Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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lewis m. grist, proprietor, j $nbrj)cnbent Jfamilg ftetospjrer: Jfor % Ifromafion af tjjt political, facial, ^grimltaral anb Commercial Interests of t|e jJontji. TERMS?$2.50 A TEAR, IN ADVANCE. VOL. 28. YOEKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, FEBRTJARY 2, 1882. 5. Jto Original Written for the YorkviJle Enquirer. THE HOUSE ON TnE HILL. BY HERBERT JOHNSON. CHAPTER V. Melancholy days were those which ensued upon Dr. May's death. Warm as was the sympathy tendered the bereaved ones by those near them, in whose hearts their affliction seemed to awaken a closer feeling of friendship and affectionate interest than before, it could not alleviate the first keen stine of sorrow. Win ter swept by with its storms and snows. Soon the early buds of Spring began to open their timid eyes; but to one mourner, at least, the return of the vernal season, in its fragrant beauty, brought no consolation. Mrs. May possessed one of those clinging, dependent natures, that entwine themselves with the delicate firmness of a vine around its support; and, that support once removed, they drop helpless and forlorn and seem ready to perish in the adverse blast that sways and bends them with its cold breath. Sophy, in addition to her grief for her father's death, found a new weight laid upon her heart, in the anxiety which she began to feel for her mother's health. It has been said, and truly, that troubles never come single. The cases are comparatively rare where one blow is not soon followed by another, even if it be not of the same nature. As the widow and her daughter were one day sitting together in the front room, the former with a pretence of some trifling work in her hand, the latter reading aloud, in order, if possible, to divert her from her sad thoughts, they perceived, through the window, a stran_ ger in a buggy drive up to their door. "That is not any one we know," remarked Sophy, as she laid down her book ; "probably it is some one who wishes to inquire the way." The occupant of the buggy alighted, and very deliberately fastened his horse to the gate post. Then he walked up the steps, drawing oil his gloves, with the air of a man who knows his business and means to cany it out. Sophy, wishing to screen her mother from an encounter with a stranger, waited for a moment, until the latter had made her escape to her own apartment, to answer the loud knock at the door, which seemed to announce that the visitor was impatient for admittance. "Good day, Miss," said this person with easy familiarity, as she opened the door. "Are you Miss May ?" "Yes," she answered, wondering what his errand could possibly be. lie was a vulgarlooking man, with a red face, and black hair very much oiled, and his appearance inspired her with instinctive suspicion and dislike. "Excuse intrusion," he continued, inducting himself, with cool assurance, into the room, and taking possession of a chair; "but I've come on verv particular business. Is your mother in?" "My mother is far from well," replied Sophy, "and is not able to see any one but her friends." * "Well, I ain't her enemy, I guess," rejoined the stranger, with a disagreeable chuckle; "though it must be admitted that I ain't come on thepleasantest sort of business in the world ; at least, I'm afraid she won't find it so. Did you ever hear your father speak, my dear, of one John Skinner ?" "Xo," said Sophy, shrinking with disgust, as he bestowed this familiar appellative upon her, while her heart began to beat with a vague alarm. "I never heard the name." "Ah! maybe he'd forgotten all about me. I guess he thought I was dead. Most people have thought so, until lately. But I'm alive as you see. I am Mr. Skinner, at your service." To this announcement Sophy made no reply. She stood by the table, her hand resting on the back of a chair, while her glance involuntarily roamed through the window, out into the road, in the hope of encountering some friendly face approaching to her relief. "Sit down, please," continued Mr. Skinner. "It's as cheap sitting as standing, and a good deal more comfortable. At least, that's my * opinion." Sophy began now to feel indignant. She considered the man very impertinent to speak to her in such a tone. Of course, she did not accept his kind invitation to make herself comfortable. Her displeasure probably betrayed itself in her flushed cheek and compressed lips ; but Mr. Skinner did not notice these symptoms. lie was now busily engaged in looking through some papers which he had taken from his pocket, untying a string which bound them together, and laying them one by one 011 the table. "Here 'tis," he presently exclaimed. "Here is the document I want. Now I guess, Miss, you ain't much of a hand at business?young ladies seldom are?but if you'd kindly?" Sophy interrupted his speech with an exclamation of relief and pleasure, and sprang toward the door. She had suddenly discovered Mr. Erskine coming up the steps. "Oh, Mr. Erskine!" she exclaimed, "how glad I am to see you!" lie glanced with evident surprise, as he entered, at the stranger. His lips, after returning Sophy's greeting, were silent, but his eyes plainly asked, "Whom have we here V" "This?this?person," Sophy hurriedly explained, has come, I believe, on business?I don't know what?" "A friend of the family, Miss ?" coolly inciuired Mr. Skinner, inspecting the newcomer. ' If so, I don't mind explaining to him the na-! lure of my business ; it'll do just as well." ^ "I am a friend of the family, sir," rejoined 5(4 Mr. Erskine, "and your business, whatever it may be, had better be explained to them through me, if it will save Miss May any annoyance. I trust," he added, with a rather stern glance, "that I am not too late to prevent such a feeling on her part ?" Without waiting for an answer, he took Sophy's hand, and gently drew her to the door. "Pray understand," lie said, in a low tone, "that I have no desire to intrude upon any private affair ; but if I can be of the least use to you, command me." "Indeed," answered Sophy, in the same tone, "I am quite ignorant of the man's business; but whatever it is, I shall be