Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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lewis m. grist, proprietor. J ^it |nirtpfnbtnl Jantilj fUtospqrtr: Jfor % ^routotion of % ^olitital, j&orial, ^grialtaral anb Commertia! Interests of % |TERMS?$2.50 A TEAR, IN ADVANCE. VOL. 28. YORKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, MARCH 2, 1882. . HO. 9. i ... Original foetru. . Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. BOTH HOPES AND FLOWERS FADE. BY ASAPH. How many flowers bloom ; How many of them fade, And And an early tomb Before the fruit is made! Thus human hopes arise And suddenly depart, And sting us by surprise, And fill with grief tho heart! And yet there is a clime In some far distant realm Beyond the bounds of time ; But where, there's none can tell? Where nothing knows decay Or touch of siu'sdark blight, Nor beauty fades away, But ever grows more bright! Oh! beauteous land of rest, Where no change or sorrows come To heave the immortal breast, In the pure spirit's home! Oh ! thither would I fly, And join those gone before, And there with those on high, Rejoice for ever more! jto Original w*T-?AA *1.. VAM1,nmA VY rill*?Li lur buo IUII\*UIO iviujuuw. THE HOUSE OS TOE HILL. BY HERBERT JOHNSON. CHAPTER XII. Mr. Erskine's sickness proved more serious than any one had anticipated. On the fourth day bis old housekeeper, Mrs. Perry, came over to announce to the Mays that she didn't know what to do with him, for he refused to see a doctor, and she was quite sure he needed advice. "Ask Captain Russell to go and see him," suggested Mrs. May. "He knows a good deal about sickness, and perhaps he can help him." "But it would be taking a sort of liberty, don't you see, ma'am, for me to go after the Captain. I don't know the old gentleman very well; and, besides, I'm not sure how Mr. Erskine would take it." "Mr. Erskine would be glad to see him, I know, for they are very good friends. Sophy, suppose you go to the cottage and speak to him about it," said Mrs May. Sophy was quite willing, and immediately went over to the cottage, where she was still a daily visitor. She found the poor old Captain sitting in a melancholy attitude, with his Bible open on the table before him, though, from his absent expression, it seemed that his thoughts were engrossed with some other subject. He looked up as she entered, and taking off his spectacles, leaned back m his chair with a heavy sigh. "Well, my lass, good morning," he said. "How's mother to-day ?" "A little better, thank you, sir. Have you heard that Mr. Erskine is ill ?" "Ill ??no. I heard something about a cold. Has it turned into anything worse ?" "His housekeeper seems to think so ; and she is anxious to have some one see him. Will you go ?" "To be sure I will, if he wants me. He has done me many a good turn," said the captain, slowly rising to his gouty feet. "I'm glad of anything to do?anything to rouse me from my own thoughts." "I hope the walk won't tire you too much, sir." "No, my dear, no. I am only a little stiff to-day. The fact is, I need exercise. Just help me on with my great-coat, will you ? Now my stick; see it in the corner, yonder ? There, thank you, my dear. I'll set off at once." Sophy stood watching his still sturdy, though bent figure, as-he trudged away, then thoughtfully retraced her steps to her own home. Was Mr. Erskine very sick, she wondered ? She hoped not. It would be so lonely for him to go through a fit of illness in that big house, with only the servants about him. Once it would have seemed a natural thing for her to go to him, to offer to be of some assistance ; but a feeling of timidity restrained her from doing so now. The Captain found him sitting before a small fire, wrapped in a dressing-gown, and shivering, though the day was warm. He saw, at a glance, that this was no common cold. "My dear sir," he said, as he took his proffered hand, which shook as with an ague fit, "you must really send for a doctor. Your skin is burning hot." "And yet I am cold," replied Mr. Erskine. "I have been trying since yesterday to get warm, and can't. Mrs. Perry, who cannot realize the pleasure of sitting by a fire in July, won't make as large a one as I want." "Thi^is plenty large enough, and too large for your good. You should get into bed and cover up, if you are cold," said the Captain. "I shouldn't wronder if you were in for typhoid fever. I've had it once." "Nonsense," said Mr. Erskine, trying to laugh. "It's nothing but a cold, which has taken hold of me in a wrong place." "It will take hold of you in a worse place, if you are not careful. Take my advice and go directly to bed." Mr. Erskine objected, first saying that he was comfortable where he was, and then that he was not equal to the exertion of moving from his seat. The Captain insisted and offered to help him. Finally, not without trouble, he carried his point. With his assistance, the patient was disrobed and installed in his bed, where, with'three blankets piled upon him, he still declared himself chilly. "Now, what doctor will you have?Stanley, or the other man, in East Chatham ?" "Neither. I won't have any doctor at all. If you bring one here I shall not see him." The Captain looked at him, meditatively, for a moment. "Are you fixed in that determination ?" he asked. "Perfectly. You know I am a resolute man." "Well, will you let me prescribe for you instead V" "I will, and thank you ; that is, if you know anything about it." "I know enough to help you, at any rate," said the Captain, adding sotto voce, as he turned away, "By to-morrow he'll be out of his head, .and then we'll have a medical man here in spite of him." His prediction was right. Mr. Erskine grew steadily worse. After some hours of intolerable shivering, the cold fit passed off in a ?..fir/>hincr fpvpr nnil hp wns crlnd tn h:ivp his V"J "v ?blankets taken off. His head ached as though it was ready to split; his throat was dry and burning; and before the next morning he was delirious. The Captain, who had already made use of such remedies as he was familiar with, sent off a messenger at daybreak for Dr. Stanley, who arrived as soon as could reasonably be expected. He approved of what the volunteer physician had done, and confirmed his opinion as to the nature of the disease. "It's typhoid, and no mistake; a serious case, too. Why did you not send for me earlier ?" "Because he would not have you," said the old gentleman, bluntly. "Only his being lightheaded gave me a chance to do what I knew was right." "Dr. Stanley laughed?for doctors can laugh in sick-rooms?and then proceeded to write a prescription. "It's a pity it takes so long to get things here from town ; he ought to have this at once. However, we must do the best we can. Who is to nurse him ?" "I will," said the Captain. "Will you? That's satisfactory; no one could fill the office better. One man is worth a dozen fidgety women. By the way, little Sophy May is a famous nurse. I haven't seen her mother in the last five days. Can you tell me how she is ?" "?