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\ ^ i ii hum Iiiinw.i n-M-rrr-nrnw ____ -- , i ill Mi --- ?- mmr?imfm-m???r?imr-nrigi?? n?-. ? -rr'T - r^^irxnm&Maasaj lewis m. (srist, Proprietor. | % Jfnbtjpknf Jfamilg fUtosppr: Jfor fjjt ^promotion of fjjt |)oIititaI, Social, Hgriralfural anb Commercial Jnftrcsfs of % Soutj). j TERMS--$2.50 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE. VOL. 29. YORKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, ,JIJLY 26, 1883. NO. 3Q. ihe ^taru idler. PENELOPE, j ? BY MARY SEYMOUR. : PART I. There is, or was?for in those days of change it is dangerous to make oneself responsible for the stability of anything?a row of tall houses somewhat south of Kensington Road. The ground-floor was built for shops, and seemed to fulfill its destiny, but the inhabitants for the second, third and fourth floors were slow to arrive, although the top story, consisting of two rooms afforded an extensive view of roof and chimney-pot to the north, and of the I distant Surry hills to the south. Intending tenants seldom revelled in the | delight offered to them. Flight after flight ofuncarpeted wooden staircase frightened them away from the Elysium they might attain, and few indeed were those active and hopeful enough to reach the top. The interest and pleasure of the row may therefore be imagined when the two rooms on the fourth story of Number Three were really taken and occupied. The excitement reached its climax when the tenants were seen to be ladies, and guessed to be artists. Mr. Bradley, the spruce stationer 011 the ground-floor, was most pressing in his offers of assistance, and Eaward, the office-boy, invented messages of the most openly impossible character in order to obtain some sight of the glories of upstairs. He woula arrive opportunely with half a torn newspaper or a dusty unaddressed envelope, "which evidently belonged to the ladies," just as some specially tempting package was carried upstairs, and he considered himself a privileged mortal if allowed to assist at the unpacking of some of the pictures and busts, which found in ] him an admiring if not highly critical, observer. He advised as to the arrangement of peacock's feathers over the velvet hung mantelpiece, and toiled up and down willingly with coals or other uninteresting objects, making himself generally useful and civil, without, be it said, much hope of receiving many shillings in return, for shillings were scarce with the two girls who were making their first start in life. But if shillings were scarce, smiles were plentiful, and it is seldom that any rooms are furnished or arranged amid such peals of laughter as echoed through the two carpet. less apartments. It was when the two rooms were ready, one for work and the other for play, that the occasion was celebrated by a big afternoon tea party, at which a large and nondescript party assembled?many students from the neighboring school of art, a few stately ladies who represented either personally or vicariously possible pupils, and a small sprinkling of men; most of them kindly, eager, and critical, and entirely bored. Mr. Thomas Brown was in the latter category. His sister had brought him, and ?*" ttfi+K -fV?o AfhoTQ in i Witt UUW UlXXXtlXXlg iva nun luv wii.v.u ... the pretty back room where there was no space for him, and he stood in the work- : room, looking in a melancholy way at a Eicture on an easel, and trying to conceal ; is devouring anxiety to escape from the atmosphere of art-criticism. , "Now what do you think of that arm?" said a voice at his side; somehow there ] was an anxiety in the tone which surprised him j had any human being ever asked his < opinion upon a point of art before? "Is \ the attitude constrained or no?" He looked at the picture, at the straight , white-robed figure upon the canvas, at the \ calm impassive face, at the drooping arms i , which held a bunch of faded daffodils, at j the cold, uncertain background, and then turned to the speaker: , "I am afraid," he said honestly, "I know j nothing of drawing, and I don't understand this?" 1 "It is only a study, of course. I should not dare to give a name to an 01 mem, i ] ? but," with a quick glance which seemed at ^ once to recognize him as in no way a dan- 3 gerous critic, "in my own mind I mean it to be a Proserpine. I dare say you guessed , it from the faded daffodils. "She gathers i all things mortal with immortal hands." . Those lines were running in my head all J the time I was painting. But I am afraid ( that arm ts a little too stiff." She looked at the figure with regretful j eyes, and Mr. Brown took advantage of her 1 preoccupation to transfer hisattention from the canvas to herself. He liked her de- , cidedly better than her picture; she was a tall girl with rough curly brown hair, and " a pair of rosy cheeks which paint would j have found it difficult to reproduce on can- ; vas or human skin. She was nice to look at ; and different from other girls, Tom thought, j although there were hundreds of pretty ( women in London curiously like her, even j to her grey green frock and strings of am- ( ber beads, and the bunch of daffodils at her throat. "Do you know," she said, turning round " "I l/-v/.L-in(V im ?+ h!i>i witVi (i Villi. ailU iv/v/l\lllg W|? tvv VT ivn ?.? ./v.^ pressed on her lips, but gleaming in her ' eyes, "I suspect you have been horribly . bored this afternoon? You don't care for pictures, and no one has talked of anything else. I am so sorry, but what can I do to , amuse you? If you will only tell me what you do like, I will try to be sympathetic." , No man likes to find himself set on one ] side by a young and pretty woman, as unable to share in that which interests and de- , lights her, unless indeed he can only con- ' fess his ignorance as a proof of smiling superiority. Tom was too conscious of his . own demerits to do this^so he humbly said that all he asked for was instruction in the art, and perhaps she would kindly show 111111 ?U111C 111U1C [UIUUW (iiiu vA/ui|/iviv education. The young lady was a person of tact, and in the works showed him dwelt but little on idea or execution, amusing him rather by pointing out the various appearances of a table-cloth, the original of wnich hung upon ( the wall, or to the tapestried hangings of a lady's bower, the carpet of a presencechamber, and the covering of a dying knight. , Encouraged by finding that art has its ludicrous side, he launched into friendly criticism, and ruined himself in the eyes of his comjianion, by going into ecstacies over the , "real appearance" of a flower pot in the , sketch she showed him of some quaint old houses in Chester. "Ti I 1? I T....