grateful to you if you will let him explain it to you, and I know mamma puts the greatest confidence in you." "Then leave me with him," said Mr. Erskine ; "or, if you prefer to remain?" "No, no," she quickly rejoined. "Pray see him for me. I don't know why, but I am afraid he has some terrible news." Mr. Erskine relinquished her hand, after bestowing on it a gentle pressure, as if to reassure her. Then, as she went off, he turned again to the suspicious-looking guest, and closed the parlor door. "Well, sir V" he briefly said. "Well, sir," echoed Mr. Skinner. "It seems I'm to accept you as a medium for transmitting this unlucky little transaction to the knowledge of Dr. May's widow. I'm sorry for her, too, if it's going to put her to any in mmmmmmmmamr Tmaammmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm convenience ; but one's bound to consider one's self first, and I'm pretty bard pushed, truly, just at this time. You are the family lawyer, may-be V" "I am not aware that there is any family lawyer," said Mr. Erskine, coldly. "I am a friend of Mrs. May and her daughter, as I stated before ; and, I may add, a friend to whom their interests are as important as his own. Pray proceed." "All right. Will you, Mr. Erskine, kindly cast your eye over this paper ?" lie laid before that gentlemen, as he spoke, a soiled looking document, and watched him keenly as he read it. A look of surprise and incredulity spread itself upon Mr. Erskine's face. It was a note for a large amount , endorsed by Dr. May, and bearing a date of several years back. "Has this never been paid ?" Mr. Erskine asked. "Of course not. You see, it was an old affair lipfwppn me and a friend of mine, a fellow, he was, who knew Dr. May well. He'd done him some servic?, once on a time, and so went to get him to help him when he got into trouble. He came to me to borrow money, which I wasn't over-willing to lend him?not that I thought him dishonorable at all, but I simply knew he'd never be able to pay it back. A good-for-nothing, shiftless fellow he was, though kind-hearted and good-tempered ; I hated to disoblige him. Well, he says to me, 'Jack,' says he, 'I'm terrible hard pushed ; I'll be your everlasting debtor if you'll lend me this money.' 'IIow'll I ever get it back ?' says I, feeling in my mind that he was likely enough to be my everlasting debtor, though not in the sense he meant; and that notion didn't suit me. 'Oh, that's all right,' says he ; 'if you won't trust me, I can easily get a gentleman's signature which is as good as gold itself ; you won't refuse me the loan on that security, I guess.' Sol inquired, and found out that Dr. May was good for the amount, sure enough, and considerable over ; so I said it was all right. Well, I loaned him the money ; and, as might have been expected, I never heard any more of it afterwards," "And how does it come that you never applied to Dr. May for payment ?" asked Mr. Erskine. "Oh, well, I didn't need it. I had a stroke of luck in falling heir to a little property, and then I went abroad?and had a good many adventures there, one way or another, which I needn't relat . They mightn't interest you, and time is short besides. In fact I put the note aside and almost forgot about it. But at last* I got into difficulties, and then I thought what a God-send it would be to me if I could get this money now. Then I found out Dr. May was dead ; but the estate's good for it, I guess." Mr. Erskine was silent for a few minutes ; then he said, quietly? "As I am not acquainted with the state of Mrs. May's pecuniary affairs, and this matter, of course, is quite new to me, I am in no way qualified to express an opinion on the subject. I shall put it, however, into a lawyer's hands immediately, and when it has been properly investigated, you shall hear from one of us on the subject." "It's all fair and square, anyway," said Mr. Skinner, rather blusteringly. "Dr. May's signature can easily be proved ; there's no doubt about that whatever." "I have 110 desire to dispute the point," rejoined Mr. Erskine. "It may be, as you say, fair and square ; but of course it is a case which demands inquiry. Yon can leave me to speak to Mrs. May about it. I wish to save her all the annoyance that I i>ossibly can, for her poor health, and the great affliction which has recently befallen her, render her quite unfit to bear any fresh trouble." "I should like to see her if I could," said Mr. Skinner, regretfully; "I might learn something more definite from her, which would be a satisfaction?" "You cannot see her, sir," said Mr. Erskine, with a decision that left room for no api>eul. "This disagreeable business shall be settled as soon as practicable. Will you leave me your address ?" "Oh certainly, I'll leave you my address? how would you find me if I didn't ?" was Mr. Skinner's reply, given with some attempt at jocularity. "Maybe you won't be in too great a hurry to hunt me up ; but you'll hear from me again before long." Mr. Erskine did not appreciate this pleasanantry.i "You will be conferred with as soon as the matter is placed in proper hands," he rejoined, severely. "I presume you have no farther claim upon my time ?" "Xo?none. I suppose that means you want me to go," said Mr. Skinner, rising, but apparently not a whit abashed. "Well, I'll oblige you. You'll speak to the widow, and put things in a proper light. Please to make her understand I deeply regret, etc., etc. If number one didn't naturally come first, nothing would induce me to press this claim. Hut Mr. Erskine," (he had caught the name very quickly from hearing it on Sophy's lips) "I hope, I really hope, there won't be any necessary delay in having it ' ettled, for I'm a poor man, I am, indeed ; have been deuced unlucky in my business affairs ; never was sharp enough to get on in the world." "There shall be no delay," said Mr. Erskine, holding open the door. "Good-morning, sir." And Mr. Skinner, having carefully bundled up his papers and returned them to his vest pocket, withdrew. Xo sooner was Sophy advised of his departure, then she returned to the parlor, anxious to know the nature of the conference which had just taken4)lace. "Was it ai ytliing dreadful, Mr. Erskine ? I felt almost