$etrer trus morning, sopny says."Queer case, hers; a complete complication of the nervous system. I can't for the life of me make out whether she is going to get well or not. I'll go up there for a minute or so, and see them," said the doctor, drawing on his gloves, have a servant ready to follow me to town, to get the medicine. I don't know how soon I may be able to return, but I'll try and get over here some time to-merrow. Be sure you look sharp after our friend here, Captain, till I get back." The Captain promised, and Dr. Stanley proceeded to Mrs. May's. "Your mother seems to be improving," he remarked to Sophy, who followed him out into the porch when he was taking leave. "Keep her spirits up, now, and don't let her get a relapse. You've got a pretty sick neighbor, down yonder." "Is he worse to-day ?" asked Sophy, anxiously. "He's not got to the worst stage yet ; it's just coming on. I ought to have seen him sooner. However, your old friend, the Captain, has treated him very sensibly. I am glad he has undertaken to nurse him." "What is the matter with him, Doctor ?" "Typhoidfever Good-bye," said the doctor, and he was off in a hurry before she could ask any more questions. Sophy remembered her father having an attack r?f t.vnhniH nnrp whpn shft was nuite a little girl, and that his life for some days had been despaired of. She knew that it was often ( a fatal disease, and her heart sank with misgiving when she recalled the doctor's words. It was 110 wonder that Mr. Erskine had fall-! en ill. He had ridden over to Chatham two days before his attack, had got caught in a pouring rain, and reached home drenched to the skin ; then had neglected to change his clothes until after giving prolonged directions to a fisherman from the village, concerning his son, a wild young lad whom Mr. Erskine had undertaken to have educated, and who was a constant source of trouble to all interested in him. Following up this first imprudence with his long delay before allowing any remedies to be applied to him, it was only owing to a constitution as strong as his own that he had a. ' chance of recovery at all. The chances, for a while, seemed slim, indeed. He had intervals of reason between his wanderings, or rather of semi-consciousness, in which his mind would seem to be striving feebly to grasp at the sense of his surroundings ; would arrive at a momentary understanding of his situation, and then float off into delirium again. One night, as the Captain watched beside his pillow, he suddenly rallied from what seemed to be a sort of stupor, and spoke in a collected tone. "Captain, is that you ? Are you sitting there still ?" "Yes, I'm here still," said the Captain. "How do you find yourself ?" "I can't tell. Have I been sick long ?" "A pretty good while." "It's fever, isn't it ?" "Yes." "Of what kind ?" "Typhoid, the doctor calls it." "The doctor ! Has he been here V" "Of course. I couldn't undertake the responsibility alone." "Is there any danger ?" The Captain hesitated. His hesitation was significant; or at least so it appeared, for Mr. I Erskine said? "I understand you. "When is the crisis ?" "To-morrow or the next day." "Ah ! Thank you for telling me." "I'm not sure at all that I had a right to tell you," said the Captain, "but you ask such downright questions there's no getting off from answering you. Keep quiet now, and don't talk any more, or I won't answer for the consequences." "But, my friend, I must talk. There is something I wish particularly to say to you." "Wait until another time." "Another time, I may not be able. You yourself told me that to-morrow would be the crisis. If it carries me off, it will be too late for any communication between us two." "But over-exertion will increase the danger. Dr. Stanley will be furious with me if he finds I have neglected his directions." "Never mind Dr. Stanley. I shan't do myI self any harm. To-night I feel wonderfully strong, and my head is clear?clearer, I believe, than it has been for a good while.. I could talk for hours." "No, you couldn't, you'd kill yourself if you tried it. However, go on. Be as brief as you can ; I'll listen." "Well. Know, my friend, that a few months ago I made my will; a fortunate circumstance, as it appears. I want to tell you now where to find it. In my vest pocket?the gray one?you will find some keys; one of those unlocks the secretary down stairs in the back parlor. In the secretary to the left, is a private drawer; press the spring and it will open, and in it you will find the document in question, tied up with red tape." "Very good,"said the Captain. "Anything else V" "Yes. When I was talking to Saunders, the other evening?whenever it was, for I've lost count of the time?I forgot entirely to hand him a little sum I had put aside, all ready for him, to defray some expenses of that boy of his. Will you kindly give it to him for me ? It's in my desk. If you can let him have it to-morrow?or to-day, is it ? it looks like morning?I'll be much obliged." "Your wish shall be obeyed." "Another thing," continued Mr. Erskine, speaking more slowly, after a pause, "I have a message to?to little Sophy?if I don't see her again." Another pause. "What is it ?" asked the Captain. "Give her, please, my