+ A,.nnH? +V,n ^,1 It 1UU1V3 3U ICrtl . U U.ll CAilV/liJ tUU iUi you so often see," he went on, unconscious of his companion's growing sense of the gulf between them. - "I can't think how you manage it." The artist hurriedly removed the work and substituted sometningelse; a red sky all aglow with color, and a foreground of dark i houses with two or three tall laddefs against the crimson. "Oh, I like thai," cried the young man, : ingeniously speaking from his heart; "it reminds me of Venice." < "It is the memory of a sunset in the City ! Road," she said, demurely." "The City Road!" and his tones fell from appreciative criticism to depreciative contempt at once. "i teach drawing in a city school, and walking westward clown the City Road from my work, I see some lovely skies. I only ] wish I could remember them better, for, j after all, one can only paint what one sees. | I am glad you like it." For being a sensible young woman, this eager artist cared something for what the j outside world liked as well as for what the artistic circle discussed apd admired. "It reminded me of Venice," lie made re- . ply, in a gratified tone. "Ah ! you have been to Venice. Now," with a perfect simplicity that showed that she was unconscious of the strangeness of the question, "how much did your journey cost you?" Tom Brown hesitated. lie hud spent a fortnight in Paris, on his way to Italy, and ; stayed at one or two other places en route; j pi it was not easy to say at once within fifty I bl pounds of what he had spent. J ei The girl seeing his hesitation, misinter- j hi preted it. To be poor without shame, to fc discuss ways and means openly, to try and \ hi save pounds and shillings was the custom of. those amongst whom she lived; but she m knew there were some of the outside world te to whom such a confession brought shame ir and discomfort, and she spared her compan- tl ion the possible ignomy with a woman's tl tact. n< "Oh, well! I am afraid your expenses b; would be no guide to us. Men spend in si some ways so much more and in others so much less than women, that one gets little ai help from hearing the costs of their travels, at I cannot have enough money to do it for p} another two years, for we could not do it es under twenty pounds apiece." to "Twenty pouncis:- ne suuuiuereu. \\ "You think that extravagant?" gravely. ai "Well, we might manage with eighteen, 0t but then we must never have any food in f0 the middle of the day, and that makes one hi tired before evening." fi< Tom did not protest, for a minute he p, thought she might be laughing at him, but, th when he looked at her he saw that she was fr lost in thought, and that her gray eyes had a jn clouded look or disappointment. He won- hi dered for the first time in his comfortable, hi rich, sleek life if there really were women ri who talked like ladies, who looked like la- m dies, who were ladies, and yet who seemed ti to think it was a possible thing to go hungry er for many days to see a rather dull foreign w town. sk "After all," said the cheerful voice which fe wasaspleasanttohis ear as a familiar sound, d( "it is foolish to complain. Here, or 110- hi where, is our America." th He had time to think over this last enig- th matical sentence and to admire the curly n< rings of short brown hair which lay upon 0r her white forehead and almost hid it from view, for she did not speak again; the ut- u] terance of her wish had brought back in a in resistless tide her yearning for the land she f0 hardly hoped to see. The two oddlv-assorted people whom (p chance had brought together for the nonce y< stood side by side as widely separated in to hopes and sympathies as if they had been th born in different hemispheres. But there ju are touches which make the whole world feel its kinship. And at this moment the b( door of the other room opened, andamys- in terious voice cried: (lf "Pen, milk!" "The yonng lady started.' The young s\rl miillihr ot llifl r\i/?+nro iri fVfint'. ilUUl 1UUIVCU guiiuij (XV vuv pvvwiv A14 of him. as "Oh we have run short of milk; we always do," she said, smiling. "I must go out and get some. I wonder if you would Jij mind, my partner, Miss Burton, is so busy, ({( I wonder if you would mind letting me in." "Letting you in? I should be delighted, o-r but " fn "You see we are four stories up, and it bl takes a good while to go up and down. p$> Will you come down with me and wait by the hall-door until I return ?" a She putting on her gloves and buttoning them carefully as she spoke; then snatch- ^ ing up a hat in one hand and a milk jug in the other, she went out of the room before ^ her companion fully realized the fact that ^ this young lady was going out unabashed to -h fetch milk. *o He followed her, without attempting to ra frame any theory of life which should nt in ar with her extraordinary conduct. The stair- ^ case was very dark, and he stumbled some- ~r ivhnt, as bp wont down, on which the vouner lady apologized. m "I ought to have brought a light, for I w shall have to leave you without one whilst I ar imgone. Ihopeyoudon'tmindthedark?" "I am very nervous and I am afraid I jn shall scream directly your protecting pres- ai] snce is withdrawn," he made answer, at- ^ tempting a joke now that he was relieved *w, from the oppressive effects of art. SI1 "You will have plenty of practice, then," ar said Penelope, "for you may scream for pii liours, and no one up stairs will hear you." "Perhaps, then, I may leave you to face ?r these dangers, and fetch the milk for you?" |v They were by the hall-door now, and his 0[. hand was on the handle, a single ray from (jj the gas-lamp outside falling on her smiling n, race. "You don't know the shop and you would ju spiM the milk to a certainty," she replied. ^ "Besides I am used to fetching milk, and jn probably you are not. You see there is no pi bell. I shall rattle the letter box when 1 . ome back." (lj So saying she weut out into the street and left ths young man to think out the situa- p( tion at his leisure. ^ The milk tasted none the worse for the ^ way in which it had been brought in, and jn Penelope poured him out a cup of tea with jp pretty, apologetic hospitality, when she s0 found lie had been neglected, and he drank it in the show-room where the peacock's m feathers adorned the mantelshelf. Whilst s. lie sipped it slowly he recognized with that (r, :lelignt atperceiving afamiliar object which is the rudimentary stage of art criticism, ip Dne or two water-colors on the wall. "You know Cambridge, 1 see?" "Yes; do you?" "I was at Caias some years ago. Have cc you been there often ?" n] "1 used to go rather often when my sister p( was at Girton." :1( "Girton? Oh!" p] The sudden blank expression of fuce, the [j, sudden fall of the voice, were familiar ex- (j, periences to Penelope when she spoke of her sister, but she had her own amusement out of the situation, a private source of never