sure it was, he was such a horrible looking man." "It was in regard to a little money-matter, Miss Sophy, which I don't think you need trouble vourself with." he renlied. "I'llhave it properly settled for you, if your mother will empower me to do so." "You are only too good ; but I am sure mamma will want to know exactly what it is. ! I see by your face that there is something wrong." "My face has no business to tell tales," he rejoined, smiling, "Ilesides, how do you know 1 that you are a true interpreter ?" "Please tell me truly, Mr. Erskine," she i gently persisted, "if it is anything that will | worry mamma too much, you can trust me to keep it from her." lie saw that she would not be put off; besides, ! since their trouble had come upon them she had acquired a steadiness and self-reliance that she had never before displayed. Iler enforced self-forgetfulness and care for her mother seemed to have turned her from a child into a woman. "Well, then," he said, speaking as cheerfully as he could, "rather than have you magnify the reality into something more terrible than it is, I will tell you. Your father stood security once for a man, and now this claim has been presented for payment." "Was it for this same man ?" she asked. "No; a friend of his who owed him money, lie would not lend him, you see, without security; so he?that is, the other man?got your father to give him his name, so that this Skinner would be sure of payment. You understand ?" "Yes, I understand. And papa never paid the money ?" "He never was called on to pay it, though the other man failed to do so. And now Skinner wants it paid." "Why did he never come for it before ? Was it very long ago ?" "Yes, long ago; fifteen years and more." "Papa was rich then?at least, he was much better off than he was afterwards; I have heard mamma say so," said Sophy, slowly. "Is it a very large debt, Mr. Erskine V" This was the question he had been dreading. "It is pretty large," he answered, reluctantly. "Please tell me how much." "But possibly it may not have to be paid. The document may not be genuine ; at least, a lawyer must look into the case," he replied, evading the last question. "But how much is it ?" "Five thousand dollars." Sophy was silent. It sounded to her like an enormous sum. In her heart she did not believe that they were worth so much in the world ; but she would not say so. Mr. Erskine, however, read her consternation in her face. "I wouldn't trouble myself about it, if I were you," he gently said. "I think I won't tell mamma, just yet?unless it will have to be paid immediately?" she added inquiringly. "In any case, I would not tell her yet. I am only sorry it should h.ive come to your knowledge. Yon are too young to be troubled with business matters." "Oh, I don't feel young. I feel old, now," she said, with a quiet sadness that touched his heart. "I only want to keep anxiety and care away from mamma, if I can." "Well, if she makes inquiry, you can tell merely that this is a matter which I will have investigated, provided she gives me authority, and that nothing positive can be known about it until I do. Tell her even that I think there is nothing in it?" "But do you ?" asked Sophy, reading his face with her large, wistful eyes. "I think it very possible that the note may prove a fraud. Can you refer me to any lawyer, or other person, in town, who is acquainted with your father's business affairs ?" Sophy reflected. "I know Mr. Goodwin has done business for him ; but he used to attend to nearly everything himself." "And can you tell me the name of his banker ?" "Yes, he had money in the East Chatham bank, I think; Mr. Foster is the President." "I know him. Well, I'll ride over to Chatham to-morrow, an make some inquiries. Perhaps I shall be able to put this whole thing at vaiiv Viaviiicr nriv more annovance icob nimvuu jviu ??v ^ at all about it. At all events, promise me to keep quite easy, and not torment yourself with unnecessary anxieties and doubts." She smiled, and thanked him gratefully for his kindness; but her heart was sore with dread of the impending trouble. She had less difficulty than she had anticipated in keeping the knowledge of the matter from her mother, whose complete absorption in her grief seemed to divest her of all interest in other things. But it was all the harder for her to have it to bear alone. ciiaptJr yi. Mr. Erskine fulfilled his promise of going to town, and finding out all that he could about the disagreeable matter which Mr. John Skin| ner had brought to his notice ; and also acquainting himself with the true state of Dr. May's affairs. He found these left in considerable confusion. The Doctor had been careless in his business relations, and there seemed to be no one in particular who was accountable for their management or mismanagement, or empowered to make a proper settlement of them after his death. Mr. Erskine was disfin.1 flint, flip entire value of his property, including his house, did not exceed a few hundred dollars above and beyond the amount of Mr. Skinner's claim, so that if that were settled his wife and daughter would be left almost without maintenance. Upon investigation it was proved that this claim was -a just one. There was no doubt about the genuineness of the note, and as a matter of course it would have to be paid. Mr. Erskine paid it in full, without touching a cent of Dr. May's money; and then made up his mind, for the first time in his life, to tell an untruth, provided he should be driven to the wall. The act was a generous one, and he would have been prompted, in any case, to perform it, for it was his pleasure to relieve distress in every form ; but there was that in his heart which made it an especial delight for him to take this burden off the shoulders of the Doctors's bereaved family. lie would have counted nothing a sacrifice, by which he could save Sophy a single pang ; for his heart was bound up in her. He loved her better than he had ever loved any human being?better, because in a different, higher degree, than the lost girl-wife of his youth. And knowing that this love was hopeless?knowing, as lie did, that he could never even dare to givb it utterance?he nevertheless had not the