemnly made between their respective parents ; aud in additou to this, it was enjoined upon him by his father's will not to fail in carrying out the agreement, since, by such a failure, he would not only forfeit his inheritance to Liutou Towers and their valuable belongings, but carry with him to his grave the heritage of his deceased pareut's I severest displeasure?an imaginary heritage, 1 by the way, but one which young Roland's i sensitive mind shrank from bringing down j upon himself. The elder Sir Roland had known his disposition sufficiently well to believe, and with justice, that the reproaches of his oonscience, in the event of his non-compliance with such an expressed wish, would be a heavier penalty for him to bear through life than the loss of the wealth of which it would deprive him. So far as Roland was concerned, 'herefore, there was small likelihood of the con'ract being broken; and in regard to Miriam?well, her mother would take care to manage that there was no failure on her part?so said Lady Agnes to herself, -* t i . . . a- 1 ? wun ner usual ueierminauou lu u#ve uci way. Months and years rolled by. The young lord of Liuton Towers attained his majority, and Miriam, three years his junior, was quite old enough to become a bride. Quietly and unostentatiously, Lady Agnes began to make preparations for the wedding. "Cousin," said Roland to her, a day or two after the celebration of his coming of age, "next week I go to take possession of my estate. I wish to take this oportunity of thanking you, most warmly and gratefully, for the motherly care and kindness I have always received at your hands, during my stay beneath your roof." "Most welcome have you been to all that you have received," graciously replied Lady Agnes. "But you speak of leaving us. How long will it be, my son, before you return?" Roland well understood her meaning. He turned pale, hesitated, and looked down as he rejoined? "That depends on the pleasure of my cousin Miriam and yourself." "Your cousin Miriam, my dear Roland, always conforms to my wishes. Moreover, it would be impossible for her to feel anything but pleasure at your return. It is for you and for me, therefore, to make definite ar11 % rangeraents on this subject. Of course, you do not intend to postpone your marriage ?" "Of course not?that is?if Miriam consents," faltered Roland. Consents! 0, that is already un fait accom nil" liphtlv said Ladv A?nes. "However. since you have never (as I believe) formally sought her acceptance?" "No madam, I have not." "You should delay no longer doing so. Come, tard} wooer! there need be no better time than the present; "and with a playful but imperious gesture, she motioned him towards the door of the next room, where, as they both knew, Miriam sat at her embroidery. The door having been closed, she had heard nothing of the dialogue which so nearly concerned her ; but the expression of her cousin's face seemed to forewarn her, iu some in explicable manner, of his purpose in seeking her. Nervous and trembling at heart, the young man drew a chair to her side, and in a scarcely audible tone, accosted her thus? "Miriam, I am come to iuforni you of my intention of shortly bidding your farewell." "Indeed !" Miriam's heart gave a suddeu leap, and the color mounted to her face. Had she, then, been mistaken? Was she to have a reprieve ? "A temporary farewell," Roland continued, becoming still more embarrassed. "It is for you to decide?that is," he added, remembering Lady Agnes' words, "your mother insists ou my return at uo distant period ; but I would rather have the time appointed by yourself?since?" "Since what?" coldly asked Miriam, as he paused. "Since I should prefer consulting your wishes, I would not have you unnecessarily hurried." "I do not understand your meaning," replied his cousin, bending over her work. "You do not speak very clearly." "I allude, Miriam, to our marriage, which, as you know, has so long been a settled fact; and I desire to learn from you when you will be ready to bestow your hand upon me." "You do?" said Miriam, in a suppressed tone. "You do?" She raised her face, and 6xed her eyes, glittering with excitement and disdainful auger, upon him. "Then you can easily be satisfied. My answer is ?never." "Miriam !" exclaimed an icy voice. Lady Agnes had just entered the room. Miriam turned hot, then cold. She stood for a moment struggling with her emotions, then suddenly burst into a passionate fit of weeping. "Miriam," asked her mother, coming forward, "what is the meaning of this?" And without waiting for a reply, which, indeed, her daughter was unable to give her, she continued, turning to Roland?