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LEWIS M. GRIST, Proprietor. j %w Jnbtptitkni Jamilj ftttttsgapcr: Jfor % fromofion of % political, Serial, Sgricalhiral anir Contnurrial Jhittnsts of % Soutlj. ]terms--$2.50 a year, in advance. VOL. 29. YORKYILLE, S C., THURSDAY, JUISTE 7,1883. NO. 23. jftUttoi ftoiftiJ. THE RIVER OF TIME. O! a wonderful stream is the river of Time, As it runs through the realms of tears, With a faultless rhythm and musical rhyme, And a broader sweep and a surge sublime, And blends with the ocean of years. How the winters are drifting like flakes of snow, And summers like buds between, And the years in the sheaf?so they come and they go On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow, As it glides in the shadow and sheen. There's a magical isle up the river of Time, Where the softest of airs are playing, There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, And a song as sweet as a vesper chime, And the Junes with the roses are staying. And the name of that isle is Long Ago, And we bury our treasures thore. There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow, Thereare heaps of dust, but we loved them so ! There are trinkets and tresses of hair. There are fragments of song that nobody sings, And a part of an intaiu s prayer; There's a lute unswept and a harp without strings, There are broken vows and pieces of rings, And the garments that she used to wear. There are bands that are waved when the fairy shore Bv the mirage is lifted in air; And we sometimes hear through the turbulent ' ' roar, Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, When the wind down the river so fair. ibe Jdwjr ieUcr. MRS. BERTRAM'S HUSBAND. \ . A KKMARKABLE ROMANCE. A street accident, that was all. Quite a commonplace sort of occurrence. But the inevitable London crowd had assembled, and the usual tall policeman had appeared at last to deal as best he could with the congested traffic. He could be seen towering above the throng; his injunctions to move on were plainly audible, though not immediately obeyed. A man had been knocked down by a carriage driven rapidly around the corner of a street. He had been crossing the road, or had tripped on the curbstone and had fallen almost at the horses' feet. Some said he had seemed to throw himself in the way of A\T..o Kq rliMinb- tbpn ' WflS tilt? uuiuv^c. <(o iiV' v?&u?t?f . .. he mad? None could say. No one knew. There was more questioning than answering among the crowd. What sort of a man was he? Old or young? Was he a gentleman ? ? It seemed to be agreed that he was a shabbily dressed man of middle age; that his features were large, and that the beard covering the lower part of his face was of a rusty iron gray hue. A notion prevailed that he might be a foreigner. It was more important to inquire whether he was much hurt. A green-grocer's boy. who after the custom of his class, carried his empty circular basket upon his head, half covering his countenance in the manner of an over-large hat, but just tilted back so as to allow him to look about him, became an object of general interest because of the information he possessed on the subject. The curious projected their inquisiitive faces in his direction. The boy had " not seen the whole of it, he said; but he had seen the man down and the horses' hoofs trampling upon him. Was not sure whether the wheels had gone over him or not; rather thought they had. When he was picked or dragged out of the street he was as white as a sheet; he was was covered with mud, and there was blood on his face. The boy was quite sure about that. The man h?d hppn parried into the chemist's shop close bv. No he was not dead. At least the boy did not think he was dead. He had only fainted, perhaps, and the chemist was bringing him to and strapping the wounds. The crowd pressed towards the chemist's shop. No one seemed to be in a hurry to quit the scene. In London there are always apparently so many blessed or banned with leisure and with plenty of time to spare. There were critics among the crowd, of course. The critic is always with us. Much fault was found with those concerned in the accident. The man ought to have been more careful. People were very reckless in crossing the roads, and did not look where they were going, nor heed what they were doing. Then the coachman was accused of furious driving. Really, it was urged, there should be a little more regard for the safety of foot-passengers and the sanctity of human life. The coachman was indeed charged with incompetence, and openly taunted with being the gardener in disguise, an accusation which clearly was of an irritating character. But generally the sympathies of the crowd were with the victim of the accident, while a disposition prevailed to view his misfortune through the medium of class or political prejudice. , Many declared that this was but another instance of the anxiety of the rich to ride down the poor, to oppress and grind them. Various proletaires delivered discourses upon that text. A lady, wrapped in velvets and furs, had been sitting alone in the carriage. She uttered a cry of alarm when she perceived that an accident had occurred, 1-..A - L _ I 1 x UUt .silt! ItJHXllfU VI It CUICU^' I1U1U liic simuw of the passers-by. The coachman had immediately reined in his horses. When the man who had been knocked down was carried into the chemist's shop, the lady had descended from her carriage. She had expressed her regret, her alarm and anxiety in becoming terms. Even the most severe judges in the crowd could not find fault with her speech or her demeanor. A handsome woman, all agreed, although not quite so young as she had been ; very pale, and with what some described as a set expression when she entered the chemist's shop. When she left it she was paler still, it was noticed, and she wore a curiously distressed and frightened look. She did all that could be done in the painful circumstances of the case. She was urgent that the sufferer should want for nothing, should have the hest medical assistance. She left money for his benefit with the chemist. She gave her card to the policeman. II. The card handed to the policeman bore the name of Mrs. Bertram, and the address of Curzon street, Mayfair. Mrs. Bertram was understood to be the widow of an East Indian merchant, who had bequeathed her a large fortune. In addition to the small but elegantly-equipped house in Curzon street, she possessed a picturesque riverside villa at "Walton. She returned home in a very nervous and troubled state. "Bring me the sal volatile, Morris," she said to her maid hurriedly. "Don't stare. There's nothing the matter. I am not ill; only a little upset. A street accident. A man was nearly run over. "Was the man much hurt ma'am?" inquired Morris, the maid, presently. "Not so very much, I think. But?something must be done for him, of course. 