power to put it aside. Strong in everything else, he was weak in this; but his weakness wrought harm only to himself, for it was too unselfish too pure, to seek to cost its object a single regretful thought. Little did Sophy dream of the relation in ti-nif.ii elm Qtnnrl tn him Tn her mind there seemed a great gulf of years between them. She looked upon him in a half-paternal light, and from this very feeling arose the confidence she placed in him. The sense of his protecting kindness, the knowledge that he was ready and willing to shield her from difficulty, to give her his aid, were very pleasant and grateful to her She leaned on his superior judgment, feeling it a good thing to have so efficient a friend at hand, to whom she could appeal for counsel and sympathy, who seemed to be able to settle difficulties for her, and lighten her troubles, more easily than any one else. Even Captain Russell, long and intimately as she had known him, could not help her as this comparative stranger did. With the former she was more familiar, more affectionate, taking the place of a daughter, and dividing her time as equally as possible between her mother and himself, for Mrs. May liked to have her do so ; but in any perplexity, any new doubt, her first thought, almost insensibly, reverted to her later friend. And to this friend it was a keen delight? mingled, it might be, with an almost keener pain?to have her thus confide in him, and lay liw innocent heart open to his gaze ; for while he joyed to know how much he was to her, he sighed to think how much more he fain would, but couhl not be. To cast himself at her feet?to bid her share his home, his fortune, to lling care to the winds and let him treasure and protect her always?the very thought of this would make him thrill and quiver with inexpressible longing, the yearning after a blessing which could never ; i>o his. If only Fate had drifted him earlier upon this shore, he sometimes thought, might not her girlish love, finding a more solid basis than the pretty romantic fancy which had first, so naturally (from the force of circumstances) enslaved it, have been drawn to respond to his ? And the younger lover?the ardent, inexperienced boy?might, in new scenes, have lost the remembrance, or at least the pain, of his disappontment, and formed other ties as satisfying and as dear, and so all would have been well. But these were mere idle dreams, fancies as unsubstantial as the texture of a summer cloud. He .almost smiled within himself at his folly when they crossed his mind. "She looks upon me as a sort of world-dried sage, immeasurably Iwyond her in years, in experience. She would as soon think, probably, of bestowing her love upon Harry's uncle," he would sometimes say. "Well, the knowledge of my senseless passion shall never trouble her. Never by a breath "\111 disturb the tranquility of her friendly regard, the confidence she so innocently reposes in me. I will be to her all she wishes, and what she is to me none but God and myself shall know. For my own peace, it would have been well if the friendly waves had swallowed me up as they threatened to do; but since I may do good to her and those she loves, it is better that I should live ; and her happiness shall be my chief object through my life; to that and that alone I will devote myself." And this became his immovable, fixed purpose, the aim to which all his thoughts and actions tended. To shield this well-beloved one from trouble?to place himself as a barrier between her and the storms of adversity?to watch over her interests, to surround her with a protecting care that should defend her, as far as human care might, from rough contact with the world ; all this he strove to do, and yet so quietly, so naturally, so unobtrusively, that he awakened no painful sense of obligation in her heart. And she needed his care, poor child, more and more. Her mother drooped and drooped, becoming by degrees the merest shadow of her former self. Nothing seemed to sustain her but her daughter's love. To add to this trial, came a long, inexplicable pause in all tidings of Ilarry. His corresi>ondence ceased. Nothing, could be heard of his ship, which by last accounts had been cruising somewhere in the neighborhood of the Orkney Islands. She had been expected to return home in the Fall of the year following his departure. It was now June?just a twelvemonth from the time he and Sophy had plighted their faith to one another, looking forward so confidently to a happy future. Only a twelvemonth ! But to the waiting, son-owing girl it seemed many years. She knew not what might be in store for her; even if her lover should return at the appointed time, and their marriage take place, their other plans must be abandoned. She could not leave home, since her mother demanded her companionship, her care; never would her affection to say nothing of filial duty, permit her to relinquish that sacred charge; and yet it would be fresh misery to her, as Harry's wife, to suffer him to go to sea again, without her. Parted from him she could know little peace. Even now she was tormented by perpetual fears for his safety?fears which were augmented by the mysterious silence regarding him, and which indeed seemed not without a strong foundation. Captain Russell, like herself, became a prey to the keenest anxiety. He made constant trips to town, in order to gain the latest shipping intelligence at an earlier date than it could otherwise reach him; but in regard to the "Southern Star" no news arrived. All the old gentleman's cheerfulness was now gone. He was restless, moody, and often irritable, for anxiety made him lose all self-control. Even Sophy seemed to have lost the power to comfort him, which notwithstanding her own weight of trouble, she still tried to do; and while he pretended to cherish the belief; that nothing was wrong, and would fly into a rage with any one who hinted at the possibility of catastrophe, still his own fears were api>arent in his nervous, absent manner, and the i>erpetual restlessness which allowed him no repose. Mr. Erskine devoted much of his time to the task of endeavoring to cheer and divert the lonely old man. He did it, probably as much for Sophy's