* "I regret, my dear boy, that your suit has been so discourteously received ; but in a little while, be assured Miriam, will recover from the disorder of mind, under which she seems just uow to be laboring. She certainly forgets, at present, what is due to herself and to ...... no ...ntl no .no r ....1 J yu ao ?cn oc iu ino. m uj x ywu iu leave us for the present. You can easily find better entertainment than in the society of a wayward girl." Roland was glad enough to make his escape ; and agitated and troubled beyond description, he left the house to seek the refreshing quiet and solitude of a little shrubbery, not far off, where he could reflect, undisturbed, on his perplexing position. No pleasing reflections they were, surely. He knew well enough that Miriam's couduct was far from being the result of waywardness, but that it was rather a settled and immovable dislike to himself, and repugnance to the idea of becoming his wife, that made her thus respond to his suit. Gladly would he have cooperated with her in avoid ing this marriage, but for him such a course was impossible. He looked forward with horror to a future which could be productive of nothing but misery; but he was too firmly bound to be able to retract. What transpired in the interview between Miriam and her mother, he never knew ; but i on repairiug to his own chamber, some hours later, he found there the following note, in pencil, addressed to himself: "I crave your forgiveness for my conduct this i afternoon, and promise to act with more deference to your wishes in future. I am ready tofullill my part of the contract to which you alluded, at anv time that is considered most tltting. Mikiam." "Written at her mother's dictation, of 11 course, "he said to himself, as he crumpled the note in his hands and threw it into the ; grate. "A pleasant prospect I have in store, j truly ! Forced to wed me against her will, ' j hating me, as I know she does, simply because : of being thus forced, I shall not find much comfort in my wife. Could we have remained cousins, we mighj, have continued friends ; as it is, I see no chance of anything but enmity and discord between us. And no wonder she dislikes me?no wonder she finds her fate hard," he continued, as he surveyed his reflection in an opposite mirror. "It is natural enough that any girl should shrink from an | alliance with such an object! She is beauti I ful?royally beautiful, and she knows it. I With her queeuly face and form she could j command the admiration of courts; and to ' waste such beauty upon me, a hunchback ! No wonder it seems monstrous to her ! 0, why ! was this hateful contract ever made? Why ! could we not be let alone in our babyhood, like other babies, and have our future left to ; UCUUC 1U5C1I i I* Roland exaggerated his personal defects, j i Though painfully apparent, they were not of i ; the repulsive kind that he made them out. J He was certainly dwarfed and misshapen, and. ! his face had the pale, unhealthy look common i to cripples ; but its expression, though melancholy, was far from unpleasing. On the j ; contrary, this expression was both intelligent j | and sweet, and his large, deep-set gray eyes j were remarkably fine. His head, though out j of proportion to his size, was well formed, and intellect was clearly marked upon his broad, high brow, around which his chestnut hair clustered in soft, silky waves. All his features were delicate and refined, and to an unprejudiced eye would have presented much that was attractive, as well as touching, in their ensemble. But he himself knew nothing j of this palliation to his own ugliness, as he j termed it. He believed his aspect to be wholi ly revolting, and desired to conceal himself ; forever from the gaze of the world. He did not see his cousin again befoie his j departure. L tdy Agnes iufbriued him that she was unwell, and preferred remaining in her own apartment. ''She begs you will think no more of her I strange conduct, ray dear Roland. In fact, I : may safely say tha.t she is now deeply sensit ble of the impropriety of which she has been guilty," said the wily mother, who had desired Miriam to avoid the young man during the remainder of his stay, for fear she might again be betrayed into a similar outbreak, and who preferred acting as a go between on the occasion. The wedding-day was fixed for about two months beyond the present time; and this being definitely settled, Roland bade Lady Agnes adieu, and turned his face, for the first time in eleven years, towards his own beautiful, but half-forgotten home. He arrived there to find everything in the most perfect order, and to receive a warm welcome from the trusty steward, who had the place in charge, and from his dependents, many of whom had been servants on the estate during the life time of the former lord. One of these in particular?old Priscilla?a wrinkled dame who had nursed him in his infancy and his father before him, gave way to