failing amusement in comparing her sister as she was with the speaker's probable idea "r h,'r- . i? "Laura," she said to her partner, as soon as the guests were gone, "who was the man you allied Mr. Brown ?" "There were two Browns," said prudent . Laura, raking the coals out of the fire, "one -L a rich man, brother of Mrs. Burlington, and the other?" , "My one isn't rich." "The other writes for the papers." "I wish I wrote for the papers then. He makes it pay, he's been to Venice. I won- .f der what The Times will send me if I remit ' them an account of my travels, illustrated!" , "Been done too often," was the laconic : answer. "I always knew I was born fifty years too . late. Everything has been done already!" "Not everything, for the tea-things want washing ujk Don't be lazy, Penelope; I P: am sure it is time to be going home." U1 PART II. If Tom had some difficulty in reconciling si his companion's social position, general ap- G pearance and evident culture with the terri- tl Ma untimiu nf wllicll vVlA VVSI.C flli 1 tv. lope experienced no shock of incongruity in h comparing liis supposed occupation with his J mental powers. With feminine rapidity, ai Penelope decided that 3Ir_ Brown wrote n short articles on society, for certain journals w more remarkable for flippancy of tone than i elevation of sentiment or depth of erudition, ol She was soon confirmed in tnds belief, for the r: next time that she met him was when she was copying one of Moroni's portraits in the National Gallery, lie appeared to have no particular business there, and stood chatting to her for half an hour, whilst she painted, paying little attention to the pictures, but ei discussing the people around with good hu- ti mored interest. She supposed he was col- ol lecting materials for a series of articles on ii London picture galleries. On one point she ci was convinced?he was not looking at pic- k tures from an artist's poi nt of view, and g therefore, she took some trouble to give him b a little superficial information on the sub- v ject, with a hope of thus bringing his read- S ers to a knowledge of higher things. She ai even told her sister that she was educating o the British public by mean-s of a stray jour- si nalist. ii "Where on earth do you see him ?" asked o Marian, looking m? from t'rio papers she was s< correcting. 9 "At the National Gallery," Penelope re-j1 tied, swinging to and fro the tassel of the 11 lind. It was a lovely evening toward the ! i id of May, and she was enjoying a lazy | j alf-hour after tea. "He is writing articles i1 ?r some paper?a series of social notes?and ' e is just now at the Trafalgar Square stage." < Marian accepted the account of the young < lan's appearance upon the stage of her sis- 1 t's life in the same spirit of simple faith ! i which Penelope offered it. To both ofj< lem, and to most of their friends, the idea j I lat any ulterior motive must exist would jver have presented itself, and if suggested 1 Y others, would have been rejected as ab- f ird. 1 Tom listened patiently to the lectures on '> t, quite unconscious that Penelope was 1 Idressing through him the average news- < iper reader, and thus educating the mass- < i. As he never volunteered any remark as < > his profession or means of livelihood, it 1 as obviously unnecessary for her to make ] ly suggestion concerning the one or the < :her; but having framed her theory, she und no difficulty in fitting in with it alike ] is actions and his words. It would be difjult to overrate the peculiar charm which 1 "?~1 o/?4-1??a orv???i+ AvAtdn/1 r.\mr 1 tJIltJlUptJ 5 (jUlCiV) ilVUVC 0|aixv v^Avi v\v? v? vi i ie slower, calmer mintl thus brought into i equent contact with hers , but it is not her < tellectual superiority which attracted him, it rather her attitude towards life. He id never before, among all the comfortable 1 ch people who were his daily associates, i et with anything like the keen apprecia- ; on of the simplest pleasure, the intense l ijoyment of the most ordinary beauties, 1 hichhe found in this girl, whom a sunset ! :y, a waltz played by a German band, or a 1 w lines of poetry, seemed to move to sud- 1 ?n, unaffected happiness. If she worked ] ird, the light of intense earnestness made ; ie hours of toil bright with hope, and filled i te playtime with the sunshine of a gladjss too real to be for an instant conscious i obtrusive. i "I woncler if there is anything you don't i ke, Miss Thursby," he said, one hot day ] . June, when she had laid aside her work < r a few minutes. ? "Thousands of things," she answered i lickly ; "but why think of them ? Three jars ago, wheamy sister and I first began } consider life seriously, we decided that i ie best way of being useful was to work st as hard as we could, and to be as happy \ ;tween whiles as life would allow us, and j ?sides," she stopped suddenly, "I am go- ( ig to a dance on the 28th, and I do love uicing." j "I did not know you cared for it." , "It is a fancy dress ball; I have never ( en one, and 1 am so glad .Mrs. ijurnngtou f ked us." ( "Mrs. Burlington?oh, I shall be there." f "I am glad," her eyes danced with de- \ *ht. "Shall you be in fancy dress? What j ) you mean to be ?" x { "I think I shall go as a fool," said Tom j imly. His sister was not yet forgiven for J sisting upon his presence. "I shall proba- ^ y be the only man there who can look the | irt he has undertaken." f Penelope remembered this speech when, ] fortnight later, she saw the uneasy aspect \ the men who, decked in strange array, ked her to dance, or solemnly paraded < ist her, some with complete consciousness < id open defiance of public opinion as to ( eir absurdity, some with unconcealed < amefacedness, and some with jaunty self- j nfidence. The women, who were in the ( ajority, enjoyed the situation amazingly id contrived, apparently at least, to lose > e sense of their own absurd and inconuous costumes in the contemplation of j eir neighbors. Tom's eyes scanned the j otley crowd eagerly for the tall figure c hich he expected to see in classic drapery id stately repose, and it was a consequent ( ock to him to discover Penelope, dressed s a short silk skirt and flowered chintz, [ id waltzing with a very unnautical-looking ] ilor. He had plenty of opportunity for ; atching her face, across which a dozen i liles were flitting, some of them lingering ] id deepening into a laughter, as her com- ( mion talked energetically and waltzed . nguidly. Tom felt an unwarrantable de- \ ee of anger at the good understanding be;een the two, and almost came to the con- ( usion that a keen enjoyment of life, when . splayed in the society of other people, ! ay have its drawbacks. ] When the waltz was over, and Penelope ] id smiled at him, he made his way across < e room to her, and asked her for a