love?my very best love. Tell her?" The sick man hesitated again, as if casting about for a suitable form of words. "Tell her," he went on, "that I beg she will never let the remembrance of anything that has passed between us cast a cloud over her friendly recollection of me ; that I want her to remember me as one whose only aim was to secure her happiness, who never meant by word or deed to cause her pain. Can you do this for me ?" "Of course I can," replied the Captain. "But I don't see your reason for sending such a message. Sophy thinks the world and all of you, and nothing that you ever said or did could have offended her, I'm sure." "Not offended?no. But I was rash on one occasion. Did you never hear of it ?" "No, not that I know of." "I knew, poor thing, that she was heartbroken on account of?of course you know. And yet?though I may say honestly that at the time I couldn't help it?I must needs go and worry her by talking to her of my vain hopes, as if I stood any chance! She has nev- j er felt the same towards me since." "Do you mean to say," asked Captain Russell, to whom this was a new revelation, "that you were in love with Sophy ?" "Was?and am. It's a love I shall carry with me to my grave. But even if I live, I don't mean to let it trouble her any more." "You astound me," said the Captain. "Did you ask her to many you ? Excuse the ques non ; uui you kiiow such annuso wc same ?d my own child." "I did. She refused, of course. It was what I might have expected ; but the question was such a vital one, I found the temptation to put it to the issue too strong to resist. Well, doubtless it is better as it is. God knows." There was a silence, to Captain Russell, a troubled one. He was meditating deeply on what he had just heard. At last he said? "If there's any one living who ought to be jealous of any forgetfulness, or neglect of my poor boy's memory, it's me. It is to me as if I had told him good-bye but yesterday. Aye, but yesterday it seems that he was a little lad playing around my knee. In my heart, his place can never be filled. His image is there still, and morning, noon and night, waking and sleeping. I see it before me, almost like a living presence. But with the young, these things ought to be different. It is natural for them to change. I'm sorry she refused you, Mr. Erskine." "As things seem likely to turn out, there is nothing to be sorry for?on my account, at all evems. "Your case is by no means hopeless. If you do recover, I wish, with all my heart, you may have better success than before." "I fear it would be useless for me to try again. I should only create, perhaps, a lasting estrangement between us." The hours wore on. The sick man fell into a doze. At first he slumbered quietly, but by degrees he grew restless. His limbs twitched ; his head turned uneasily from side to side ; he began to mutter incoherently, while the flush of fever deepened on his cheek, and its dangerous light glittered in his half-opened eyes. Early in the morning the doctor arrived. "The crisis has come," he said, as he looked at his patient. "How long has he been thus ?" Captain Russell mentioned the time. Also told how collectedly and calmly Mr. Erskine had spoken during the night, and how much stronger than usual he had seemed. "A false strength," said Dr. Stanley. "I have often known such favorable intervals to occur shortly before the critical point of the disease. I don't like them. They are seldom a good sign." "How do you think this will end ?" "I don't know; badly, I'm afraid." "How soon can you tell ?" "In a few hours; by evening, perhaps. I shall stay here untH it is decided. My patients in town can do without me to-day." Almost in silence, the two men kept watch by the sick-bed all through that weary day. A mighty struggle was going on between Life and Death?a struggle of which medical skill was powerless to foretell the issue. With keen, careful glances, the Doctor from time to time bent over the pillow, touching with light hand his patient's brow, and marking the variations of his fluttering pulse. "He grows no worse," was his first comment, about, four o'clock in the afternoon. "If he holds on this way until night, I shall have hope." Then, about an hour later? "His fever is certainly a shade lighter. What a constitution he must have !" Twilight?the long, soft summer twilightstole on, and cast its dim shadow into the room. The sick man had ceased his weary tossings, his eyes were closed; his hands lay listlessly outside the covering, and from his parted lips the breath came faintly, feebly, but at regular intervals; the Hush had faded from his face, and a languor, as of death, seemed to mark his repose. The crisis was over?he was safe ! "Thank Heaven," muttered' the old Captain, who had not been aware, uiitil now, of the extent of his own anxiety. I'll be back directly, Doctor. I'm just going outside, for five minutes, to get a mouthful of fresh air." He walked out at the front door, and stumbled against Sophy, who had just come down from lier own House. "Mamma felt so anxious," she explained, "I just came for a minute to see how Mr. Erskine is this evening." "lie is better, my dear child; the danger is over, thank God." CHAPTER XIII. Mr. Erskine's recovery was very gradual. After such a sharp illness, he could not be expected to regain his strength at once. The first time that Sophy saw him?which was in company with Captain Russell, shortly after he had been allowed to sit up?she was shocked at his altered appearance, and her emotion involuntarily showed itself in the expression of her face, and in the tremor of her voice as ! she spoke to him. "I am nearly well, now," he said with his old, kind smile, in answer to her inquiry as to how he felt. "I shall soon be about again." "Not quite as soon as you think," said the old Captain, sagely. "You will be for some weeks shaky on your pins, my friend. They have been nearly knocked from under you, remember." "In a week I shall be out. nrobablv." re joined Ihe invalid. "Very well; wait and see." "I should be bored to death, shut up here for as long a time as you seem to expect," said