lively demonstrations of joy at beholding him agaiu. "And it's yourself that's come to rule over us at last, and be the master here, my bonny boy!" she cried, embracing him with the familiarity to which her position in the household entitled her. "A joyful day it is for us all that brings the Lord of Linton back to his own estate. Sorrowful I've been during ; your absence, and wearily I've pined to see your blessed face again." Touched by this heartfelt greeting, Roland i was glad to escape to his own apartments, j where he could hide his emotion from these j friendly eyes. Many and varied were the j feelings that agitated him on his return to I his childhood's home, where old associations, clingiug to familiar objects, brought the past; vividly to his mind, and seemed almost to bridge over the gulf of years which separated it from the present. Here, in these rooms, | j he recalled his mother's presence, as she had : | taught him at her knee, or heard him lisp j his childish prayers. Yonder was the very ! chair in which she had sat, a fair, frail figure, j too delicate for earthly surroundings. He ' could almost see her face, with its trauspar-, i ent coloring and deep dark eyes ; could almost fancy that he heard the gentle tones of her voice as she spoke his name. Her por- ! trait hung over the mantel. He gazed upon it reverently, until tears obscured his vision, and bowing his face upon his hands he suffered them to flow freely, for his heart was overcharged. "And does the Lord of the Towers weep on the day of his return ?" exclaimed old Priscilia, who had stolen, in after him uflperceived. Laying her hand upon his shoulder she continued, solemnly, "It's ill luck to shed tears upon your own hearthstone, the first, i hour you set foot in front of it. Is it so sad ; | a heart you brought home with you, my j jewel boy!" "A jewel in an uncouth setting, Priscilla," j evasively replied Roland, trying to smile; for though somewhat vexed at being thus discov- \ ered, his regard for her feelings forbade his displaying any resentment at her intrusion, j "Fie ! and who regards the outside form ?" j she exclaimed. "The mind, the beautiful soul, are all that there is to value. Sure it wasn't for that you were crying, master Roland, I dear ?" "No, no!" he hastily rejoined. "'Twas j only a passing weakness, niv good nurse ; you : should not have noticed it." "But is it that you are unhappy at all ?" ; she persisted, wistfully regarding him. "You ' oughtn't to be?you, the master of the bon| niest lands and lordliest house in the country, and soon, as I hear, to be the master of a j handsome young bride as well. Is it true, j master Roland ? Are you to wed your cousin, Miriam Hepburn, as it has aye beeu settled ! you should ?" I "Yes; we are to he married in February," ; answered Roland, while a pang shot through i his breast. "Are all the apartments of the house in good order, or is it necessary for any new furniture to be bought?" he hurriedly continued, anxious to escape from so distasteful a subject. "Aye, aye; you'll need to make some alterations for your- bride." But not many?not j many. Everything's been preserved wonderful. And if she'sgotgood taste, like the rest of the Hepburns, she'll prefer the old things to the new. They are far more solid and satisfactory, to my mind." "And now I am so tired, I should like to rest awhile," said Roland ; and old Priscilla, taking the hint, immediately withdrew. CHAPTER II. In making himself familiar with all the ins and outs of his large estate, and in becoming acquainted with his numerous tenants, Roland found his time pass very quickly. ' rr p l. |j | ne ien mm ne cuuiu ue peneuuy nn^pjr here, but for the one prospect which shadowed his life; and from the recollection of this he could not, in his busiest moments, escape. Even if he could otherwise have succeeded in doing so, he woufd have been prevented by old Priscilla's constant reminders; for unconscious of the pain she was inflicting, the garrulous nurse loved to enlarge upon a topic which she naturally thought was one of especial interest to him. Numberless were the questions she asked him, on every possible occasion, regarding the disposition, appearance and habits of his fiancee, and it would torture her listener to hear her innocently exclaim, "Ah, happy will be the day that sees a fair young bride.come to be mistress of Liuton Towers ! Blessings ou her for giving you her love, my heart's jewel! With such a treasure you'll have naught more to wish for." All too swiftly for Roland, went by the weeks that elapsed between his arrival at Linton Towers and his return to the home he had lately left, where bis doom, and Miriam's awaited them both. A day of doom it seemed, indeed, when it dawned upon them ; and never a more reluctant pah- met at the holy