dance, < . a way which made the sailor feel, as it was < obably intended to do, that his presence ( as unnecessary, and caused him rapidly to sappear. I "Do you call that a fancy dress ?" said , enelope, pointing to a row or two of gold aid on Tom's'dress-clothes. "It is a mere , 1am ; all the same I am glad," with a re- \ embrance as to his sensitiveness about oney, "that you are not dressed up like j une of the others." There was an unconscious acknowledged of responsibility for his doings in this 1 >eech, which went to Tom's heart and atified it; but Penelope was only actuated , / a desire to what she felt to be a false : ove. "May I ask what you are ?" She looked at him with affected surprise. "nmi'f vnn unn T nm Ifnrv Afnrv_ <mite ntrary? You ought to have recognized iy silver bells and cockle-shells," as she . jinted to the ornaments of her costume, >r was the pretty maid wanting to comlete the rhyme, as the smiles brought out , le dimples in her rosy cheeks, and her eyes ; meed to the music. ] "I am afraid I was very stupid, but I exacted to see you in classical dress." "To draw the attention of the world to , iy un-Greek profile," turning her face so iat he saw the outline of an unclassical, it most charming nose. "The power of (cognizing and submitting to the inevitale is the mark of the true artist. How ell you dance," she said, after they had ined the crowd, and paused for the want * space. "It is nice, isn't it ?" Tom agreed cordially, but dances were irdly the sources of keen enjoyment to im that they were to his partner. "I wonder if you ever did anything very icked," she went on after a pause, "and you found it successful. There are some >ses in the refreshment-room that I am ydng to steal; but if I take them I am raid they will be dead before to-morrow." "Why are those special roses so eharm?g?" "Just the color for my picture. I am linting in the cloisters at Westminster, id I must have some bits of color on the j- 1 XI X II rey stunt!, una must; ure tuu [iui juui. Tom's interest in the roses fiuled us lie eard of the Westminster cloisters. If she as painting there it was obviously imposble that she should also be in the National ullery, whence he had missed her during le last fortnight. "Marian," said Penelope, as they drove ome in a hansom in the early dawn of une, "my converted journalist was there, ml thought you the prettiest girl in the >0x11. It was such a joke to see his face hen I told him you were my Girton sister, flatter myself that if I have done nothing Ise in life, 1 have shaken that young man's unpant Philistinism." I'AliT III. The cool and shady cloisters were not mpty of life and human interest when Tom lrned into them from the glare and bustle f Westminster. A few artists were sketchlg more or less industriously, and a small *owd of admirers were watching, more or ;ss, critically. lie had no trouble in distinuishing his own special artist in her big lack hat, with her eyes as full of life and ivacity as they had been the night before, omething darkened them, for an instant, * Tom drew near; it was only the shadow f a shade, and the old look came back as le shook hands with him, and deepened lto a warmer sense of happiness as ne held ut to her a bunch of roses, of the very crimen she had admired the previous night. "Roses! Forme? Oh ! thank you. How ?ood of you to think of me. Did you get them from the country to-day?" For roses ire plentiful in June even for Londoners, ind Penelope had buried her face in more than one friendly bunch before to-day. Tom was spared, however, the necessity of explanation or prevarication, for her quick eyes had caught sight of the wires and the way in which the flowers were fastened. "These flowers came from Covent Garden; lid you," her voice faltered a little?the offense was enormous?"did you buy them?" Tom tried to say he stole them, but Penelope did not attend to his joke, which no observer would have suspected to be anything but a solemn appeal for mercy, had his voice md manner alone been considered. She J* .'iu wenron painting wiui acciuiin iw olution which revealed a new phase in her character. After a pause she asked, without lifting her eyes from her painting, and with a touch of embarrassment which surprised herself quite as much as it did her companion: "Mr. Brown, do you come here with a purpose?" Tom felt and looked guilty. He was a little astonished at the question, but he had long ceased to wonder at any of Penelope's ictions, and he had reached a stage at which ?riticism was impossible. Otherwise, her words might have startled him. "Because if you really find it helps you to think," she went on, quite recovering her usual composure as she discovered that the young man was unable to resent her interference in his affairs, "you cannot call it a waste of time. My sister says when she has mything which worries her she can often think it out by sitting quietly here and listening to the service in the Abbey." Tom fiumbly thought he could do the same, and seated himself in one of the arches to think out the subject which interested him. "You know," said Penelope, dropping back into her old confidential tones, as she was reassured that Tom was really at work upon his interesting series of articles, "I do lot approve of waste of time or money," with a severe look at the roses beside her. 'You bought them and you ought not to throw away vour money like that." "Indeed, roses are very cheap in June," urged Tom, who had never considered whether the month was June or December. "In any case you must not, please, buy things for me," Penelope concluded with a ?rave air of dignity, which completed Tom's liscomfiture. He might have got up and gone away, but there was no place in London so exactly suited for a hot June day as these quiet iloisters, cool and shady, with the green square of grass in the centre, and the quaint >1(1 houses beyond, creamy against a blue iky. The busy world outside was forgotten. rhe children, or foreigners, who wanaerea jy, guide-book in hand, lowered their voices incl slackened their steps under the arches, it seemed to Tom, whose imagination was lot, however, of a high order, that he and ;he girl in the gray linen frock were the only avo really living creatures in a world of shadows, who came and went in a purposeess fashion and were forgotten as soon as they disappeared. "It is nearly finished," said Penelope, as >he scattered the roses on the pavement. T hope you are getting on well and that I io not disturb you by talking. I wish, for pour sake, some Americans would come iiere and criticise me loudly, but the place is impty to-day." "There seems to be no one here but ourselves." "Wait a minute?twelve is striking. Look!" She pointed as she spoke to the ong, dark, arcned passage which led into a sunny paved court beyond. The whole place seemed, as Tom said, leserted, but at the last stroke of twelve a sudden rush of life and energy broke like i stream of sunshine into its quiet and silence. It was only the boys coming out of school, the dignity and deliberation of the seniors being concealed by the enthusiastic rush of the rosy cheeked juniors?white ollared little boys, who were dispersed in ill directions before Tom had time to realize the meaning of the seene. Penelope had friends amongst the youngir ones, as she had nearly everywhere imongst all classes and all ages, railway porters and policemen, public-school boys aid overworked nurse-girls. Nobody could resist the charm of her face and manner who was not wrapped in a triple mail ol JUI1 V C1111 Uilcll I UI1V4 IVI4M V? v.. such were moved by the unconscious grace jf her smile. As it struck one o'clock she laid down her brush and turned to Tom, to whom she had not spoken for at least ten minutes. "Are you hungry? she asked. 