1 left my address with the police. The man will will, no doubt. He will be sure to call and I must see him." "Was he a gentleman, ma'am ?" "No," Mrs. Bertram answered vaguely, "I suppose not. He was not what would be generally considered a gentlemah. With a gashed face, and mud upon his clothes, he certainly did not look much like a gentleman. Yet he might, perhaps, have been a j gentleman once. But that would be long | ago, of course. He will come to-night, I| daresay, and I must see him. 1 shall not go to Lady Vansittart's ; I am not equal to it, after what has happened. This sort of thing , is too trying to one's nerves. I will write a ' note of apology to Lady Vansittart. James win take it round at once." Mrs. Bertram spoke so strangely, so incoherently, with such an abstract, bewildered manner, that Morris stood silently, with wide-open eyes, viewing her mistress won deringly. "Yes, ma'am, certainly, ma'am," begin the startle<l Morris, "i was thinking ma'am, that if the man called, and yoi seemed to think that he was sure to call to night?" "Yes, I think he will call to-night." "Whether," continued Morris, "1 shoulc show him in the drawing-room or not ?" "What does it matter? Why not th< drawing-room? I must see him somewhere I suppose." "\ es, ma'am, but I was thinking that a you know so little of the man, and he's, yoi say, not a gentleman now, whatever hemaj have been, and as there's so many nici things?valuable things, I mean?about th( drawing-room, I was thinking it might b( safer?" "I'll see him in the drawing room," inter posed Mrs. Bertram ; "that will do. I wil write the note for James to take to Ladj Vansittart's. There's no answer required and Morris, if Sir Jasper should call here tn-nifrht?verv likelv lie will call when h( finds I am not at Lady Vansittart's anc learns that illness has prevented my going there?I will not seehim. You understand; You will tell him that 1 have retired for the night, that after what has happened?the accident in the street, I mean?I found myself so unstrung altogether, so distressed and disturbed, that I could see nobody, dc nothing. At the same time you will let hiir know that I am not ill?not really ill. Thai it is nothing serious. That a little rest and quiet will put me right. You understand Morris ?" "Yes, ma'am, and that if he comes tomorrow?" "You need say nothing about to-morrow Morris." Ill Mrs. Bertram was assuredly a beautiful woman, although there were some who preferred to hold that her beauty was rather oJ the. past than of the present. The years had dealt kindly with her, however. If the bloom of youth had gone, the canker of age had not yet arrived. There was no wrinkle upon her forehead, no silver thread was traceable among her abundant golden-brown tresses. A certain sad, wearied look about her eyes there might be, with a compression of the lips, an occasional contraction of the nostrils: indications of experence of life ol suffering, of history. It was said of Mrs. Bertram that her existence had not always been of so tranquil and prosperous a nature as it now was, or seemed to be. Perhaps her face admitted as much. Still, she was beautiful. She was dressed, it must be admitted, in a fashion of the East, for the events here narrated are not to e accepted as of a recent occurrence, and to many tne fashions that are a little bygone seem to be almost contemptible. Beauty is not seen at its best, the world opines, in the dress of yesterday or the day before. Fashions, of course, have their importance. Still, whatever clothes it may decide to put on or nflf nnrl whatever the uaterns and tex ture of these may be, whether it decides to wear its tresses towering aloft or trailing below, its skirts full or scanty, its sleeves fight or loose, beauty is beauty still. The drawing-rooih was rather dimly lighted by a shaded lamp. Mrs. Bertram, in a dress of dark velvet, with a scarf ol black lace lightly wound about her neck, sat waiting for the man who had been knocked down by the carriage. She waited some hours. Then she heard a ring at the bell. The man had not presumed to knock. He was admitted and shown into the drawing-room. He was was very palid, and there was a star formed of strips 01 piaster upon his forehead; but he walked firmly enough, and seemed, in truth, to be little worse for the accident. "I have come," he said, his eyes glancing about the room before they rested on their mistress. "You expected me, I suppose?" "I expected you. Were you much hurt ?" "Not much. It was my own fault. I was taken by surprise. I recognized you, and before I had time to recover myself, somehow, I found myself at your horse's feet. You knew me?" "Not at first, but I did afterward when I saw you in the chemist's shop. It was most unfortunate," she said with rather an absent air. "It could not be helped. It was an accident. I might have been killed; but as it happens, I am not much damaged. It would have been better, perhaps, if I had been killed." Mrs. Bertram was silent. "I should have died universally unregretted," her visitor said grimly. "A brief report in the newspapers, an inquest upon the body of a man unknown accidentally knocked down and run over in the streets, a pauper's funeral at the expense of the parish, that would have been all. Notanother worcl could have been said on the subject. It's a pity things won't happen as we would have them happen." He waited as though expecting that she would say something, but she remained silent. "You are not glad to see me," he said presently. "Why should I be glad to see you," she asked in her turn. "You wish that we we had never met?" "Heaven knows I do." "You thought me dead?" "Indeed I did; dead long since." "I say again"?he laughed bitterly as he spoke?"It's a pity things won't happen as we would have them happen." "And now," she said, "what is to be done ? Do you need help at my hands?" "You are rich, it seems. It's pleasant to be rich. I have had money in my time and spent it. This is your house; these pretty knick-knacks, china and pictures, glass, gilding and rubbish, all your property?" "All my property," she repeated wearily. "You are welcome to it. I am not in want of such things as 1 see about me." "What is it that you do want?" "Suppose I were to say that I want you ?" I should not believe you, she answered bluntly. "And yet, Gertrude, I never saw you look so handsome as you do to night." "You do not come here to night merely to pay me idle compliments." "It was no idle compliment if compliments are ever idle. It seems to me that much can be done by means of compliments skillfully administered. And surely a bus1 1 __ 1. 