altar to plight their vows?vows which in this case were a mockery, indeed. Miriam, instructed by her mother, and perhaps schooled by her own resolution and self-control into outward submission, appeared coldly resigned, immovable, expressionless as a marble statue; while Roland, less able to conceal his agitation, was, to all appearance, by far, the most disturbed of the two. The short ceremony was over. There was no wedding-breakfast or other festivity, since the newly married pair were to start at once for their Kentish home. With the same cold and passive air which she had worn through the morning, Miriam received the adieux of her mother. Her husband assisted^ her into the carriage which waited at the door, and they were driven rapidly away. Evening brought them to the abode of which she had just become the mistress. Here, of course, a tetinue of domestics stood ready to jeceive them, and foremost among these was old Priscilla, waiting to bestow her warmest greeting on "her boy's bride." With a gesture of mingled reverence and affection, she stepped towards Miriam, took her hand between her own wrinkled and tremulous hands, and with a low courtsey pressed it to her lips. "The Lord be thanked !" she devoutly exclaimed. "I've lived to see a mistress again in Linton Towers ; and a fair and handsome mistress, too," she continued, fixing a gaze of earnest scrutiny upon Miriam's face, "though over-sad and grave looking for one so young! Surely it's a happier look you should be wearing on your wedding day, and you the Lady of Linton ! It's ill luck to enter your new home with a sorrowful face, my lady." "You are rather free with your remarks," coldly answered Miriam, as she withdrew her U r\ /*! /I tilAm n r?'o nl n nrv lianu iiuiu tuc wiu tvuiuau o uaop x uovuin instantly drew herself erect; stood for one instant motionless, without removing her eyes from the young lady, who with equal steadfastness returned the gaze ; then turning away with a stately gesture, left the hall in silence. In that interchange of glances, each had read enmity and hatred, suddenly awakened, never to die out of the other's heart. So inauspicious ap introduction did not tend to inspire the rest of the servants with a cordial desire to welcome their new mistress, thereby incurring the risk of meeting with similar rebuffs. With downcast and disappointed looks, all fell back, except the old butler, who with silent gravity, preceded his lord and lady to the reception-room. Miriam, however, desired to be shown at once to her apartments ; and shutting herself up in them, she did not again appear below during the evening, saying that she was too fatigued to sit up any longer. Priscilla took care to keep aloof, and Roland, knowing how deeply she must be offended, sought her out, in order to try and soften, by some means, the vexation which she felt, and persuade her to forget the cold manner in which her well-meant advances had been received. At first, with a gesture of the hand, the old woman signified to him not to approach her, and when he would speak, listened in silence. Finally, in a voice full of dignity, mingled with sadness, she exclaimed? "I don't doubt your friendliness and good intentions, master Roland; I know you well enough to believe that you wouldn't hurt the feelings of one who nursed you as a baby, and would give her heart's blood to make you happy. But I fear me you have chosen a stony hearted bride?one who won't bring much joy or sunshine into your home. Why did you deceive me, and make tne believe she was of a different sort? Why did you let me go on praising her, and thinking, like a fool, your marriage would prove a blessing to you and yours? Ah! my eyes haven't looked upon the world and human kind these seventy years for nothing. I can read faces?I can read hearts. And I say your lady's face is fuir, but cruel; I say her heart is cruel, too? cruel and hard. Master Roland, do you not know that I am speaking the truth?" "God help me! I fear you are," muttered Roland, while a shade of anguish crossed his face. "At least," he hurriedly added, "she is cold and hard to me; but if she loved me, it would be different. In that case, I doubt not she would be kind enough ; but she does not | love me, and never will." I "And you do not love her either. Is not [that so?" asked Priscilla, with her usual I j searching glance. I "I cannot lovelier. Heaven knows I would , | if I could.