sake as his own ; for she saw his attention and was grateful for it, and it took some of the care off of her hands. It was a long time uerore ine imnsuuuuu m regard to the claim which Mr. Skinner had brought against her father's estate, came to her knowledge ; but finally it did, quite unexpectedly through an inadvertent speech of the lawyer, Mr. Goodwin, who had been employed in the affair, and who had come up to see Mrs. May about some papers which he wanted her to sign. Sophy made no remark at the time ; but at the very next opportunity, she taxed Mr. Erskine with his agency in the matter. "IIow was it that I never heard any more about it V" she asked. "Mamma's health always troubles me so that I forget other things, and that is why I did not make any farther inquiry. I supposed that it had all blown over and that nothing more had to be done." She paused for an answer, looking excited and troubled ; he smiled, but said nothing. "Tell me," she insisted, "Did you have the money paid him ?" "Yes," he quietly answered, "Iliad it paid." "And was there much Mt ? I am so ignorant about everything. I don't even know what papa left us, and mamma never talks about money. I don't believe she knows what we have, any more than I do, and she isn't lit to think about business. But you must know." "Yes, I know. I investigated your father's affairs. I got them thoroughly straightened out. You need not worry yourself at all about them ; everything is going on very well." "Are you sure? are you telling me the truth ?" "Certainly I am, my child." The epithet fell quite naturally from his lips; it suited his benignant, fatherly tone. "But still, you have not answered me. Please tell me if it took all we had ; because, you see, it is only right that I should know, j Is there much left ?" "It did not take all you had, I assure you. Your money, or rather your mother's, lying now in the bank, amounts, I think, to nearly j three thousand dollars. Then you know, tins ' house is worth as much more." "Then we had as much as eight thousand in the bank, before that was paid ?" Mr. Erskine pretended not to hear the question and made some irrelevant reply. At that instant a suspicion of something?she knew i not what?Hashed over Sophy's mind. It was i nothing in his voice or expression that aroused ' it, for he kept both under perfect control; but almost intuitively, she guessed that he was concealing something from her. "Mr. Erskine," she exclaimed, starting forward, "lam sure yoi*have not told me all." "All of what V" he asked. "All about that money. Did you have to borrow any to pay it with ?" "I assure you I did not." "Then you advanced it, or something." "What on earth makes you suppose so ?" "I don't know. Some things thereare which one guesses at?one cannot tell why. And it is so odd that you should never have said one word about it. It is that, perhaps, more than anything else, that convinces me there is something wrong." "There is nothing wrong; if there were, I should tell you." "Then will you plainly answer my question ?" "What question ?" "Any question I choose to ask you." "Do I ever refuse to give you a reply ?" "Will you promise, truly and without evasion to give me one now ?" "Ask your question first." "Well, then, was that debt paid out or our own money?money that papa had left in the bank ?" Mr. Erskine fidgeted, laughed, and then colored in spite of himself. With her eyes fixed intently upon him, he found it more difficult to tell an untruth than he had imagned. "I can't understand you to-day at all," he said; "I always believed you to be an unworldly, simple minded girl, and now I find you suspicious, incredulous, actually accusing me of trying to deceive you !" "Because I know yon are; but Mr. Erskine, you can't. I know now, as well as if you chose to acknowledge it, that you paid that money for us?probably out of your own purse; and if you will not admit it, I shall go myself to Mr. Foster, and make him tell me exactly what was in the Bank before, of ours, and what is there now, and then I shall find out in spite of you." To his amazement, she burst into tears. She had been more excited and overwrought than he was aware of, and any additional weight upon the burden already oppressing her was sufficient to break her down. He soothed her kindly, as an elder brother might have done, holding her hand in his, and asking her forgiveness if he had offended her in any way. "Offended?110. You are to good, always. But I cannot bear?I cannot bear that you should have beei. forced to come forward?to? tn talre nnr troubles unon V0U> " "Miss Sophy, I have been forced into nothing?except now into telling you the trutli; that, I wished if possible to avoid, not because 11 thought there was anything in it to give you pain?God knows I desire to avoid that, be- i yond all else?but because I wanted to spaiei you all farther annoyance in the matter. I hated to see you troubled with business details, when you had so many other cares. 11 desired to serve you ; but in rendering you this! small service, I was selfishly gratifying my j own wish to be able to do something for you. j Don't spoil this gratification. Let me feel that I am not misunderstood ; that my friendship is not rejected." She was crying bitterly, she scarcely knew j why, except that her conflicting emotions had | quite overpowered ber, and she seemed unable, for some minutes, to regain anything like self-control. At last she said?"I don't know when we will ever be able to pay you the whole sum back ; but what there is, you must take, and perhaps after a while?" "What are you talking about," he cried. "After all, what is it that I have done ? Merely advanced a few paltry thousands, which I can perfectly well spare, to remove a pressing debt which would have put you to inconvenience; made you my debtor instead of Mr. Skinner's. Are you not willing for the exchange ? It is true, I would be glad, thankful, to have you accept it, without any thought of returning it. The idea of your shrinking from receiving so small a service at my hands is inexpressibly painful to me, when I would give all I have?" he checked his unwonted impetuosity, and finished more quietly, "Can1 ?nflirol fViO IlOt yOU 866 