1 am, desperately. I think I can have some lunch to-day; wait until 1 look." She drew out her purse and turned slowly over its contents. "I have just fourpenec to spare; will you 50 and buy some biscuits?" Tom professed his readiness to go anywhere, and listened to the details as to the place, nature and amount of the purchase with proper respect. He had never imagined that any human being could pay sc much heed to the best method of expending fourpence, and extract so much pleasure from the process. "There is more than four pennyworth in the bag," she declared when lie returned t<. her side; but she was satisfied with hi> humble acknowledgment that he had spent an equal sum on liis own account. Thej litis their biscuits in the little cloisters secluded from passing strangers, and studied the plants in the centre garden with scien tifie curiosity whenever an approaching footstep warned them of a possible intruder. "Biscuit do crumble so," said Penelopt plaintively, they betray one to the public but they are delicious food." Tom thought them a little unsatisfying but would not have acknowledged it for the world. It was part of this dreamland intr which he had found his way that the ver\, food should be wanting in substantiality. "I am going now," Penelope said wlier four o'clock had struck, "and I am going tc take home all my belongings, for the picture is really finished, really and truly, thougl I might stay here for another fortnight wor rying myself about details. As you are here, perhaps you will help me to carry mj easel to the station." She spoke as if an easel six feet high were a trifle which most men carry in their dailj walks, and certainly never suspected tha she was making a heavy claim upon hei companion's courtesy. "Marian does not like newspaper par eels," she went on, happily unconscious o Tom's feelings, as she rolled up her paint brushes in her J)aUtj News. "But I thin! it mere nonsense to care whether youi brushes are done up in brown papei or 110." Thus Tom started from the Abbey carry intr iin easel accompanied by a girl beariiu ii big canvas, a newspaper parcel, and he; wet palette, lie felt the absurity of th< situation, but was tickled still more by (lis covering how little the world saw of this absurdity. Nobody seemed in the least sur prised at meeting him thus laden, and tin couple made their way to the St. James Park Station without exciting any com men from the passers-by. He once suggested a hansom, but Pcne lope was so obviously convinced that her pos session of a return ticket was a compleh barrier to the perpetration of any such ex travagance, that he did not venture to re peat his suggestion. "I did rather hope?" Penelope spoke ii a more depressed voice than was usual t< her; "I did rather hope that some Ameri can would come to-day, and take a fancy t< my j'icture. I think an American ouglv to want a picture of Westminster." "I know of plenty of English people wh< would like to have it," Tom answered a: he nearly tumbled over the legs of the easel "It is a long way prettier than any of tin pictures I have." Penelope concluded he had a collection o chromolithographs, and sighed to thinl that as yet his education in art had 110 reached the most elementary stage of elas' sification. "There are a couple of Wilsons my fathi er was very proud of, and they are not to } be compared with your picture." | The young man was in love, and must be j forgiven for the audacity of his statement, | but it was not the comparison which startled Penelope. "A couple of Wilsons! Oh, where are I they?" "I have not got them in town, they are down at my place in the country." "At your place in the country." Penej lope said mechanically. Then sne stopped j and looked at him with a strange expression in her face. "Mr. Brown, don't you { write for the papers?" i "I am afraid not," said Tom, laughing at i her look of absolute blank amazement. "Are you Mrs. Burlington's brother?" "Did you not know 1 was?" "No, certainly not," said Penelope curtly, resuming her walk. She did not speak again ; a sudden dark curtain seemed to have fallen between her and her companion ; she was only conscious of a pain which drove her into indignation and yet made her cautious of speech. Unluckily, Tom took the one step a woman cannot forgive; he attempted to joke when time? AAIi nrv nnnfnlv I J51IC >YilO lUCiiug avukvij I "Are you angry with me because I don't write for a newspaper? It is the editor's fault, not mine, I assure you." Penelope turned her eyes 011 him with sudden, and to his mind, unprovoked passion. "I don't care what you write for, but I do think you should not have deceived me in this matter. I hate rich people; they are all selfish and self-absorbed, and I wish 1 had never seen you." They were at the station by now. and she held out her hand for her easel, out Tom answered her very gently: "I do not like to hear you say that; but you must let me see you into the train anyhow." The situation was comic, the surroundings commonplace, but human feelings declined to adjust themselves to external circumstances, and there were the elements of real misery in Tom's heart as he managed to dispose of his charge and her unmanageable belongings in the railway carriage, and received her cold bow and "thank you" in reply. Penelope was singularly silent all the evening, restless over her needlework and unable to read. At last she said abruptly: "Marian have you ever thought about Hcli npnnle ?" * *v" jr?l? Marian lifted her beautiful face from the book she was studying, and waited for an explanation. Her position as a teacher to a class of thirty-five girls, had made her cautious about answering remarks of very wide application. "I mean do you hate them?all!" "Hate them! No, Pen, dear, why do you ask? I hope we shall never be rich. I think much money makes people blind to the real meaning of life, but there are people who never could discover it under any circumstances, and it is just as well that they should no wealthy, comfortable and commonplace." Seldom had Marian's eloquence produced so much effect. She was surprised herself at the result, as Penelope threw down her work and burst into a sudden passion of tears. Tears were not common in their home. A laughing disregard of the inconveniences of poverty; a brave endurance of unsuccess; a half comic, half-seriousdespair over disappointment ; and a genuine enjoyment of all innocent pleasures?these were among the moods of both sisters; but tears, sobs and low spirits were rare. "Don't, darling, you're too tired. 