4... /./. vttii; nanu may ue penuiueu iu puy ?v v^uipument, idle or not, to a wife who lie lias not seen for many years, whom he meets at last most unexpectedly. It was hard, though to be knocked down by your carriage horses and nearly run over by your wheels. I shall carry to my grave an ugly scar by way of memento of the event." "You describe yourself as my husband, you speak to me as your wife, as though nothing had occurred in the past to separate us, to render you as dead to me forever." "What can sunder those whom God hath joined together?" he asked, with an artificial air, stretching fortli his hand as though he would grasp hers. "Don't touch me," she said sternly. "Win must lie straiurelv forcretful if you think that we can meet again as though nothing had happened during the long interval of our separation, or have you forgotten what separated us?" "I know what separated us. I know that much has happened since we separated. I have forgotten nothing. For what T did in the past"? "The crime was committed," she interposed. "Call it crime, if you like," he continued, carelessly. "It was an act of justice, to my thinking. At any rate J held mysell entitled to do what I did. I borrowed the money. I did not steal it. And after all it was really mine." "You committed a forgery upon the Bank of England. There was a sum ol money invested in hank stock and standing in the names of trustees in the bank books! You forged the signatures of the trustees to a power of attorney, which enabled you to secure possession of the principal. You - were tried at the Old Bailey for the forgery li and sentenced to transportation for life." j h 1 "I see you have all the facts at your fin- b , gers' ends," he said with cynical calmness, a 1 "But I paid the penalty for what I did in- y - nocently enough, in ignorance of the law." "Do yourself more justice," she exclaim- a ed. "You were not innocent, nor ignorant, a 1 You knew the law well enough, and you 3 outraged it wilfully." J "And haven't I suffered for what I did ? , Haven't I been punished for my crime, as a vou call it over and over again ?" Haven't i I undergone years of punishment ? But you ji i don't know what transportation means. 11 7 It's a mere word to you. To me?well, J n i won't speak of it. I can't bear to think of s i it. Every morning I prayed that I might r i not live through the day. Everynight I c prayed that I might not live to see another - sunrise. It's a wonder I never laid hands 1 upon myself, beat my brains out against t my prison walls." r , "\ ou loved yourself too dearly," she said, i with scorn. > "Ttlu noon fill* \>nn In uuv thflf Whflt, tl ' A- t i5 IUI J VU ?/ j I suffering have you known?" All has been r made smooth and easy for you. The sun I has always shone upon you. You have ali ways had money in your pocket. You have i never lacked for friends, admirers, lovers to whom your lightest wish has been law. In I truth, your lines have fallen in very pleas- o ) ant places." v i "Liar!" she began impetuously, then a t checked herself, and continued in a calmer a I tone: "But you were always that. I have y , not suffered, you say? Was I not your t< wife? Fool that I was. did I not listen to si your false words, your flattery, your prom- p lses and protestations? You persuaded me, fi , or I persuaded myself, that you, adventur- p er, imposter, cheat, were a hero, chival- tl rous. devoted, self-sacrificing, noble, I was v a weak, credulous, romantic girl. It is not surprising that I was duped. Yours was a a t grand triumph. You married me for my b money, which you squandered at the gam- h ' ing-table or the turf. Then came a long v ' course of neglect, ill treatment, cruelty." sj "We had our misunderstandings, cor- t; tainly." c< "You struck me"? h "Did I strike you," he asked. "I'd for- si gotten that." v "Do I not bear upon mv body even yet, b the marks of your blows ?" h "I was wrong, of course. But I lost my v temper, or was not sober, and you provoked n me. You could be very provoking when if you chose. Still, I did not really mean to p hurt you." ft She seemed to brush away this explana- a tion with an abruut movement of her hand, h Then you neglected, abandoned me; left me at last penniless to starve, with my ^ 1 child." . * o "Really, I'd forgotten the child. It died, h didn't it." h "Yes, thank heaven!" she said with a b fervor. a "It was as well, perhaps. But I could ; not help leaving you, you must bear in mind. I was arrested upon a criminal JJ charge, and brought to trial. I was power- " less. I often thought of you, but I really P could do nothing to help you. What can a ?] man do when he's locked up ? Then I was sent to New South Wales. You may call it f abandoning you, but I had really no choice J1 . in the matter, and after all you did do so " badly. Women, young and good-looking as you were then?as you are now, for the b matter of that?rarely fail to find friends. You found one, and something more. After b a while you married again?married the }r gentleman whose service you had entered * A- -L.MJ \r m as a governess 10 ms cnwui?ii. 1 wu, set-, -I know something of your history." |r "It is true. 1 married Mr. Bertram. 'fl Many years had elapsed; no news of yon w came to me. I was entitled to believe you 01 dead. Mr. Bertram knew my story; I con- u cealed nothing from him. He loved me sin- ei cerely; he behaved to me with exemplary 111 kindness and generosity. I owe everything P( to him; but lor him 1 might have been 111 wholly lost. I had the truest ali'eetion for j" him, and now that he is no more I venerate {*' his memory. He was the truest, the kind- J1 est, the noblest of men." I1 "That will do," he said, rather morosely. " "I don't care to listen to the singing of Ber- P1 tram's praises. After all he wasn't really " your husband. You are aware, 1 suppose, that you committed bigamy when you married him ? The law might have something {l) to say to you on that subject. I am your 1 real husband ; and perhaps you don't under- l stand that all this property of yours?I mean the land and money, goocls and chattels, left y you by Mr. Bertram's will?really belongs ,li to me as your lawful husband if I choose to claim it?" y1 "And you mean to claim it?" "That depends. I have come back to the sl old country to end my davs in peace. Why w should I not find a co,:: >rtablehome in my wife's house v wuy should not i, inter mi j -* have undergone, seeure a refbge here, share ^ in my wife's prosperity, ask her forgiveness, ^ beg lier to bestow her love 011 me once more s? and take me to her arms again? lteally, pi Gertrude, we might live happily together 1 'ever afterward,' as the people do in fairy B tales." "So that is your plan, is it, Godfrey Wenham ?" she began. P "Hush!" he interrupted. "Not my real P name, please. There's danger in'the sound ? of it. 1 shiver when I hear it. Call me 01 George Harvey; that's how I am known 111 now." "George Harvey, or Godfrey Wenham?I ,. care not now you are known or called?listen 1U to me." She arose as she spoke and stood )v confronting him. "Take heed what you do. Jr You are not now dealing with the girl you 1( duped so easily in the past. You have cruelly wronged me, but I nave drawn strength ("j from my injuries. My sufferings and experiences have given me courage. I do not ?c fear you in the least. I know that you dare su not treat me again as you treated me in the ?