% j "If you could, it would be love thrown . j away?it would be pearls cast before swine. ! j God help you, ray poor boy ! Your fate is' i a harder one than you. deserve. Evil was the day when they, thinking only of lands, and money, and the family name, blighted your , life by making this contract for you in your cradle ! As to me, I shall never trouble her ladyship with my presence again, unless she specially commands it. I see plain enough it j | would never be welcome to her." j "But, Priscilla," exclaimed Roland, fearful that he had gone too far, in admitting the ; truth of the case to even so faithful and tried a friend as this old dependent, "for my sake, j I beg that you will cease to thiuk and speak j of this matter; and, above all, never betray j to any one, by word or sign, that Lady Hepburn is other than you could wish, or that? that this coldness of feeling exists between J myself and her." "And what does my young master takeme I for?" somewhat indignantly responded the worthy dame, "to suppose that I'can't keep a family secret?one that concerns the family honor? Me, that has been bom and raised on the estate, and has held two generations of Hepburns in my arms? I've eyes to see, and ears to hear, and wisdom to know how to hold my tongue when it's my duty to do it. But it's sad and sorrowful I am to know there's such a secret to keep." "After all," said Rolaud, making an effort to speak more cheerfully, "there is no terrible secret in. the matter. I and Lady Hepburn, being bound to each other, without our knowledge or consent, in our childhood, and not liking to act in direct opposition to the wills of those who judged such an arrangement to be a wise one, have merely consented to do as was promised for us, and must abide by our own decisions. I suppose there have been numberless matches made without affection? quite as many as those which are entered into by persons of their own free will. At any rate, it is useless to take too gloomy a view of nonnnf ho V?nlnor) anrl mv wife fn HQV """u "v,ru > '"j """i ? ?J the least, is as much to be pitied as myself." "Ah ! I differ from you there," rejoined old Priscilla with a significant shake of the head. 1 "However," she added,' sighing deeply, "I'm over bold, perhaps, to speak as I do; but it's the deep love I bear you, and bore those before you, that makes me free to utter all that's in my heart. If I'm wrong, dear heart, 1 forgive me. Indeed, I meant no offence." "Nor have I taken any," replied her master. "It is because I am assured of your affection that I have confided my feelings to you; and I can rely upon your faithfulness and your discretion, in any difficult or disagreeable circumstances which may arise at any time from a want of unity in our household. You will aid me to conceal such a condition, if it unhappily occurs, from all eyes and ears." "Rely upon me, child of my heart; your old nurse will be a mother to you, if you will let her," was Priscilla's eager reply. "But oh, master Roland, dear, family discord's an evil thing, and discord between man and wife the worst of all; and though you've got a bitter cup to drink, better drink it in silence if you can. Maybe when you've lived together a while, she'll learn to love you for what you are. She's fair to look at. I'll say that for her, andit seems incredible to think but what, at her age, she has tome softness in her." "There is that in her which would make her a good wife to one she loved," replied Roland, sadly. Then thinking that enough had been been said on the subject, he bade Priscilla good night, and repaired to his own solitary room, to spend the greater portion of the Dight in bitter thoughts. A week passed by, during which Roland and Miriam never met except at meals. He spent his days out of doors, riding about his estate, and winning his way constantly deeper into the affection of all those with whom he came in contact. She secluded herself in her apartment, sometimes listlessly turning over the leaves of a book, but oftenest sitting in brooding idleness, with a dark look on her face, and Heaven knows what shadowy images trooping through her mind. At last, one evening, by an unacountable impulse, she arose, put on her shawl and hat, and went out of the house. Perhaps she was too weary of self imprisonment to endure it any longer. At any rate she followed her impulse, and let it lead her whither it would, over lawns and fields and through the autumn-tinted woods, until suddenly her eyes encountered the figure of her husband riding towards her. At this sight she stopped, and would fain have turned aside ; but, on Becond thought, she changed her mind, and went with a proud, cold air,' forward on her way. On seeing her, Roland instantly checked his horse, and dismounting, advanced to meet her on foot, leading the horse by the bridle. "Taking a walk, Miriam ?" he asked, with involuntary satisfaction in his look and tone; for he hailed it as a happy change that she should at length have voluntarily emerged J ^ ^-,1!