1 tell ' you what, we will have a holiday on Saturday; I saved seven shillings on my hat yesnn/1 IIJO will llOtTQ O flllU fill tllP riVPT IT 1 Uttvy ) ilii'.l >V w ma JUi vv u utvj vi4 vnv J and get a good rest." "Let us take Lizzie Morris then," said Penelope, drying her eyes in a shamefaced way. "She has so few pleasures that we ought to do something for her." 1 PART IV. The boating party came off, but Lizzie Morris did not share the pleasure as Penelope had anticipated. A chance word from , Penelope at her drawing-class next day made Mrs. Rurlington acquainted with the , plan, and nothing would satisfy that kindly lady but that the sisters should join a river party, at which she was expecting a large number of friends. Penelope accepted, with some misgivings as to Marian's approval, 1 which were needless, for, when the sisters met, it was Marian who first apologized that she could not keep her engagement; she had promised to look over some examination C. mi.at | pupcis lUi il ICIIUM ICilLIIbl, UIIU UIV..1V. iiiuov be done on Saturday. Her only regret was ' that Penelope must lose her holiday ; she was proportionately rejoiced at the arrangement suggested by her sister. Thus it came ' to pass that Penelope formed one of a large 1 and merry party which started under a ' blazing sun from Richmond Bridge. At first the heat was oppressive, but by degrees the sun sank lower, and Penelope 1 found pleasure in everything; in the boats 1 that passed and repassed ; in the swans sail' ing by; in the coolness of the water in which j she dipped her hand; in the delicious strawberries and cream which she and her companions ate as they sat upon the river's L bank and waited for the kettle to boil. II " she was not quite happy she shut her eyes ' willfully to the truth and almost persuaded herself that she was perfectly happy. "My dear Miss Thursby, I am afraid you < have made no sketches. Can you see Kingston Bridge? Jt would look delightful now, j I know." ! Penelope took its charms upon faith, for ' there was no possibility of using sight in the matter. "Oh, you must make a little sketch. Tom 1 do take Miss Thursby out in your little boat ' for ten minutes, to sketch the bridge ; you } j will have time before the kettle boils. Miss 1 Thursby, 1 think you know my brother? " Air. Brown." I The two bowed silently, as fate, represented by Mrs. Burlington, brought them together in unexpected proximity. Neither i seemed inclined to speak until they were : well in sight of the bridge, and then Tom t only asked her if he should keep the boat r steady. The boat was steadier than Penelope's hand, which shook a little as she put " together a few hurried lines. She was natu' rally uncomfortable as she remembered the " way in which she had last met him. : "I think that will do, thank you," she r said, after a few minutes; "lam sorry to r have given you the trouble." C!lt/v Irvrvl.-/-*/! of Iiuyi no ulin oc if in OIHJ ai llllll uo OHVy i;^vnv| uu *? ... - defiance of lier own feelings; the sun was in f her eyes, or something else dazzled and cour fused her, and at that moment a bustling J little steam launch came puffing around the - corner. Penelope pulled first one tiller-rope s and then the other. " "Oh, what am I to do," she cried, com~ pletely losing her head ; "I don't know , which to pull." 1 " Don't pull either," said Tom very steadily ; "drop them both at once." Penelope obeyed instinctively, for Tom spoke in a tone which enforced obedience, - and gave her confidence, sis he pulled a - stroke which brought the bows of their little - craft out of danger, just as the steam-launch sent forth a whistle more ferocious than the i objurgations of her steersman, i "That was my fault," Penelope owned penitently. i Tom did not answer. They were drawing t near the rest of their party, and his chance was slipping away. ) "Miss Thursby, lie began with severity, s which would have appeared absurd to a third person, but which by no means bore i that character to his solitary listener, "what do you think of a man that despises anothf er because ho is poor?" c Penelope muttered a few words which t Tom did not appear to hear. "I think you would call him a snob would j you not ? Well, then, 1 don't see that it is I any fairer to despise a man because he has too much monev than because he has too little." It was not a long or eloquent sermon, but produced a result which more elaborate and more lengthy disquistions have often failed to effect?it convicted its hearer. Penelope, during the whole of the cool, quiet row home, was thinking over the astonishing fact that this young Philistine whose education she had been attempting, had rebuked her for her narrow-mindedness and had rebuked her justly. The party broke up at Richmond, and it was natural that Mr. Brown should promise to see Penelope home, as the girl was the only one to travel by the Metropolitan railway; but she would have given much I to escape from the escort which was as a j matter of course to the rest of the party. Tom took her ticket and his own, and then when they were seated in a first-class compartment, was annoyed at ids o<vn thoughtlessness, for the shabby little purse which Penelope drew out, was emptier than when Ik; had hist seen it. She insisted upon his receiving the money, without listening to a word of excuse, and then sat silently looking out of the window, watching the lamps as they flashed past. Suddenly she turned to him, and with a return to her old simple manner, spoke: "Mr. Brown, you are quite right and I was quite wrong in what I said. I begyour pardon. I am sure it ought not to make the slightest difference whether one is rich or no, but one cannot outgrow one's prejudices." She smiled as she spoke, her bright eyes looking at him with friendliness and forgiveness. "I wish my money was at the bottom of the sea," he answered, "if it is to separate me from you; fori love you better than anything in the world, Penelope. I think you know that." She looked upon him with unabashed eyes of sweet surprise, which