}< past. I am not to be frightened now by j'f scowls and threats, oaths and abuse; and if M you strike me?but you know better?you n( dare not! You say that you can claim this k, property. Prove vour claim to it, prove pi flint xrrvii nro m\T hiiclv.imi sirwl vnn nrnvp ill mill/ J V.HI..V. ...j "J I that I ain not Mr. Bertram's widow?that I 1 am not entitled to the property he has bequeathed tome; it will revert, therefore, to the surviving members of his family, and v become part of his general estate. And more than that?come forward in your own fo name to claim possession of my property, o and to declare yourself my husband, and w what follows ? You own yourself Godfrey Wenhani, a convict transported for life to " New South Wales. Who gave you leave to ^ , return to England? let me ask you, and iH what is the penalty for returning to England m without leave? Do you happen to know, I Godfrey Wenham? It used to be death. 111 Perhaps it's death still. You should know, K* Godfrey Wenham?none should know bet- ^ tnr thnn vmi " The man had turned very pale. "I)o you k mean to betray me?" he asked huskily, with an oath. p " 1 mean to do what seems good to me to ft do. My conduct shall be ruled by yours. If ()] I betray you, you will know the reason why. a] i 1 give you fair warning, Godfrey Wenham. 0; , And now go." He stood irresolutely for a moment or two, " gnawing his lip. * p "You may get the worst of this," he said. n "I'll take my chance. I know what the }, , worst is. I'll risk it." sj j "1 thought we might be friends." "(1 "Make no mistake upon that head. We are foes. Keep apart from me. You'll find [ that's your better course." "I may see you again ? I may write to , you ?" f * "Well," she answered, with some hesita> tion, "I do not forbid you, but you will be ii 1 careful what you write. No threats, mind, p No insolence; no rudeness. Quite make up tl > j your mind that I do not fear you in the least; b f 1 that if you venture to annoy or offend me in t< ; 1 the slightest degree I at once place myself u , under the protection of the police. Now 11 ; go. I wish to hear nothing farther. Yet, a i stay ; there is money for you." She took p i from her purse a hank-note and tossed it to ai im. "You will understand that I give it o you by no meaans because I fear you, but ecause you look so utterly broken down nd wretched, and because my contempt for ou is so great." The man seemed fairly awed ; her tone nd manner were soeommanding. Me slunk way scowling, but cowed and beaten. Irs. Bertram rang the bell. "Has he gone, Morris ?" she asked. "He has gone, ma'am. If he should come gain?" "I do not think he will come again; not ast yet, at any rate. Besides, to-morrow norning I shall start for Walton, early. I oust have change. There is something titling about this London house. You will rnck everything to-night, so that we shall >e able to start eariy to-morrow." "Indeed ma'am,you don'tlook very well." "I'm tired, and I feel a little faint." "And if Sir Jasper should call to-moro\v?" "1 will leave a note for Sir Jasper." "lie will be amazed to find you have left own so suddenly." "He must be amazed, then," said Mrs. Jcrtram, coldly. vt' / jV IV. Sir Jasper Davenport, a west-country barnet of middle age, was very much in love rith Mrs. Bertram. It is a mistake to imgine that the victims of the tender passion re especially to be discovered among the outhful. In the mature bosom love ofm strikes deep roots, thrives, grows and trengthens, finds itself in a congenial soil, uts lorth more and more branches, becomes rmly fixed beyond all possibility of extiration. The young are often too devoted to heinselves to love others very constantly or wholly. Middle aged Sir Jasper was a most ardent nd absolute lover. The inheritor of numerless acres and a prodigious rent-roll, he ad as a young man served in the army dtli some distinction. Afterwards he had it in Parliament as a member for his couny. He had the reputation of being an exsllent man of business; calm, shrewd, hardeaded. He never married. Some dim tory floated in the air to the effect that ery early in life some disappointment had efallen him, but nobody paid particular eed to it. The same kind of story was diispered about so many men. There light be 110 sort of truth in it. At any rate ; referred to something that must have Impelled a long time ago, to ancient history in ict. And no one could be supposed to care hmif nrw?ipnt. histnrv unrl the thillCS that ad happened a long time ago. It was very clear now that the baronet as deeply in love with the beautiful widow f his old friend, Mr. Bertram. He was a andsome gentleman of pleasant address; e was of a generous and tender nature. He ore himself toward her with a sort of chivIrous devotion. She could not mistake the xtent of his admiration or the genuineness. 0 when at last his love found expression in rords, and he tendered her his heart and and, he found his suit accepted. Sir Jaser Davenport and Mrs. Bertram are enaged to be married. And now, suddenly and unexpectedly, Irs. Bertram's first husband, Godfrey Wenam, a convict, returned illegally from ansportation, appeared on the scene. Sir Jasper knew little, cared to know ttle, of his wife's early history. He was ivare that before her marriage with Mr. ertram she had tilled the post of governess 1 his family. Something, too, he had aimed to the effect that previously she had iffered from poverty and from family disess. He had not ascertained the particu,rs of her trials and^wrrows however. He as by no means an inquisitive, a doubting, r a suspicious nature. Sufficient for him as the evil or good of the day. It was lough for him to know that as the wife of i old husband, Mrs. Bertram had behaved arfectly; that she wasa refined, intelligent id accomplished lady; that she was very anii+ifnl that, ho lovofl her with all his eart and soul, and that she had accepted is suit. The future was full of interest to iin ; he was absorbed in contemplation of . He had no thought to bestow upon the ist. It was gone. Let it go. What was to him now ? Not meeting Mrs. Bertram at Lady Vantart's, Sir John had called in Curzon street, .tc though it was, to inquire concerning is affianced wife. He was distressed to am that Mrs. Bertram had received a ;vere shock, that she was not very well, rntshe