*.. JA UTSY moo Ko/Yinninr* f A 1 An CT , irum summit;. lie naa uc^iiHiii.g y\j iwufe I intensely for something like a bond between I them. This coldness, this estra.gement, was | so repugnant to his nature, that he felt as if j he would give worlds to end it, and let at , least toleration, the faintest shadow of a mu-1 | tual regard, take its place between them, j "Yes," she briefly replied. "Are you going on farther, or shall we go home now ?" She looked at him a moment in silence, as j j if debating how to reply; then answered j i indifferently, "I believe I will go back." She turned, and they walked towards the ( house. Meeting a groom near the park | gate, Roland gave him his horse to carry to I the stables. Afteuome minutes' silence, he | I remarked? "I believe you have not yet seen anything of the place. Will you not let me show it to you, some time?" "As you like," she returned. "Miriam," he said, stopping suddenly. The color rushed to bis pale, sensitive face; his heart beat, and for au instant he found it ira possible to go on. She stood still also, looking at him with cold inquiry in her gaze. "Miriam." His voice was iiusky and low, and tears filled his eyes. "Miriam, for God's sake let us be friends. This sort of life is unnatural?unbearable, Why do; you hate me ? We have known each other a long time. If you cannot give me your affection, tince fate has ordained that we must live under one roof, can you not at least learn to tolerate my presence? Do not regard me as your enemy. It is not I who have wronged you. Believe me, could I have followed my own inclinations, I would never have brought you into this bondage ; but I was powerless to save you." "rtp anvo vmi r?alf Well I do not blame i you. I have never blamed you, have I ?" she rejoined, looking away from him as she spoke. Perhaps some womanly feeling stirred at her heart. At any rate, he thought that he detected a softer look upon her face, and a slight tremor in her voice. It gave him courage to touch her hand, timidly, with his; but she drew it away. "I don't pretend," she said, rather hurriedly, and still with averted gaze, "that I can ever be reconciled to this fate. I never can. But I am willing?if you wish?to try and Beem so. At least, I will not avoid you?will try to become accustomed to ray surroundings here. Will that satisfy you ?" "If it is all you can do?yes." "What more should I do? You do not, cannot, pretend to care about me. The tie J between us must be as hateful to yourself as i to me. How can it be otherwise ?" "Have you always hated me, Miriam ?" he , sadly aeked. "No," she answered more slowly. "If things had been different between us, I could j have liked you?even been a little fond of you, perhaps. But as they really stood, it was not possible for me to do otherwise than? "Than hate me?" "Than regard you as my enemy." "And yet, I, like yourself, have been but a tool?the instrument of others' plans!" She shrugged her shoulders. "Well, it is useless to discuss it now. What good can talking do? I am tired of standing here; the wind blows cold." "I crave your pardon for detaining you," he said with bitter humility v in bis tone, as she drew her shawl closer about her, and walked on. Twilight .was gathering about them. Around their feet the decayed leaves whirled, blown hither and thither by the breeze. The chill of winter was still in the air; and it seemed to'sink deeper and deeper into Roland's heart. What spell had suddenly come over him, that he yearned for a gentle glance, a loving word, from the cold being at his side, with an intensity of longing that could.not have existed if only indifference towards her occupied his heart ? Alas! Fate was becoming more cruel to him than she had already proved herself. The bnrden of a loveless union was a heavy one. How much heavier did that burden grow, when ! there mingled with the certainty of his wife's j dislike to him the equal certainty, revealed to j him as if by an electric flash, that a sudden, j overwhelming jove for her had filled his being ! Indifference can be borne when it is met by a corresponding indifference; but it is the death-blow to affection; is unendurable to a throbbing, living, loving heart. Miriam was in a wayward mood this even ing. At the entrance to the grounds she turned towards her husband, and said, in a half-reckless tone? "If you choose to show me the house now, you may. Let us begin with the basement. I am curious to see to what those iron doors lead." "It is gloomy in the basement, and at this hour must be totally dark. However, I will procure a light, if you fancy going there now. We can pass through here. I have matches iu my pocket, and I can get a candle from one of the offices." He held open the heavy iron door, which shut behind them with a clang. They entered a stone passage, on one side of which were the laundry and some other offices, all deserted at this hour. Odd flights of steps led here and there. Various cross-passages came