Lllilli 11/ was me jnuai/ ijauuiuij >uv easiest thing in the world for me to do ? Be calm, I entreat you, my child, and look at the matter in a reasonable light. Some day, perhaps, long hence, you may, if you choose, return this enormous sum ; comfort yourself, therefore, with thg reflection that you are under no obligation to me whatever." "I am so powerless to act," she said, in a low tone, "and there is no one to whom I can turn for advice. Poor mamma can think only of her loss. I dare not talk to her as I would if she were quite well and strong. If Harry would only come." Her tears broke out afresh. A swift, sharp pang smote him, with the idea that even in the very moment tliat he was planning to secure her welfare, and trying to set her heart at rest from all its perplexity and troubled thoughts, her mind should turn elsewhere to seek comfort. But, after all, what was he to her but a friend?her newest friend ? He could not claim any nearer right to be her consoler. He was not her lover, except in secret. He was bound to her by no tie of blood. It was no wonder, that in the sadness and confusion of her soul, all borne down by unwonted responsibility and care, she should long for the one presence dearest to her in the world, the long-loved and bound to her by every association of the past. So he told himself, even as that deep, jealous pain thrilled him through ; and arguing thus, he I showed no sign of wounded feeling, but patiently waited until this second buret of emotion was past. Then he talked to her again, calmly and dispassionately, gradually soothing her excitement, and persuading her to listen to his representations ; and finally she consented to let the matter rest, above all not troubling her mother with any knowledge of It, which might only annoy her, and could do no good. "And it is such a terrible weight upon you to consider yourself indebted to me, just re verse the case anil believe that 1 am yourueuior, instead, for permitting me to be your friend. I am not too proud to acknowledge such a debt," lie said in conclusion. lie spoke jestingly, but something in his tone touched her, and awakened a sense of self-reproach in her mind. "Mr. Erskine, forgive me if I have said anything wrong or unjust, if I have seemed ungrateful to you for your exceeding goodness. I don't know how I should get on at all, but for your friendship." That little speech was his reward. He only smiled, and pressed her hand. But it was something to him to think, as he walked away to his solitary home, that his friendship was, in ever so small a degree, a solace to her in her troubles. [to be continued.] The Rattlesnake's Poison.?The results of the experiments of Dr. Lacerdo Filho on the poison of the rattlesnake are: 1. The l>oison acts upon the blood by destroying the red corpuscles, and by changing physical and chemical quality of the plasma. *2. The poison contains some mobile bodies, similar to the microceccus of putrefaction. 3. The blood of an animal killed by a snake's bite, when inoculated to another animal of the same size and species, causes the death of the latter within a few hours, under the same symptoms and the same changes of the blood. 4. The poison can be dried and preserved for a long time without losing its specific quality. 5. Alcohol is the best antidote for the poison yet known. * {pKrHxttftt Heading. Correspondence or the Yorkville Enquirer. / LETTER FROM TEXAS. how a confidence game was played on a party of emigrants. Grove, Lamar Co., Texas, January 18.?I will endeavor to give the readers of the Enquirer a few lines from the Lone Star State, which may prove of interest to the friends of the colony that recently emigrated to this place from York county, S. C., and Gaston county, N. C. In the first place, as I learn there are different versions of a misfortune that befell some of our party at Chattanooga, Tenn., I will at tempt to give a correct account of the affair. On our way out, we had to lie over at Chattanooga from 8 A. M. until 5 P. M., which detention kept us there nearly a whole day, and gave confidence men, who [are ever on the alert, an opportunity to ascertain the names of several of the party, as also our destination. Shortly after we had boarded the train, two plausible and well dressed men entered the car in which we were seated, and one of them, who called himself Carter, asked Joseph Jenkins, one of our party, to share his seat with him. Jenkins was inclined to demur, saying that his children would want it. Carter, however, said he would sit in it awhile, anyhow, and taking a seat on it by Jenkins, commenced a conversation about Texas. He claimed to be well acquainted in the State, and said he knew Mr. Cross, and that he was a very clever fellow. He represented himself as a merchant in Paris, Texas, and said he was doing a large business there. At this point of the conversation, a confederate of Carter's, calling himself Morgan, and representing himself as a freight agent, came up to Carter and told him he would have to pay the freight on his goods before he could ship them. Morgan then withdrew, and Carter asked Jenkins if he could change or give hira currency for a United States bond of $1,000. Jenkins replied that he could not. Carter then asked him if he could loan him AA 11 na fbnir $1UU until tueir iuriviti ?