Mr. Erskine, with a touch of fretfulness, not unnatural under the circumstances. lie was in general a model patient, but in the weakness of convalescence he could not be expected to bear all things like a saint. "We'll do all we can to cheer your solitude, said the Captain, kindly. "I don't know that I'm a very entertaining companion; but Sophy can come over and keep you company, as she used to ; read to you, and soon. Won't you, Sophy ?" Sophy, greatly embarassed, blushed deeply and murmured some incoherent reply. Mr. Erskine looked at her, and in the one brief glance she ventured to give him she fancied that she read a pained look on his face. "Sophy is much occupied with the care of her mother," he said, gravely. "It would be ; asking too much, to desire to impose the care i of another invalid upon her." And then he: quietly turned the conversation into another J channel. Sophy felt grieved and self-reproached. She j could not bear that he should think her cold, | or indifferent to his comfort; and after his being so ill, for her to seem unwilling to devote any attention to him must surely wound him deeply. She sat in silent perplexity until it was time to go. Then as she rose to bid him good-bye, she summoned up her courage by a desperate effort, and blushing painfully said? ilMr. Erskine, I must return to mamma now, for at this hour she needs me; but if you will let me come over sometimes I shall be very glad to read or talk to you, while you are still unable to go out." "Your presence will be always most welcome," he returned, gently ; "but do not put yourself to any inconvenience on my account." Nothing could be more friendly, and at the same time more quietly respectful than his manner. It seemed to say to her, "Be quite easy; I do not intend to annoy you any more with my unwelcome attentions. In future I am your staid, fatherly friend, and nothing more." He pressed her hand kindly as he bade her good-bye, and len mm ieeimg puu,iy relieved, partly troubled, for she could not quite overcome the idea that she had not behaved precisely as she ought. ^However, the next day she came over again, bringing some fresh flowers which she had gathered in her own garden for him. He begged her to arrange them in a vase on his toilet-table, and watched her with evident pleasure and satisfaction as she did so. When she had finished, he took up a newspaper that lay at his elbow, and asked if she would read one or two of the items aloud to him, as he found such close print still trying to his eyes. She did so. From reading, they fell into conversation, and she soon found that she had nothing to fear. Her friend's manner was as composed, his voice and eye as calm, as thougli nothing remarkable had ever transpired in their intercourse. She was almost inclined to believe that she had conquered his unfortunate fancy, and that bis sentiments now towards her were exactly of the sort she wished them to be. At all events, it was pleasant to her to think so. It was especially pleasant to find herself restored to her old easy footing with him, on which alone she could enjoy his society as of yore. "And is your mother really so much better V" he asked her in the course of their interview. "I have heard very favorable accounts of her lately from the Captain." "I think she is really much better. She has been taking daily exercise for a week past, and does not seem near so nervous as before." "That is a great blessing. But your hands must be very full, still. Does your painting keep you as busy as ever ?" "Why, no. 1 am airaia i snail not ue uusy with that, any more,1' she replied, a shadow falling upon her face. "How so ?" "Mr. Schaffer?my employer, you know?is going to remove all the way to Michigan, and says he can't send work to me from such a distance." "When did you hear from him ?" "Last week, some time?Friday, I think it was. It is a pity, isn't it ? It was such pleasant work, and it isn't likely I shall be able to get any more of the same sort." "Oh, well?we shall see," said Mr. Erskine. "It won't do you any harm to take a little rest. Have you had any trouble in getting tho things sent back and forth since I have been ill ?" "No, they have been sent regularly as usual." "I have been thinking," said Mr. Erskine, slowly at length, "of a little plan. The doctor said to me yesterday that a change of air would benefit me as soon as I should be sufficiently strong to travel. Now if I make up my mind to go on this little jaunt, I shall want some one to keep me company. Do you think your mother could be persuaded to go at the same time ? Of course you would be of the party also, and the Captain, if I can persuade him. I should not wonder"if it would do your mother good, as well as me." "I don't know, I am sure," said Sophy, doubtfully. "It migiit do mamma good? but?" "But you think she may raise objections ? It is not unlikely. "Still, I may be able to overcome them. You know it is absolutely impossible that I should go alone; and Mrs. Perry, though an excellent woman, is singularly uncompanionable. I would take her along, however, as a nurse. I think we might really get up a pleasant little party." To Sophy's utter amazement, her mother offered no objection to the scheme when it was proposed to her. The truth was, Mrs. May had begun to feel some solicitude on ac j. i? j 1,0,1 CUUIIt Ui IICI UrtUglll/CI. O 1IC111LI1. imu uuserved her looking very thin and pale, and though herself averse to the exertion of moving, she was willing to make it, knowing that through this means alone, Sophy could obtain a little recreation and change. So she accepted Mr. Erskine's invitation?so delicately worded, as to put her acceptance in the light of a personal benefit to himself?and everything was arranged for the jaunt, which was not to occupy more than a week, or ten days at farthest. The Captain had at first refused to leave home, but Mr. Erskine, and also Sophy, pleaded so earnestly that he should make one of the party, that finally he agreed to accompany them. Their destination was a quiet spot in the interior, noted for the beneficial qualities of its mineral waters, to which invalids