had retired early to rest, that there nd been an accident with the carriage, a lan nearly run over, &c. In the morning ir Jasper called again. He was dismayed > learn that Mrs. Bertram had left London iddenly for her house at Walton. There as a note for him, however: "DearSir Jasper:?I am not ill, but somcling has occurred greatly to distress me. Rest id retirement are absolutely necessary to me. eavo me to myself for a little while. You shall now all?but not yet. I cannot now bring mvslf to write fully of my troubles ; but will do resently. Trust me; do not blame me even if have to tell you by and by very cruel news, elieve me, always yours, affectionately, "Grtruok." He read and reread this note. It perlexed him greatly. What could have hapened ? he asked himself again and again, i'hat was he to do ? What was the meaning F it all ? Was he to lose her ? What "cruel nws" could she have to communicate? Ilis first impulse was to hurry down to er at Walton forthwith. But had she not iked him to leave her to herself for a little hile ? Could he ignore that request or act 1 defiance of it ? He addressed her the foliwing note: "Dearest?Your note has caused me much ueasiness. I cannot bear to think that you are istressed, and that I may not beat your side to dp and comfort you, or at least to try and do >. I will endeavor to obey you. I will, as you iy, leave you to yourself for awhile. But you j not know how hard I find it to keep away 0111 you. My heart, my hopes, my love, my fe, arc all in your keeping. I)o not fear that I mil over blame you however cruel may be the jws that you have to tell me: only please do not eep moaiiy longer than can be avoided in sus3iiso or in'ignorauco of what has happened. In iy turn I ask you to trust me. J5o assured that love you most dearly. You r own "jasi'kk." J Ie waited some days for an answer. A ery brief note came at last: "Dear Jasper.?I dare not hope that you will irgive me. I would that you could forget me. ur marriage may not, cannot be. I know this ill be to you a cruel disappointment. If you in find any consolation in accusing me of capcc, of heartlessness, of wantonly trilling with imr affections, let it oe so. 1 may not merit an ait may be said of my conduct, vet some punliment I do deserve, Relieve me I shall suffer tueh in losing your esteem. Hut it must be as have said. I will ask you not to seek to know lore?not to attempt to sec me again. Treat me ; though I was dead?as one who lias forever issed out of your life ; yet as one who sincerely ispected and loved you, and is pained, indeed, ?write these few last lines to you, knowing how eenly they will afflict you. * (Jkutiuidk." Sir Jasper turned pale as he read; his ands trembled as he held the note. Hut he ilt that lie could not accept his dismissal 11 the instant; that he could not, without 11 effort, resign the most cherished hopes f his life. "At least I must know more," he said. I will not intrude upon her. She sluill now nothing of my presence; hut I will be ear her ; I will watch over her. Perhaps, 1 spite of all, there may he happiness in ore for us both. My poor Gertrude! she oes not yet know how much I love her." Sir Jasper quietly left London for Walton. V. Sir Jasper had been much given to boatlg in his youth, and even now was a cometent oarsman. He obtained lodgings at ic Angler's Retreat, a river-side hostelry eyond Chertsey. He hired a boat and was ) be seen now and then sculling rather idlv p and down stream in the neighborhood. Lc rarely started until toward sunset, to void the heat, as he said. But a notion revailed that he was engaged in the city, iid could only appear on the water after office hours. His face was a good deal shadowed by the wide brim of his hat, the sun tr had gone down, and the moon was rising hi through an evening mist which much ob- j scuredits brightness. It was^ndeed some- st thing later than dusk when Sir Jasper thrust . ar his boat under the shadow of an overhang- h< ing willow, made it fast there, and landed, dt He waited, listening, then he advanced cau- sa tiously over a moist and rather clayey lawn, | tli into which his feet sank an inch or two. He | bi was approaching a picturesque, ivy chid : ? house, raised upon a terrace, with French | % windows and a veranda. 1 He stopped suddenly, for he perceived in * front of him the figure of a man. Sir Jasfer crouched behind a thicket of rose bushes. \ Le dabbed his moist forehead with his handkerchief; his heart beat noisily; he clenched his teeth and closed his fist, lie was anxious, suspicious, angry. "There is another, Si then," he whispered to himself, and he con- e\ tinued to watch the man in front of him. w But the mist was thickening, and it was be- ce coming difficult to see things that were only fr a few feet distant. Cautiously Sir Jasper tli crept from behind the thicket of rosebushes w and drew nearer to the terrace. The man tli had cjuietly mounted the steps and was to standing by the verandah. Sir Jasper peer- ol ed at him through the balustrades of the at terrace. "Is the man the reason why 1 am si forbidden to approach her?" he asked him- to self. Then he added presently : "No, this A man is not a lover; he is a thief." d< The man had been trying the windows pi one by one. All were closed. Then he m drew a knife from his pocket, and tried, by w inserting it beneath the locks of the windows ci to lift the latch that held them fast within, pi In a moment Sir Jasper's strong hands er clutched his throat and held him as in a vise, pi The man uttered a scream like a wounded tli hare. Not that he was much hurt, but he fa was extremely frightened. tli "Don't kill me," he cried, in a weak, th scared voice. "Villain, what are you doing here ? You to would rob the house! Hush! no noise! dj The man was Godfrey Wenham. A mo- bl ment, and he had recovered himself. He w shook himself free. su "Hands off," he said. "You mistake me. dc I am no thief. Are you one ? It looks like ro it." tli "You were trying to force these windows." bj "I am not answerable to you for what I w did or tried to do." er "You are a trespasser." "And what are you ? What is your right *h to be here? Take care what you do. Stand away from me." th "At any rate, I will know who you are." "You shall knoVKvhat I choose to tell *h you?no mor^ no less. Take care, I say S(1 again. I am armed, and I'll tire upon you, if you venture to lay hands upon me again." 