*?, X rti lOy no vuuj i were going on the same train, and he would pay the money back as soon as they reached Paris. Jenkins replied that he had some money, but he would need it. Carter insisted, saying he would be sure to pay it as soon as they arrived at Paris. Jenkins then called up his wife "as she had the money, and the three retired to the saloon of the car, and Mrs. Jenkins producing the money, Carter took it, for the purpose of counting the amount he wanted, as he said he could see better than either of the others. After counting, as he said, one hundred dollars, lie returned the balance to Jenkins, and then left the car. This circumstance aroused some suspicion in Jenkins' mind, but Carter returning directly, he dismissed them. Morgan next entered the car, and assuming the role just previously enacted by Carter, approached Mr. Hoover and asked him if he could give currency for a United States bond. Hoover peremptorily told him tliat he could not, whereupon Morgan went into the uext car, and commenced a conversation with Robt. A. Black of precisely the same tenor as that of Carter with Jenkins. He represented himself as a merchant in Paris, Texas, and told Black, that he, Black, called at his store when he visited Texas last summer. While thus talking to Black, Morgan, personating a freight agent, came up and told Carter that his goods were ready, but he could not ship them until I the freight was paid. Morgan then asked Black if he could exchange currency for a United States gold bond of $1,000. Black replied that he had some money, about $275, but he would need it as soon as he would arrive at Paris. Morgan then requested Black to try and get up some more, and told him he could retain the bond until they reached Paris, when he would refund the money. Black then called up J. J. L. Gill and explaining Morgan's wish, asked him it ne couia iurmsn suujc money for Morgan, the bond to be retained until the money was refunded. Gill took his money from his pocket, when we went into the saloon to count it. Of Gill's money Morgan counted $"240 or $340, but returned Black's to him, and asked Gill if he didn't have more, as it would accommodate him very much if he could get a larger amount. Gill replied that he had more, but could not get to it conveniently. We then came out of the saloon, and Morgan taking Black's money from his hand, remarked to his confederate, who happened to come up just at this moment, "We will go into our private room and count it." The train was now starting, and as the confidence men were passing through the car, Gill concluded he would go along and count, too. But on attempting to enter the next coach, he was told by Carter that he could not come into it. Gill followed, however, and Morgan hurried on through the coach and jumped off. Gill pursued, and reaching the rear of the coach, jumped off too, falling as he did so, the train having gotten under way. When lie was seen to fall, R. S. Adams and 0. D. Wallace pulled the bell-cord, which brought the train to a stop. Morgan ran around the train, followed by Gill, who pursued him so closely that he turned and handed Gill his money back and also assisted him to get on the car. In the excitement, Gill did not think of Black's money, nor did he know that Jenkins had also been duped by the same sharpers?their transaction with him having occurred in a different car. The whole affair occupied much less time than it requires to relate it. With no other mishap worth mentioning, our colony reached here safely, and all are well pleased with the country, vv e are now Having quite a wintry spell, however, with ice, rain, sleet and snow. One of the natural curiosities of the country?a horned rabbit?was killed this morning by It. S. Adams, who exhibited the trophy to his friends. The animal resembles our ordinary old-field rabbit, with the exception of the horns, which grow between the eyes and ears, and of the one killed, the horns are 4 inches long and 2$ in circumference. For the information of our friends in South Carolina, I would say that the postoftice of all our colony, except H. H. Ford, Robert Love and O. D. Wallace, is the same as given at the head of this letter. Messrs. Ford and Love are in Hopkins county, and Mr. Wallace is in Delta county. G. Letter-Writing.?Youth of both sexes may learn from the following extract how to do that which many attempt and few do well. We refer to the art of letter-writing?a "lost art," owing to postal-cards and newspapers, but which, when done at all, should be so performed as to show the writer to be a person of culture: As a rule, every letter, unless insulting in its character, requires an answer. To neglect to answer a letter, when written to, is as uncivil as to neglect to reply when spoken to. In the reply, acknowledge first the receipt of the letter, mentioning its date, and afterward consider all the points requiring attention. If the letter is to be very brief, commence sufficiently far from the top of the page to give a nearly equal amount of blank paper at the bottom of the sheet when the letter is ended. Should the matter in the letter continue beyond the first page, it is well to commence a letter above the middle of the sheet, extending as far as is necessary on the other page. It is thought impolite to use a half-sheet of paper in formal letters. As a matter of economy and convenience for business purposes, however, it is customary to have the card of the business man printed at the top of the sheet, and a single sheet is used. In writing a letter, the answer to which is - " ' Oi. OX JHOrC oeneilt tU ^UUIOCIL niau i/uv ^A/iovu (a/ whom you write, inclose a postage-stamp for the reply. Letters should be as free from erasures, interlineations, blots and postscripts as possible. It is decidedly better to copy the letter than to have these appear. A letter of introduction or recommendation should never be sealed, as the bearer to whom it is given ought to know the contents.?IIUV8 Manual. ? # I Blowing Bottles.?The bottle plays a pretty important role in world's affairs, so that it is no wonder that the process of converting sand and chemicals into a glass vesnel should be an interesting sight to the spectator. In fact, the operation is vested with a halo of mystery to those who are not familiar with such manufacture. Let us then enter the lurid atmosphere where these articles are made, and we will select a certain manufactory. To make a bottle is a simple if not easy task. In the furnace are what are called twelve pots, holding from 1,800 to 2,000 pounds of composition. This composition is sand, imported soda ash, salt lime and coloring matter, which with the proportion of the other ingredients used, is a profound secret. The material is placed in the pots, under which is kept a hot fire over night. At about seven o'clock the blowers begin work. They stand on a platform which is built in front of the furnace and work in pairs. Over each pot in the furnace is a small door, from which the molten mass is taken. Each man has a hollow pipe, about five feet long, which he thrusts into the pot. Enough