were accustomed to resort. At this season, most of its visitors had left, though the weather was still quite warm enough to make the climate enjoyable, and the comparative solitude made it all the pleasanter for them. Mr. Erskine was now almost well. His recovery had proved less tedious than Captain Russell had predicted, and the change of air seemed to act upon him like a charm. To Sophy, too, it did a world of good ; her cheeks began to regain something of their former rosy hue, and her listless, drooping air to give place to a degree of animation which she had not displayed for a very long time previously. As to Mrs. May, sue nau evidently taaen a turn for the better, and it seemed likely to be a permanent one. And this fact alone was sufficient to awaken her daughter's warmest gratitude, and remove much of her depression. Mr. Erskine had been recommended to take horseback exercise, and he proposed to Sophy to accompany him. She was not an accomplished horsewoman, but could r5''' sufficiently well to feel at ease 011 a gentle animal; and as Mr. Erskine managed to find one answering this description, at some stables belonging to the place, she willingly agreed to become his companion in his excursions about the neighboring country. The days passed swiftly and pleasantly. The time allotted for their stay at the Springs had nearly expired, when Mr. Erskine and Sophy set out one afternoon 011 their usual ride. "How pretty the woods have become, with their changing foliage," he remarked, as they passed slowly through a quiet lane. "Those red and gold tints are growing brighter every day." "Yes, it is a pity they must so soon turn brown, and the leaves wither and fall," she replied. "I am glad we shall not stay to see it. How curious that along the coast, where we live, Autumn is scarcely observable, except for the change in the weather." "It is because of the nature of the trees, which are chiefly evergreens down there. Shall you be glad or sorry to return home ?" "Both partly. I have enjoyed being here very much?more than I thought I should do." "It has done you good," he rejoined, with a pleased glance at her face, where a soft but healthful color bloomed. "As to myself, I am a new man ; but I never should have got on so well without having my friends around me. One reason why I regret going back home, is that I may see less of you there than I have done hero." "I hope I may get some more painting to do," remarked Sophy, rather irrelevantly. Already, with the prospect of return, the shadow of daily care was beginning to come over her path again. For though in this little interval of freedom she had managed to get rid of it, to a great extent, yet she could not forget that in losing her occupation, she had lost the only regular means of subsistence on which her mother and herself could depend. "Pray don't let such thoughts annoy you now," said her companion, earnestly. "No doubt we will get something satisfactory arranged. Come, here is an inviting bit of smooth, hard ground. Shall we try a gallop?" Sophy agreed, and they put their horses to a quick pace. For a half mile their progress was uninterrupted ; then, at a sudden berid in the road, a tall black figure rose up from somewhere among the bushes, and presented itself before them. It was only a wandering woman, ragged and dirty, of the gypsy tribe, who desired to ask alms ; but the unexpected apparition terrified Sophy's horse, which plnnged and reared, and unseated its rider, pitching her with some violence into the undergrowth at the roadside. With an exclamation of dismay, Mr. Erskine dismounted and hurried to her assistance. The fall would not have been severe, but that her forehead had struck upon the corner of a stone. The blood was trickling from the wound, and she lay quite insensible. The woman was profuse in her expressions of sympathy and regret, but Mr. Erskine waived her impatiently aside. "If you know of any water hereabouts, fetch me some, for God's sake," he cried, and she willingly departed on her errand. With a heart beating almost to suffocation, ??i-j? i i o?i? mr. jCjrsKine ueut ovex oi>piiyo piusi/iaie luuu. All his suppressed tenderness, his carefully controlled feelings, rushed over him overwhelmingly as he trembled with the fear that her injury might prove a fatal one. She looked so white, so death-like in her swoon, it seemed as though life were indeed extinct. "Sophy I my love! my darling ! Open your eyes, my dearest one. Give me just one glance, one little sign," he pleaded, half below his breath, as he stanched, with his handkerchief, the wound, which was, indeed, in rather a dangerous place, though it was less deep than he feared. With an irresistible impulse?such an impulse as occasionally overmasters even a nature as resolute and self-contained as his? he bent down and swiftly touched her lips with his own. "My darling, my darling," he said again, in passionate tones?tones fraught with mingled agony and love. At that minute the gypsy returned. She brought water, fresh and cold, in a cup rudely but cleverly constructed of huge leaves. "Let me see what I can do for your lady, master," she said in rough but kindly tones. "I'm main sorry I made the horse jump. I'd better have been a hundred miles away." She knelt on the ground, and with no ungentle hand, removed the riding-hat, which Mr. Erskine had only partially loosened, and unfastened the close collar at Sophy's throat. "Give her all the air you can," she said, as she did so. Then, with Sophy's handkerchief, which she soaked in the cold water, she fi rmly V?Ar Mr T?ralrino in fhp mpan. UUUJlll UU1 1U1 OllV/UUj Ail.i 111 wnv time, supporting her on his arm. "She'll be better soon," she added, reassuringly. "Be you far from home ?" "Yes; a couple of miles, at least." "Be you from the hotel ?" "Yes." "Well, she can't ride so far. Give me a line on a scrap of paper, to have a wagon or something sent for you, and I'll carry it to the hotel as quick as anything." "Will you ?" said Mr. Erskiue, catching eagerly at the proposal. He tore a leaf from his pocket-book, and scribbled a message to the proprietor of the