in their way, with all sorts of doors leading in different directions; for Linton Towers was as spacious as many a castle, aod in its lower departments as extensive as in those above. About half an hour after they had entered the iron doorway, Lady Hepburn emerged from it?alone. Her face was deathly white, as with swift and silent tread, looking cautiously about her as she went, she passed out, glided through an outer passage, roofed and columned, that skirted this portion of the building, sped up a side flight of steps, and,j unseen, entered the house and reached her own rooms. Sir Roland Hepburn was not seen in his house that night, nor the next day, nor the next. No one knew what had become of him, j or whither he had gone. Lady Hepburn i seemed as ignorant as tbe rest. It was a mystery which no one could clear?which re- j mained uncleared, and seemed likely to continue so. [to be continued.] ?????bu Multiplication of the Scriptures.? The Bible productidn of our time is equal to more than a iti.lion copies a year, or say more than nineteen thousand every week, more than three thousand every day, three hundred every hour, or five every minute of working time. At this rate the press is producing an Euglish Bible or New Testament every twelve secouds. Those Bibles are not wasted?they . are required?and more copies of the Sacred ! Scriptures are demanded in tbe English tongue than in the languages of all other j nations of the world, although the number of j versions to which this country gives en- i courageraent and assistance, over and above, i is considerably more than one hundred and fifty. Lost an Eye by the Epizooty.?Mr.. Fred. Palmer, of Elmira, N. Y., was driving ! his horse, which was suffering from epizooty, one day last week, and the animal sneezed some of the froth over his coat, which he wiped off with hie handkerchief. Afterward j he used the eame handkerchief to wipe out his eyes, tbe result being that be has lost.the sight, of one eye, while the other is seriously affect-1 ed. Physicians say that the poison in tbe froth destroyed the sight. This should be a warning to owners of horses to be careful in . handling animals suffering from the disease. 1 IpKUaHMttS featirog. A REMARKABLE MAN. One of the most remarkable private soldiers on either side io the late war was a young man named Tom Kelly, a private in the Second Michigan infantry. The remarkable began with his build. He had arms a full hand longer than any other man who could be found. He had no more backbone than a snake, and could almost tie himself in & knot. He could tell the date on a silver quarter held twenly feet away, and he could hear every word of a conversation in a common tone of voice across an ordinary street. He could run half & mile as fast as any officer's horse could gallop, and there was a standing offer of 810 to anv man who could hold him down. On a bet of a box of sardines be once passed six sentinels within an hour. On another occasion he entered the colonel's tent and brought away that officer's boots. When Tom's remarkable qualifications were discovered,he was detailed as a scout and spy, and was changed from one department to another. In the capacity a of spy he entered Richmond throe times. He entered Yicksburg and preached a sermon to the soldiers a week before the surrender. He was in New Orleans five days before that cjty was taken. He was a man who firmly believed that he could not be killed by an enemy, and he governed his movements accordingly. While under orders of General Hooker, Kelly proved, on several occasions, that he could see further with the naked eye than any officer could with a field-glass. If he could get a place of concealment within fifty feet of a picket, he could catch the countersign. He visited Lookout Mountain, intending to spike as many of the Confederate guns as possible. His disguise was that of a farmer who had been driven from home by the Union forces. The enemy somehow got suspicious of him, and he was placed in the guard house for the night. There was a sentinel at the door and others near by standing guard over guns and stores, but it was all the same to Kelly. With an old tin plate for use as a shovel and scoop, he burrowed out at the back end of the building, and walked up to two pieces of artillery, and spiked both before any alarm was raised. When the sentinels began firing at bim he ran out of camp, but before he was clear of it be had been fired at fifty times. Kelly was once captured when asleep by Missouri guerrillas. When he opened his eyes he was surrounded by five or six men oj foot and others in the saddle. It was under a tree r, * * 11 I 11 x 1 J I in an open neia, ana ne naa oeen iracteu uy a dog. As he rose up at their command he resorted to bis wonderful skill as a gymnas . By dodging and twisting and jumping, he got out of the crowd, pulled a man off his saddle, and would have escaped had not the dog fastened to his leg. He was then put under guard in a log house with only one room. Two sentinels sat at the door with revolvers in their hands * and kept watch of his every movement. After an hour or two Kelly approached as if to offer them tobaccD, and jumped clear over their heads liks a deer.