'u As he spoke he drew a pistol from his "1: breast and pointed it toward Sir Jasper. "a "It is my turn now," said Godfrey Wen- w' ham. " W ho and what are you ? Why are an vou here ? Are vou Mrs. Bertram's lover?" ?f As he spoke his pistol was suddenly thrust ' aside. Sir Jasper's hands were upon his ai] throat again, and he found himself shaken tri like a mouse in the jaws of a cat. or "Villain, tell me who you are, or I'll 118 wring the life out of you." &a "If you must know, I am Mrs. Bertram's 1 husband," he gasped. j'.e "Liar!" cried .Sir Jasper, and he flung the man away from him and could hear his j?? body crash against the balustrade of the "r terrace, but he could scarcely see him, the an mist from the river was now so dense. l.n Godfrey Wen ham staggered to his feet; taJ then came the flash and tliereport of a pistol. } Sir Jasper felt himself hit, or, at least, *ll! sharply grazed by a bullet. There was a aSi burning sensation in his shoulder, and lie 811 could feel the blood lightly trickling down. -V Godfrey Wenhani had leaped or fallen from the terrace. His footsteps could be fR heard moving about the dew-sodden lawn. fib But he seemed to move as thouglf uncer- inj tain of his path, now turning this way now that. The moon was now wholly hidden. Pl The mist was so thick that even the river was invisible. Suddenly a splashing noise was heard. p* "God help the man! he must have fal- b.v len into me river,- jsuiu rsir .jusper. One of the French windows was opened, ?' and Mrs. Bertram, hearing a lamp, appear- }'a ed. She was very pale; there was a look of absolute terror upon her face. "What has happened? Is it you Jasper??and ''.V wounded ?" she screamed, for the blood had run down his sleeve and was crimsoning his hand." tai "It is a scratch only," he explained. "The scoundrel's bullet just grazed my P* shoulder. My poor Gertrude, 1 am afraid all this has alarmed you terribly and you j"e1 know my darling, you look very ill." j1(-' "Jasper, I have suffered so much," she ^e said: and then she gave way, burst into ^v tears, and hid her face in his bosom. cu He kissed and caressed her tenderly. a9 Presently she started and shuddered. * 'u( "This must not be," she cried. "But you shall know all, Jasper. I ought to have D* told all long ago. Indeed, I always meant Pr to tell you all before I allowed myself to tx call you husband. But it was a painful ?* story'to tell. Do not blame me that I tried lll> to keep it from you as long as I could." ^ "Let us not speak of this now. You have pr gone through so much. You look worn out " : with fright and fatigue. But one word tei only. That vidian declared himself vour M husband." "It was the truth, Jasper." be du.. rtu puur uci 11 uuc i Then she told him all. Her story did a.n not quench his love for her in the slightest tii degree; indeed, perhaps, he now loved her th more than ever. His sorrow and pity for her came to increase the sum of his affee- y tion. He left her at last, and returned to ab the Angler's Retreat on the road; the river K was unsafe because of the mist. The ser- at vants had been roused and measures taken to meet the unlikely event of the return of y Godfrey Wenham to effect an unlawful en- th try into the house. The police were inform- Pu ed that an attempt at burglary had been made at Mrs. Bertram's house by the river. ?! Lastly,SirJaspersoughtthehelpofasurgeon Pr and had his wounds dressed. It was not *?1 serious the surgeon pronounced, but, as Sir yl Jasper declared, it was certainly unpleasant, tei go ye * T * *' til Presently an inquest was held upon the of body of a man found in the Thames, en- lot tangled in weeds and rushes, at some dis- wl tanee from Walton. The proceedings were J brief enough. Di The man was apparently of middle age; eri he was tall, large featured, with an iron de gray beard. It was thought that he might he a foreigner. He was shabbily dressed, pri but there was some money in his pocket, wa with a knife, a horse pistol, unloaded, a ) chisel and a bunch of keys. soi The police had no knowldge of the man; tin the body was not claimed. bo Sir Jasper Davenport tendered his evi- J dence. lie narrated how he had stepped Te from his boat to the lawn fronting Mrs. Be Bertram's house. (It was whispered in at court that Sir Jasper was engaged to be tin married to Mrs. Bertram, but the coroner 1 asked no questions on that head.) He had wl found a man trying to effect an entrance Gil through one of the windows. A struggle asc had ensued and the man had fired a pistol. th( Sir Jasper had been wounded, but not se- ere riously. He identified the body. Theeven- wa ing was dark and a thick mist had come i lmf Kir j-.i-jnor hnd no doubt whatever trii on the subject, ft was the body of the man Th with whom he had struggled before Mrs. for Bertram's window. .Sir Jasper had been dri face to face with the man, and would have me known him anywhere. Mrs. Bertram was rJ not called as a* witness. The coroner said me he supposed the jury was satisfied; there tin seemed no occasion for farther evidence, hei even if farther evidence had been forthcom- ha< ing, and it was not. The jury returned a by verdict of "Found drowned." "The general wh opinion was to theeffect that the burglar had I met his death by misadventure, that it C/:< served him right, and was altogether a good er riddance. pri A little while after the inquest Mrs. Her-. am made the baronet very happy, gave m her hand and became lady Devenport. They kept their own counsel as to the ory of her husband, his unexpected return id sudden death; but they gave up the juse at Walton. They declared it to be imp, and her ladyship had been heard to y that she could never bring herself to live icre again after that foggy night when the irglar met his death. fteadiug. NOESTORS OK THE RUSSIAN CZAR. The coronation of the Czar Alexander, on inday, the 20th of May, was an important *ent. The Nihilists threatened that it ouhl never take place, and the date for the remonies to be inaugurated was postponed (Jin 11U1U tu liJiiu, in cuii?t'4ucuct: ui uiu ireatsof the disaffected element, including omen as well as men, scattered all over le vast empire, and all deeply in earnest i prevent the successful coronation of a son * the emperor who came to a violent death ; their hands, by the explosion of an assasn's bomb, in March, 1881. But, according ' the published reports in the English and raerican newspapers, which correspon?nce, however, was all subjected to the ap oval of Russian censors before its transission was permitted, not a singPe untoard event to the imposing ceremonies oeirred. They were undertaken and cometed with barbaric splendor, such as neith' Greek nor Roman conqueror ever surissed, and Alexander III has safely defied ie threats of his enemies and is now in ct, as well as in form, the head of one of ie strongest powers of civil government on ie globe. It is quite opportune, in this connection, jecall tlip tragic history of the Russian fnasty. It is a tale of lust, treachery, ood and sin, interspersed here and there ith noble deeds. A recent writer lias mimed up a list of crimes resulting in the ?ath of a Czar, or one other member of the yal household. The crimes