hotel, adding a caution against allowing Mrs. May to be alarnyd. "If you can ride, take the lady's horse; you will be too slow otherwise." "I can ride bareback," said the woman. "There's few horses I can't manage." "And you know the road ?" "Yes, indeed." "Then go quickly," he said, putting a fivedollar gold piece, with the slip of paper, in her hand. She was profuse in her expressions of gratitude, as well as repeated apologies for having caused the mischance; but he checked her, impatient of any delay, and mounting Sofll?A n?n n ar\AA/1 Ilir Alif nf Q1 ffhf" puya nuiac, ouu wuo op^unj uut mguv* Left once more alone with Sophy, in the now darkening wood, he watched with anxiety impossible to describe, for some sign of returning animation. It was not long before he was gratified. To his unspeakable relief and thankfulness, she presently opened her eyes, looked around as if in amazement, and attempted to raise herself from her recumbent attitude ; but she was still giddy and faint, and not equal to the effort. "What has happened ?" she asked, in wondering tones, as an exclamation of deep gratitude, coupled with a term of endearment which, at the moment, he could not repress, escaped his lips. "You were thrown from your horse; your head is hurt. Don't try to move yet," he answered, trembling with the endeavor to control his emotion, and already anxious to atone for his indiscretion, which he trusted she had not noticed. "Am I badly hurt ? I don't feel so. I am only a little giddy, I think," she said, slowly putting her hand to her forehead. What's this? Water?" . "A wet bandage?don't touch it, I beg. It was tied there to stop the bleeding. I have sent for a conveyance, which will soon be here. Are you sure you are not otherwise hurt ?" "No. I am all safe," she answered, slightly moving her limbs as if to assure herself of the fact. "Please help me to my feet, Mr. Erskine ; I am sure I can stand." "And I am almost sure you can not ; however, you shall try." She did succeed, though not without difficulty, in regaining her feet, with his aid ; but was soon glad to have him support her to a seat on the spreading roots of a tree close by, where she could lean back her head, and thus await in comparative ease the arrival of the expected conveyance from the hotel. Mr. Erskine could not calmly stand by and look at her. lie walked restlessly up and down, picturing to himself all the while how he should have felt if she had been killed?if those beautiful eyes had never unclosed, to reassure him with their soft glances again. The accident had completely unnerved him. In fact he was more shaken by it than Sophy herself, who, when the first shock was over, speedily regained her composure, and even began to jest at the appearance she must present with her bandaged head. "I must certainly manage to get on my hat, Mr. Erskine. If I only had a thick veil, I should n6t look so odd. By the way, who has gone to the hotel for you ? You forgot to tell me that." He briefly gave her the details which he had omitted. She added some light remarks about the woman's usefulness being sufficient to atone for the mischief she had done, chiefly for the purpose of maintaining the appearance of an ease which she did not really feel.. She had caught the epithet which he had allowed ! to slip from him, and caught at the same time his glance brimful of an overflowing tenderness, and the passionate tremor of his voice ; signs of feeling which he had instantly controlled, but which she could not forget, notwithat-anrtinor Tt, spfimed a verv lone time to her before the conveyance which had been sent for appeared ; a light wagon, driven by one of the men belonging to the stable, and piloted by the gypsy woman, who still rode Sophy's steed. Sophy, albeit in no merry mood, could not forbear laughing at her strange appearance, aijd Mr. Erskine joined in the laugh ; both, however, composed themselves as she drew near. "So you're better, lady; I'm glad of it. Forgive poor old Meg for being the cause of your mishap," she exclaimed, as she dismounted, and threw herself with a sort of wild natural grace at Sophy'8 feet. "Your husband's got a^ royal heart; many's the gentlemen that would have had a poor body like me arrested for causing you harm, but he gave me money instead, God bless him!" "You mistake," hurriedly explained Sophy, in a low tone, afraid that this speech might have reached Mr. Erskine's ear, who was busy, however, with arranging some cushions in the wagon, "he is only my friend." "Only your friend is it? Then a devoted friend he is, for I saw him myself moaning over you, and the kiss he put upon your sweet pretty mouth?but forgive me, lady, old Meg don't mean no harm ; only she wishes you both a long life, and happiness together till the day of your death." "Oh 1 hush, pray," muttered Sophy, in an agony of apprehension ; and the woman with a laughing twinkle of her shrewd black eyes kissed her hand and turned away. At this moment Mr. Erskine approached. "Miss May, the wagon is arranged for you. Allow me to assist you to mount into it." His tone was grave and formal. Sophy felt perfectly convinced that he had heard every word of the gypsy's, and was making this display of ceremony in order to second her en aeavor to correct rue impression ul a umcicm relation existing between them. She did not dare to look at him, but allowed him in silence to help her to her seat, which he had made as comfortable for her as circumstances allowed. "I will drive the young lady to the hotel." he said to the stable-man, "and you can take charge of the two horses. Ride on ahead, as I shall drive slowly." And at a leisurely pace they set off, receiving a parting wave of the hand from the gypsy, who stood watching them as long as they continued in sight, and then turning in the opposite direction, vanished in the shadows of the wcod. "I'd have crossed their hands for a penny, if they'd have let me," she murmured to herself, "and told 'em a pretty fortune. There's something that crosses their love, and it stands in her path, I guess; but I'd have cleared it away. He's as generous as a prince, and ought