- He had half a mile of open field to cross, and he crossedlt under the fire of a score of muskets and revolvers without being hit. During his three years and a half in the service, Kelly captured fifty-two Confederates and turned them over as prisoners. He himself was captured and escaped five times. As a spy he entered more than thirty Confederate camps and forts. He was fired upon at least 1,000 times, and yet was never wounded. He had said that he would never die by the band of an enemy, and his prophecy came true. In the last year of the war, while bringing a captured Confederate scout into camp, both jyere killed within forty reds of the Union lines by a bolt of lightning. POLYGAMY ASTN* INVESTMENT. We halted at a way station for dinner. A white' baited, but not very sanctimonious ? saint occupied the chair next to me. "A resident of the country ?" I asked. "Oh, yes ; for twenty-five years." "Married ?" "Some." "More than one wife ?" "I think so. I've got a few scattered about here and there." "Believe in polygamy, I presume ?" "Certainly. I'd never made a living if I hadn't." "How's that?" "Well, you see, stranger, I used to think g good deal as you do. I bad 160 acres of land and" one wife, but didn't make much headway. There was too much work for one man to attend to. Finally I took a second wife. She took her share of the burden like a brick, and affairs moved on in better shape. Then I got to thinking if two wives were better than one, three would be better than two; consequently I took a third and my affairs improved still more. I mapped out the business of the ranche, and gave No. 1 her part, snd gave a part to No. 2, and a part to No. 3, and took a part myself. Everything went on like clockwork. Our little community was thoroughly organised. Finally I concluded that a fourth wife would be quite an advantage, and, I looked around and secured her. I found that the more wives I bad the more land I could work. I now operate 240 acres of one kind and an- ? other, and have things, so systematized, that ; everything goes on quite lovely, and I don't have much to do myself. Polygamy is a great institution, my friend, and you'll never succeed in the world until you marry a few times. Sometimes one of my wives gets a little offish like, but instead of making a great row about it and getting a divorce as you would do in California, I simply stay from her for a day or two, and then when do happen around, she smiles all over her face and loves me in a desperate fashion. Oh, yes, I'll marry several times yet before I die, and the more women I marry, the richer I expect to get." This talk was by no means sophistry, as I afterward ascertained. #A large part of the women of Utah are slaves. The Word "Negro."?The Standard Bearer, edited by a colored man, says : We are afraid that some of our readers, among the colored people, misunderstand the word "negro" as applied to their race, and one of our correspondents has most vigorously protested against our use of it. He probably considers it synonymous with "nigger," a vulgar, meaningless epithet, that no people use so frequently as the colored people themselves. The word 'negro' is the proper race designation of the colored people in America, and is rightly applied tp the descendants of the * tribes along the coafct Of Africa. The names our young friend alludes to with so much pride were African,,, but not negro. The word "African" has jho relevancy as a race designation any more than the word "American /' an American may be Esquimaux, Sioux or Anglo Saxon, according to the blood in his veins; an African may be Egyptian, Moor or Negro for the same reason, and we have never thought the word A frican a properly descriptive adjective when applied to our race. The term "colored/ while generally used, is rather meaningless, and strictly speaking, the word Negro (with a big N) is the only correct term, and we see no impropriety in using it. It is neither low nor degrading, unless our actions make it so, and it is open to no more objection than the words Irish or German. Our ancestors were negroes and no more barbarous or uncivilized than the ancestors of the whites, and it is only a false idea of its meaning that makes our people object to its use. In these days of fine phrases, it will be well for us to use the shorter and more expressive term, "American citizens of A frican descent," It