were sufficient to stem the words upon his lips; but it was impossible to stop there and lie spoke a few hurried words, which were, however, clear enough to her ear. "On no?no," she said at last; "it could never be?we are so different, and have such jm* a i; tvin uuiurem 11VC3. X UU UUI1 l XUio 1U1 Hie things I care for." "1 care for you," said Tom, unwilling to profess, even then, any deep devotion to art. "Please say no more about it." Penelope answered decidedly. "It would never do, I know." It was not a courteous or considerate reply, but it is difficult to suppose that any answer could take the sting from "No !" Tom, at all events, accepted it as final, and did not attempt to reopen the question. Penelope's unabashed self-possession was destructive of hope, and if he bore himself with an outward calm to match her own, he suffered none the less keenly. "Indeed, it would never do," she began again when they had left the train and were walking to her home through the narrow streets. "You will be .glad some day that I was wiser than you, and saw how little we were suited to one another. Tom urged no answer; he had always had a very honest conviction that Penelope was too good for him, and he felt equally clear now that the one thing which might have made them equals could never bring them together. If she had loved him, she could never have spoken as she did. They paused on the doorsteps of her lodgings. "I will wish you good-bye here then; 1 do not suppose I shall see you again, but I should like you to know that, though you could not love me, you have made me very happy, dear." Penelope did not answer; for the first time she realized that Tom must be all or nothing to her ; that she must be ready to put her hand in his and face the world with him, or never touch his hand or see his face again. The choice had been her own, only she had not understood how much she had been setting aside. He waited some time for her to speak, in vain ; then lifting her hand in his, he touched it very gently with his lips, and left her without another word. He had not gone ten paces when he heard her steps behind him. "No ! don't go?don't go without saying good-bye." lie turned; tears were running down her cheeks, and her voice was indistinct with emotion. "I don't mean anything more than just to say good-bye but then, in spite of trainingand tradition, Tom kissed his sweetheart under the gaslamp, regardless of possible passers-by. "Going to marry a rich man, who knows nothing of art and never reads a book ! Pen, Pen ! my darling Pen !" was Marian's cry. "For such a marriage some one must sacrifice a e-reat deal, and I don't think it will be the man. You will have everything against you?different tastes, different habits, different views of life." "It is quite true," said Penelope wistfully t wisting her hands in a distressed way quite new to her : "it is quite true; but, Marian, I don't know how it is?it is an absurd thing to say, and I don't like it myself?but," coming nearer and kneeling beside her sister, so that she might murmur in her ear, "I am afraid I really do love him." She hardly, breathed the words above a whisper, but no argument could have silenced Marian so completely as did that half broken murmur. What answer could be made? i Story of tileCustkk Massacre.?Since General Custer and his command of three hundred were massacred by the braves of Sitting Bull, two or three* accounts have been given which purported to be a correct history of the fight. But of the particulars of the scene there have been only meagre accounts, me 1'ioneer i'rests now pumiMios an interview between a correspondent at Standing Rock Agency and the wife of Tatatukahegleska, or Spotted Horn Bull. , This woman is tirst cousin to Sitting Bull, and the storv is vouched for as being a true account of the battle. After describing the advance and retreat of Major Reno?whom she declared to be either drunk or crazy, and his men thoroughly panic-stricken? the woman stated that the retreat and its consequent slaughter was scarcely ended when the blare of Custer's trumpets told the Sioux of his approach; but tney were prepared for him. The men quietly crossed the river, and hundreds galloped to his rear, out of range at tirst, but, soon hemming him in constantly narrowing circles. rni? ? *?/! ! 1 lilt? WUIIUUl luuuiucu net jjvtwj turn iuiav behind her camp, where she could get a good ; view of the hills beyond. .She saw the i troops come up and dismount. Each fourth man seized the bridles of three horses besides his own. The rest deployed and advanced . on the run toward the river. She saw the terrible effect of the withering fire which greeted the approach from the willows on the Indians' side of the stream, and laughed i as she said: "Our people, boys and all, had plenty of guns and ammunition to . kill the new soldiers. Those who had run away left them behind." Slowly trotting north along the outskirts of the encampment, she noted the Indians who had crossed getting closer to the troops. She watched the latter?those who were left of them? retreat to their horses and mount. She heard the yells of her kindred and the shouts of the whites; but soon, as the former grew plentierand the latter fewer, she could distinguish little save here and there an animated cluster of men and horses. Slowly the pony jogged down the stream. When she reached the Minneconjoeamp, on the extreme left, not an hour's ride, she said not one white soldier was visible on the field. Of horses there were plenty ; these the Indians spared. The Custer men were soon stripped, and the Indians knew they had killed the long-haired chief; by his buckskin coat trimmed with beaver which they found upon him. The Sioux lostthirty killed and more than twice as many wounded, the Indians numbering five thousand in all. IpSttltaBeflttis Reading. OUR PUBLIC HIGHWAYS. ANOTHER LETTER ON THE SUBJECT FROM SENATOR BUTLER. Edgefild, July 11. "Let us visit all countries of the earth, and wherever we find no facilities for traveling from a city to a town, or from a village to a hamlet, we may presume the people to be barbarians."' This sentiment was uttered by a French writer of distinction about the middle of the 18th century, something more than a hundred years ago. Now, while we have some "facilities for traveling from a city to a town or from a village to a hamlet," I am afraid in parts of the country, and between a number of our "cities and towns" and nf our "viMacros and hamlets." we have not such "facilities" as will take us entirely out of the category embraced in this sweeping statement. I am sure I should feel inclined to resent the imputation of "barbarian ism" if it should be applied to this locality, and yet if "facilities for traveling" j is to be construed as referring to public highways, and they are to be the measures of our advancement in civilization, I do not see how I could well escape the impeachment. Many of our highways are public roads only in name. We manage to get over them after a fashion, but they cannot be said to afford "facilities for traveling." In many places their location is faulty, their construction worse and their maintenance superlatively bad, and it makes one feel like a "barbarian" or heathen, whatever may be his pretentions to a civilized existence, every time he travels over a "chronic case" of bad road. I have tried to find some way out of the "old ruts" and at the same time adhere to our present system of public-road working, but have not succeeded. 