to get all he wants." The drive back to the hotel was accomplished almost in silence. It was quite dark when they arrived there. They found Mrs. May very uneasy, and Captain Russell using all his endeavors to tranquilize her. Her fears were assuaged, however, 011 perceiving that Sophy could run up the steps, and on receiving her assurance that her head had felt badly, but was really not painful any longer. [to be continued.] gttscrllatteous fMiug. IRON IN SOUTH CAROLINA. Mr. Joseph M. Swank, Secretary of the American Iron and Steel Association, and special agent of the census, has prepared a valuable compilation of the iron and steel production of the United States. From it we extract some data pertaining to the growth and decline of the iron industry of South Carlina, which possess interest as local history : At the beginning of the Revolution South Carolina followed the example of other colonies by offering premiums to those who would establish iron works, but we do not learn that the manufacture was thereby increased. Several furnaces and forges were erected in the State a few years after peace was declared, the principal of which were the Era and Etna furnaces and forges in York county. The Era was built in 1787 and the Etna in 1788. These enterprises were situated on a creek flowing ipto the Catawba river, and about two miles west of it. In 1795 the nearest landing to these works was at Camden, seventy miles below. They were on the road leading from Charlotte, in North Carolina, to Yorkville. Iron ore was abundant in the neighborhood, and was easily smelted after having been roasted. It was obtained in such massive quantity that it was thought there would be no occasion to resort to shafts or levels for half a century. William Hill was one of the principal owners of the works. He is said to have devised "a new blowing apparatus," by the aid of which he contrived to hlnw "all nf the fires, both nf the forcres and furnaces, so as to render unnecessary the use of wheels, cylinders, or any other kind of bellows." This apparatus was undoubtedly the tronipe, or water blast, but Mr. Hill did not invent it, nor was he the first in this country to use it. The statement, which Bishop quotes from unknown authority, is however valuable, as it contains one of very few references to the trompe in blowing a blast furnace in this country that has come under our notice. Bishop says that other iron works soon followed those of Mr. Hill, and that they were erected in "different places, including several in the mountain district of "Washington, where iron, the only article made for sale to any extent, was manufactured, at the beginning of this century, as cheap and good as the imported." In 1810 Tencli Coxe enumerates two bloomaries in Spartanburg county, four in Pendleton comity, two in Greenville county, and one in York county?nine in all. He also mentions one small nailery and one small steel furnace in the State. He makes no reference to blast furnaces. Scrivener mentions the following enterprises in South Carolina as existing apparently about 1815 : "On Allison's creek, in York district, there is a forge, a furnace, a rolling mill for making sheet iron, and a nail manufactory. On Middle Tiger river are iron works on a small scale ; also on the Enoree river and Reedy river, on the north fork of Saluda river, on George's creek, and on Twenty-Six mile creek. In 1802 an air-furnace was ereeted on a neck of land between Cooper and Ashley rivers where good castings are made." (York district is the same as York county, the subdivisions of South Carolina having been known as districts down to 1868.) In 1856 South Carolina had eight furnaces? one in York, one in Union, and six in Spartanburg county. They are described by Les ley. Four of these furnaces were then in operation, producing in the year named 1,506 tons of charcoal iron, but three others had been "out of repair for twenty years," and the remaining furnace had been abandoned. In 1856 there were also three small rolling mills in the State?one on Pacolet river, in Spartanburg county ; one on Broad river, in Union county ; and one on the same river, in York county. At the first two of these mills dry wood was used in the puddling aud heating furnaces. In 1850 the three mills made 1,210 tons of bar iron and nails. In the same year there were also in South Carolina two bloomaries, one connected with the rolling mill in Union county, and the other connected with the rolling mill in York county. Their joint product was 640 blooms. But South Carolina no longer makes iron. Every iron producing establishment in the State is to-day silent, and has been silent for many years, and all are in a more or less dilapidated condition. South Carolina furnishes the only instance in the history of the country of a State having wholly abandoned the manufacture of iron. YOUNG MEN BEGINNING BUSINESS. An eventful dav is it for the vouth who be gins to work for his own living. The days of school or college are over, and the toil of book study is to be exchanged for the steady employment of store or office or factory. For months or years the young man has been looking forward to this day; perhaps with high ambition. It is the critical time of his whole career. On the way in which he begins business depends much of his failure or success in manhood. If he has been a petted boy with plenty of leisure time and holiday enjoyment, the life on which he now enters presents some features which are in lively contrast with his past experience. Perhaps the boy has gone to be with a sharp and grasping employer, who will work him from seven or eight in the morning until well in the evening hours, giving him only a very few dollars a week for his service. Common fame says that there are such men in the world and that some of them expect an underpaid and overworked boy to render as much service as an able-bodied and fairly paid man. Perhaps it is because such men kupw how it was in their own boyhood, when they did hard work for poor pay, that they want to take it out of the boys of the present generation and teach them to bear burdens. It is an unpleasant experience for a young, men to bear burdens which are too heavy or too hard. Yet it fits him for other burdens which he must bear during manhood. Nobody who is of any account ever got along without bearing some burdens and enduring many very disagreeable things, The more clearly the young man understands this when he sets out on his business career the surer is his road to prosperity. There are boys and young men who are beginning business who think that because their pay is small their work is of little importance. Therefore they perform their duties in a slipshod manner, caring little as to whether they give satisfaction or not. A youth who thus conducts himself stands in the way of his own advancement. He has a very narrow view of the possibilities in store for him in the coming years. He who has a keen eye to the future ""11 1?a1?