of the composition is brought out by the pipe for a bottle. He blows lightly iu the end of the pipe, tne composition expands a trifle, and then he rolls it on a rough marble slab, so as to shape it for the mould. It is now placed in the mould, which is then closed, and he blows vigorously for a few seconds. The mould is now opened, and the bottle is drawn forth. The bottle is then taken to an oven where the glass is annealed. It is kept in this oven gradually cooling off, then being ready to withstand the cold air. This is. in brief, the way a glass bottle is made. There is a fashion in these articles as in everything else. Sometimes amber colored bottles are the rage and then green glass is preferred. The latter seems now to predominate. The Garden of Gejnisemane.?Gethsemane was a garden or orchard, marked probably by some slight enclosure ; and as it had been a place of frequent resort for Jesus and His followers we may assume that it belonged to some friendly owner. The name Gethsemane means "the oil press," and dohbtless it was so called from a press to crush the olives yielded by the countless trees from which the hill derives its designation. Any one who has rested at noonday in the gardens off En-gannin or Nazareth in spring, and can recall the pleasant shade yielded by the interlaced branches of olive and pomegranate, and fig and myrtle, may easily imagine what kind or spot it was. The traditional site, venerable and beautiful as it is from the age and size of the gray, gnarled olive trees, of which one is still known {is the Tree of the Agony, is perhaps to the public?being, as it always must haveWn, at the angle formed by the two paths which led over the summit and shoulder ~ of Olivet?to be regarded as the actual spot. It was more probably one of the secluded hollows at no great distance from it which witnessed that scene of awful and pathetic mystery. But although the exact spot cannot be determined with certainty, the general position of Gethsemane, is clear, and then as now the checkering moonlight, the gray leaves, the dark brown trunks, the soft greensward, the ravine with Olivet towering over it to the eastward, and Jerusalem to the west, must have been the main external features of a plstce which will be regarded with undying interest while time shall be, as the place where the Saviourof mankind entered alone into the Valley of the Shadow.?Scottish American Jourrut I. * Life's Autumn.?Like the leaf, life has its fading. We often think and speak of it with sadness, just as we think of the autumn season. But there should be no sadness at the fading of life that has done well its work. We welcome with joy the coming of a new life, a traveler through the uncertainties of this world's ways. Why, then should we be sad when all these uncertainties are past and life's work well done. The spirit seeks its home in the city of our Gcd. As the spring is beautiful with its freshness and promise, so is childhood sweet in its innocence and the possibilities that the future may unfold. But it is a holier, rarer beauty which the waning life of faith and duty wears. The full, refined harvest suggests no thought of sadness. It is only when the bud drops, blighted, or the mildew blasts the grain, and all hope of a rich harvest is gone, that one may well be sad. When the ripened year sinks amid autumn flowers and brilliant leaves, why should we regret ? And so a life that is ready and waiting for the "well done" of God, a life that has truly faded as a leaf and becomes more brilliantly beautiful as the autumn of life draws near?should be given back to God in uncomplaining reverence and gratitude that one life has so well fulfilled life's purpose. The Intensity of Arctic Cold.?The chronicler of Lieutenant Schwatka's recent expedition in search of the remains of Sir John Frank records some interesting facts regarding the great cold of the Arctic regions. The lowest temperature met with by the company wjis 103 degrees below the freezing point, or seventy-one degrees below zero, Fahrenheit, a degree of cold almost impossible to imagine by the people of more temperate climes. The effects of such intense cold upon the human system were not so marked in the case of the lieutenant and his companions as might be ana wen dnrincr a month in which OUI/yVOVU) UJ<V? vivm ?... 0 the average temperature was sixty-five degrees below zero the health of the party remained unimpaired. The men adapted themselves as much as possible to the habits of the natives, feeding largely upon blubber and fat meat, by which the vital heat was sustained. Plenty of game was found by adventurers, who were able to secure with their repeating rifles enough reindeer at one time to last them for several days. The difficulty of approaching these animals was often very great, for in the still, cold air the step of a man upon the snow could be heard two miles away, and the grating of the sledge runners resounded like the clashing of tempered steel. ? Attar of Roses.?In the warm plains of Turkey, south, of the Balkan mountains, whole districts are covered with rose plants, set in lines about five feet apart, and tended for some years with the greatest care. At length, on some, fresh sweet morning of early summer, while the roses are yet wet with dew, the tender flowers are torn off by the laborers, and ca^t at once by heaps into huge coppers, there to boil for hours in clean rain-water. The fragrant steam is carried along a tube, and on cooling becomes a kind of thick rose-water. This is boiled up again, and its vapor cooled into a liquid, on the top of which floats a yellowish, oily scum that is known as "attar of roses." It takes about four thousand pounds of roses to make one pound of attar. Once a merchant opened a cupboard in his store, and showed a visitor thirty large glass bottles, in which, he said, was sixty thousand dollars' worth of the precious essence. This quantity must have taken nearly four million pounds of roses in the making. But maybe, after all, their fragrance in that form would give more and longer lasting pleasure than could have been given by the flowers had they been left ' uj)on their bushes, where they could have cheered only the passer-by.