committed by e Czars themselves among their subjects 7 their own hands or through their agents, ould fill a volume. Rubik was the foundof the Russian Czardom. The tale of irror began with his son Igor. We quote e historic narrative as follows: After having exacted onerous tributes of e Drevlians, a subject tribe, Igor was arching back to his capital, Kief, when e thought struck him that he might ueeze more out of the Drevlians. Not ishino- his lieutenants to share the fruit of s contemplated extortions, he .sent the ain body of lii.s army on to Kief, and went ck with a small force among the Drevlians, ho, driven to extremity, massacred him (1 the whole of his guard near their town Korosten. Sviatoslaf, the son of Igor, was waylaid id killed by the Petchenegans, a hostile ibe. His head was cut off and his skull, namented with a circle of gold, was used a goblet by the Prince of the Petchenens. Bviatoslaf left three sons, Iaropolk, who igned in Kief; Oleg, ruler of the Drevins.and Vladimir, who held sway in Xovrou. Soon after their father's death the others went to war. Iaropolk slew Oleg, d in his turn died .at the hands of Vladiir, at whose instigation he was slain in his ; :her's palace. Sviatopolk, the successor of Vladimir, had s brother Boris, Vladimir's favorite son, sassinated in his tent. He meted out a uilar fate to two or more or Ins brothers, nothor brother, Varus la f, who ruled in DVgorod, aided by his subjects, hurled the iticide from the throne. Sviatopolk at it died of fear while flying from the avengg sword of Yaraslaf. ( Towards the close of the eleventh century ivid, one of the descendants of the Rurik, re out the eyes of one of his kingmen, ; \ose appanage lie coveted. For this crime ivid himself was deprived of his appanage the other Princes. , The (fraud Prince Andrew Bogolioubski, Souzdal, a descendant of Rurik, after | inly trying to consolidate the power of issia, which was divided among numers petty Princes, was cruelly assassinated his subjects. In the thirteenth century, when Russia oaned under Tartar dominion, several of , e Russian Princes of the House of Rurik ?re summoned to the Great Piorde, accused insubordination, tried and executed, le Grand Prince Alexander Xevski, when turning from the Great Horde, to which had gone to interpose with the Khan in half of his people, against whom the ban threatened to march, died under cirmstances, which rendered it highly proble that poison had been administered to m before he left the Tartar camp. The Grand Prince of Moscow, George , inielovitch, whose wife had died while a isoner of the Grand Prince Mikhail, of ver, accused the latter before the Horde having poisoned the princess. Mikhail peared in person before the Horde to an- , rer the charge. Usbek-Khan, who was a other of the princess, consented to Mikha- , s death, and lie was assassinated in his J nt by a hireling of the Grand Prince of oscow. The triumph of the Grand Prince ( ;orge was, however, of short duration, for ( ing accused of withholding the tribute le the Khan, he journeyed to the Plorde, d was assassinated by the son of his vie- < 11, who was himself at once executed by e Khan. < In 1328 Alexander, the Grand Prince of >ver, second son of the Mikhail mentioned ove, having incurred the enmity of the ] han, was, together with his son, executed ] xl. ~ If 1A , lilt; nuruu. In 1431 Vassilli Vassillievitch, the Grand < inee of Moscow, in an excess of fury, had i e eyes of his cousin, Vassilli the Squinter, , t out. Ten years later a brother of the :ter?Chemiaka?having taken Vassilli . issilievitch prisoner, put out his eyes and oclainied himself Grand Prince. In the lowing year he was deposed. In 1450 he j tempted*to regain the throne, but was de- j ited by the Muscovites. He fled to Nov- < rod where he is said to have died three ( ars later of poison. I The despot Ivan III, who ascended the | rone about 14i)0, shortly afterward had one ; his brothers arrested while at court and ( ided with chains, under the burden of j lich he expired. Ivan the Great, condemned his grandson 1 minitri, to perpetual imprisonment. His i lei captivity was terminated by a violent j ath. ' i Vassili, the son of Ivan the Great, im- t isoned his nephew. Prince IJelski, who ( is murdered while in captivity. r 4-lw* nVwinKIn L-imnonfhur liic L Villi 11IU lUilint j CUO|AA.Ull^ V?V*V.^V lof conspiring with the Boyards to de- \ rone him, struck him down with an iron- J und staff', killing him almost instantly. 1 dimitri, the ten year-old son of Ivan the 1 rrible, was murdered by a creature of I ris Gudonof. His throat was cut while \ play. With him ended the dynasty of t i House of liurik. s dimitri V, known as the false Dimitri, 1 to reigned for a brief period after Boris r idonof, was mobbed a few years after he 1 :ended the throne, and was shot through t j breast and killed by a man in the ? >wd. His young son, Ivan, was after- s rd hanged. ^ Ylexis, the son of Peter the Great, was i ed for treason and condemned to death, c e Czar, however too impatient so wait a the execution, poisoned him with a t nk which he recommended as salutary I 'dicine. t rhe conspiracy which brought the fa- r ais and infamous Catherine 11 to the t one was fitlv closed with the murder of e r husband, Peter III, against whom she s :1 rebelled. He was poisoned in prison s Alexis Orloff, who drugged his wine b iile they were dining together. b van Antonoviteh, the grandson of the v ir, Ivan Alexievitch, the elder half-broth- b of Peter the Great, was murdered in d son by the order of Catherine 11, a eon- y spiracy luiving been formed to place him on the throne. A conspiracy was formed in 1801 to place Alexander on the throne in place of his father, Paul 1. Alexander consented to the deposition of his father, though he did not know that it was the intention of the conspirators to murder him. Paul was, however, strangled to death in his bedroom. The assassination of the late Emperor, Alexander II, the great-grandson of the murdered Paul, on the 12th of March, 1881, is still fresh in the memory of all, so profound was the impression made by that tragic event, that it requires no more than passing mention here. THE MEXICAN SOMBRERO. The hat is beyond comparison the pet article of a Mexican's dress. Even the matter of the dents in the crown is used to convey a meaning. Four dents must be arranged in every sombrero. One on each side, one in front and one behind. The significance of this arrangement is that, when there was a difference of opinion in this country in regard to the rights of the church and the two parties were formed, one in x* xi- ^ u 1 ? :?i : x 4-u.. lavor 01 uic cuurcu uuu uuc uguiimi il, wic church party adopted this device as a distinguishing mark, and these four dents are intended to give the crown a rude