1 do not believe there is a way out except by changing the law. The force provided by law is strong enough in num- i bers and muscle, but tne machinery for utilizing the force is defective and inefficacious. It does not operate efficiently. You may bind together an army of the best fighting material in the world, and however skillful and able the general, without organization and discipline they will be no more effective in military operations than a mob. You may assemble upon the public highways of South Carolina a hundred thousand or a hundred and fifty thousand of the most stalwart laborers to be found, to work and keep them in repair, and if there is no other inducement to make them do their work well than their own volition, and the presence of an overseer or superintendent, they had almost as well be at home. There is really no other inducement under our system, unless you take into account the sentiment of patriotism and the meager penalties provided in the statute. Patriotism never worked a road fit for a goat to travel from the days when the Roman consuls and praetors made their enduring "ways" to the last spasmodic efforts on the Horn's Creek Hills in this county. And the-"penalties" have few terrors for the average road I linn/l \\rrt nlonn in flirt rtlir (Yllllltv IiailUl TV V/ jilWVV AAA VliV ilUUUU Vi V,V4. VV'V... VJ commissioners a huge machine without the power to make it operative, and yet expect them to give us good roads. They simply cannot do it, if each one of them was an expert, as accomplished as McAdam or Telfourd, and would devote every working day in the year to this business and no other. It was a part of my purpose originally to have given a synopsis of the road laws of several of the States as well as of our own, but I find upon an examination of the statutes it would occupy more of your space than I could properly ask for, and I snail, therefore content myself with the leading features of our own statutes and such reference to others as occasion may require. 1 was in hopes by this time to have had the number of miles of public roads in this State, but as yet very few replies have been made by the several boards of county commissioners to the question that I took the libortv of submitting sometime since. The process of procuring the information appears to me very simple. Every county is divided into "road districts." Overseers are appointed over every section of road, and of course each knows how many miles he has under his supervision. 80 that it would only be necessary to get returns from the overseers and add them up. I do not care that the reports be more than approximately correct, for my purpose in asking the information is to form some estimate (which can only be approximate) of the cost of maintenance under a given plan. And my interogations about bridges and ferries were propounded with the same view. However, I have 110 doubt this information will be forthcoming in due time, and in the meantime (in my next communication) J will address myself to the consideration of our own statutes. In the interest of an intelligent consideration of this question it would be very desirable to know how many persons.are liable to road duty in South Carolina. Taking out tlie inhabitants oi cities ana towns, wno are not liable, but are taxed either in their persons or property or both for the expenses ' of the municipality, the number of road hands ought to be almost equal to the number of voters outside of incorporate limits; but more on this branch of the subject hereafter. I am fully alive to the difficulties in my path in the treatment of this subject. I realize how the consideration of any economic question in this and other Southern States is embarrassed and complicated by the heterogenousness of the population; one class paying a large portion of the taxes, and the other very little, yet all sharing alike the benefits of public expenditures or improvements. lam fully conscious of how prone our people are to regard with distrust propositions looking to the abandonment of old and time honored methods, or make innovations upon settled customs and habits, and how jealously they watch any movement likely to result - ? ? * jf Ill till increase ui uiauuuu. mw ia iw> n should be. It is right and proper that we scrutinize closely the imposing of taxes and appropriations of public money, for in that way alone can we nave a pure and economic administration of our Government. I go further, and say that 110 change of law is justifiable that is not sanctioned by sound reason and the exigencies of the public, and no increase in taxation is justifiable over and above the actual demands of the public service that cannot be clearly shown to be attended by compensatory advantages to the people. I appreciate, in their most emphatic import, all these difficulties and many more, but a frank discussion of a great question like this can result in no harm. The need of improvement and reformation is admitted 011 all sides. It is purely an economic question, and has 110 elements that can give it a political or party complexion, and on that account is more worthy of the best thought and earnest reflection of every citizen who has an interest in the improvement and advancement of his State and the elevation and comfort and healthful progress of mankind. For myself I can hope to do no more than call public attention to a matter of vital importance to evety man, woman and child in the State. If I succeed in doing that, and get them to thinking about it, and in the smallest degree promote among the people a more thorough introspection, so to speak, and examination into our countless resources and possibilities of development, I shall be more than compensated for whatever of labor, time and reflection I may have bestowed upon this road question. ' The people at last, must settle it for themselves. My interest is theirs and theirs is mine. Ho that whatever solution is made, if any, let it be made in a spirit of candor, and with the single aim to the public prosperity. ' M. C. Butlkk.