- olinimltr on/I />1aOa1v +A IllO intfirDflfjJ nf Will IUUA. OUdipiJ auu ViUOWJ W vuv WWV*vwvw V >. his employer, for in doing so he is regarding his own. The lad who is prompt, accurate, polite and trustworthy has a good show for advancement almost anywhere, for there are plenty of careless and lazy fellows who will always be found standing aside so that he can march them past How to Use Your Napkin at Dinner. The law of the napkin is but vaguely understood. One of our esteemed metropolitan cotemporaries informs an eager inquirer that it is a bad form to fold the napkin after dinner; that the proper thing is to throw it with negligent disregard on the table beside the plate, as to fold it would be a reflection on the host, and imply a familiarity that would not befltan invited guest. But the thoughtful reader will agree with us that this studied disorder is likely to be a good deal more trying to a fastidious hostess than an unstudied replacing of the napkin in good order beside the visitor's plate. The proper thing is to fold the fabric with unostentatious care and lay it on the left of the plate far from the liquids, liquors and coffee, and thus testify to the hostess that her care in preparing the table has been appreciated; The napkin has played famous parts in the fortunes of men and women* It was one of the points admired in Marie Stuart that, thanks to her exquisite breeding in the court of Marie de Medici, her table was more imposing than the full court of her great rival and executioner, Elizabeth. At the table of the latter the rudest forms were maintained, the dishes were served on the table, and the great Queen helped herself to the platter without fork or spoon, a page standing behind her with a silver ewer to bathe her fingers when the flesh had been torn from the roasts. At the court of the late empire, Eugenie was excessively fastidious. The use of the napkin and the manner of eating an egg, made or ruined the career of a guest. The great critic, Sainte Beuve, was disgraced and left off the visiting list because, at a breakfast with the Emperorand Empress, at the Tuilleries, he carelessly opened his napkin and spread it over his two knees and cut his egg in two in the middle. The court etiI V?o 1 f fnlr\o/1 norvVin IjUCHC piCOCHUCU luai bill/ liUU'ivtuvu uv^mu should lie on the left knee, to be used in the least obtrusive manner iu touching the lips, and the egg was to be merely broken on the j larger end with the edge of the spoon and drained with its tip. The truth is luxury and invention rush table appliances so far that few can be expected to know the particular convention that may be considered good form in any diversified society. The way for a young fellow to do is to keep his eyes open?which, unless he is in love, he can do?and note what others do. TESTIMONIES TO GENU'S. The New York correspondent of the Rochester Democrat writes: The fact that Burns' "Cotter's Saturday Night," and also Poe's "Bells'' have each been published as gift books, profusely and elegantly illustrated, is one or those testimonies of genius which so generally come too late. The lives of these authors were brief and miserable. Burns died at thirtyseven and Poe was but a year older. Burns' last days were passed in extreme poverty, aggravated by intemperance, and the closing scenes were marked by extreme distress. Poe, on the other hand, died of intoxication in a lockup at Baltimore, having been picked upas a tramp. This was done on the eve of elec tion for the purpose of securing him as a voter. "When the time came to liberate him he was found dead, and it was then learned that the unfortunate man was one of the leading authors of the day. Such incidents, however, are so frequent in the annals of genius that they only awaken momentary surprise. The "Cotter's Saturday Night" is not one of Burns' best productions, neither is the "Bells" the best of Poe's, but they are available for the artist and this explains the selections. The popularity of Burns is due to his power over the emotional nature, while that of Poe is found in his skill in the specialty of mystery, in which he is unequaled. Another striking instance of posthumous popularity is found in Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner." This book has been more frequently issued in illustrated editions than any other of its day, and yet when it first appeared it was a complete failure. It was published in a volume of "Lyrical Ballads," written by Wordsworth and Coleridge, and an edition of 500 copies was more than found purchasers. Wordsworth ascribed the failure of the work in no small degree to the "Ancient Mariner," which, he said, nobody understood. The public, however, has continued to appreciate this wonderful production which is now illustrated by the genius of Bore, while Wordsworth has continued to drop into obscurity until he is rarely mentioned, while his works are hardly known even by name. #. ? *ST Typographical errors are a fruitful source of mischief as well as of fun. When a man telegraphed to his agent coficerning a certain stock "No?price too high," he was nearly ruined because the clerk at the ticker wrote it, "No price too high." It was a mere matter of punctuation, but it caused one pocfcet book, at least, to collapse.