form of the cross. There has been 110 burning question dividing the nation recently, so tne four dents have remained, as is the case with many other customs, long after their original significance has been forgotten. The sombrero is exactly analogous to a lady's bonnet. The only way in which the individual's taste is hampered is in regard to the general shape. The amount, style and cost of trimming is left wholly to the owner's will. The Mexicans have evolvedan article whose variations in trimming are positively bewildering. The band comes next as we descend from the crown. The most popular form now is a double coil of silver rope varying from one fourth to three-fourths of an inch in diiuneter. Before the band took its present form it was a heavy braid of silver cord, and the indications are that the cumbrous shape now in vogue will soon be superseded by several turns of lighter cord, occupying from two to four inches at the base of the crown. The chance for display which the brim affords is not slighted. There may be only a narrow ribbon of silver running around the outer edge, or, as is frequently the case it is wholy hidden by the amount of trimming 011 both the upper and under side of the brim. This silver ribbon is woven into various fanciful and intricate designs, an important element in the decoration of the hat. There is the utmost diversity of color among the sombreros, varying from pure white to simple black. Drab is the most used color, doubtless on account of the dust which at times is overwhelming. rni. x?1 J. lit; Jiuutrrmi yeut;iiiii<y uscu iui mc uuuiufacture of sombreros is felt with a smooth or furry finish as the owner may wish. Many fine sombreros of straw with trimmings of leather are seen. Silver is almost universally used as trimming, although gold is occasionally met. Indeed, the sombrero, both literally and figuratively, forms the crowning triumph of the Mexican's dress, and the amount of money which may be spent on it is only limited by the wishes of its owner.?Cor. of the Springfield Republican. Friendly "Yanks" and "Hers."?The ground which separated the pickets was covered with heavy timber. Strict orders had been issued against our men entering the neutral ground, as some of them had used it as a cover to desert to the enemy. The winter was very cold and wood was scarce and the little we could procure for the picket line had to be carried a mile on our shoulders. This seemed a hardship when there was so much wood just in front of us. One bitter cold day we concluded to disobey orders by cutting wood in front if our friends on the other side did not object. Not a shot had been exchanged since our * 1 ? * x 1 1 ail vent, a moiun previous ; in iaci, we imu not even had a glimpse of the "boys in blue," who, 110 doubt, were as anxious for some of the wood as we were. After pounding away for some time with our worn-out Confederate axes, an unarmed squad of Federals appeared, who greeted us with: "Hello, Johnnies! are you after wood ?" In a few minutes "Yanks" and "Rebs" were on the best of terms. Strange sight, but nevertheless true. The Federals tendered us the use of their sharp axes, which were readily accepted. Some of the Federals were so anxious to show their kind feelings for us that they actually helped us cut our wood ! This neighborly feeling existed as long as we remained there. Once some of I?Ar1at*nlo in*ri+n/*1 mafn tllPTYl Hit' 1 CVlUiaii? All v 1VVV( liiv w to their picket line and dine with them. I expressed grave doubts about getting back, but they assured me 011 their honor as soldiers that if I went they would see me returned safely. With this assurance I went and remained for more than an hour. They vied with each other in hospitality. But with all their assurances I felt ill at ease,, for I did not know what might prevent my return, and in such an event I would be classed as a deserter. But. true to their promise, I was safely returned. These facts may seem strange and improbable to the reader who did not participate in the late unpleasantness, but there art; thousands to-day who cherish the remembrance of many such incidents.?/^ iladelph ia Times. Florida Indians.?The green-corn dance of the Florida Indians is held in June and is attended by all the grown males and by some of the squaws. In the olden time it was the occasion of many bloody conspiracies against red or white neighbors; uow in Florida it brings a general settlement of Indian public affairs for the year. The tribal interests are discussed, causes and disputes are judicially heard and determined and sentence delivered and executed. At the dance at Parkers last year an adopted Negro was convicted of theft and sentenced to twenty lashes on the hare duck, which a cow-boy who was present says were exceedingly well laid on. A few years igo, on a similar occasion, a warrior of prominence was convicted of the murder of one Df his tribe and sentenced to death. He at mce delivered himself to his own family for execution and was shot dead by his brother in the presence of the assembly. No blood-feud follows this method of execution. The Indians are sufficiently inteligent. They nearly all speak English. You can scarcely extract a word from them vhen a half dozen are in company, but .vhen alone they will converse without hestaney. They raise corn, vegetables and donestic animals sufficient for their own use md some sell a considerable surplus to the :ow-boys. The Old Home.?A large portion of girls vho read this will some day love and marry. :t is well; it is right; but do not be in a lurry to grow up and go away from home, -life will never give you anything sweeter, letter, happier than you have. No love Hirer than your mother's; no care more tindly than".your father's, no companionhip like that of your brothers and sisters. 2ven to the man who loves you, you will lot be the Lily who was the baby once who earned to walk and prattle and was prettier han any other baby ever was; nor trie little firl who was so wonderfully a genius when he played the first tune on the piano or vorked the first book-mark. He who falls 11 love with you may have known twenty ither pretty girls, and have been, perhaps, .t some time in love with them. In some hings you will fall short of some one he has mown. Your eyes will not be so fine as hose of Miss Lavinia, and you will never nake cake as his mother does. Here at he old home you have been perfection; veil if prudence kept your parents from aying so, they cannot believe any one quite o nice as "our Lily." Then linger a little icre, where some one else shoulders the urdens and shields you from life's worry, /here the love is a love that does not change ecause of a new face, where the innocent ays of childhood have been passed?and our first and best home.?< hristian at Work..