Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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g \ | lewis m. gbist, proprietor, j ^it Inbepcabent Jfamilg $tftDspaj?fr: .for % |)romofion of t|r political, Social, ^gritiillural anb Commercial Interests of % Sontj). j terms--$2.50 a year, in advance. VOL. 32. . YORKVILLE, S. C.. WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 6, 1886. 1STO. 4=0. _ ? j- ' , ' ? jlmal j^tctg. FIVE MILLION FOUNDS. Hjr X. WEMYSS KEID. CHAPTER Y?Continued. , i meet an old acquaintance. We walked to the little brow of the cliff, hard by the Grand hotel, where there are a number of benches overlooking the sands and the valley, and here we seated ourselves. Daisy, as in the old days, sat between her uncle and myself. She was pale and nervous, but her mile was as sweet as it had ever been, and she was no longer mute. We talked of in d.trerent matters ior a utt.e time, ana icen, unable any longer to keep back the thought that was uppermost in my mind, I referred to their departure. "I don't know," I said, "when we three ball meet again. Are you ever likely to return to Scarborough!" Daisy blushed and said nothing. I saw that she was nervously playing with the tassel of her parrfSol. "We must not wait till we return to Scarborough before seeing Mr. Fen ton again," aid Mauleverer to his niece. "He must come to Great Lorton HalL You have never seen it, I think! Well, you will find it worth the trouble of a visit." I bad hardly words to express my gratitude. Everything seemed clear before me, now that I was not to be cut off absolutely from further communication with Daisy. As for her, there was a look of unfeigned delight in her face also when she heard her uncle's proposal. But too quickly it faded away, and I observed again the anxious expression I had so often seen during the last few days. She knit her brows and seemet* lost in thought I heard a footstep near us. and looked upi Branksome was standing before us, with a good humored smile on bis face, as his eye traveled from Daisy to myself. That was the end of my dream of joy at Scarborough. It was a long and a sad week that followed their departure; but I am not going to inflict upon my readers an account of the love sick moods in which 1 wandered about tue places where we had been wont to meet, recalling, so far as I could, every separate occasion upon which we bad been together, and every word that she had spoken. I only knew that I wai more deeply in love with her than ever, and that nothing but the oppressive sense of her uncle's wealth kept me frrfuti tollfnar mr fiarrAt: forthwith Bat one happy morning all my misery was brought to an end by the receipt of a letter? the first letter I had ever received in her handwriting?inviting me to Great Lorton Hail Here it is: Great Lorto.v Haia, Sept. 2t Dear Mr. Fento.y: My uncle asks me to say that he has not forgotten your promise to pay us a visit here. He wishei to know if it will te convenient to you to come on Thursday next and lo stay a few days. I hope that you have no engagement to prevent your doing so. You will, I am sure, like to see this place. Both the house and the grounds are most romantic. There is a haunted cham'er, but no ghosts have been seen as yet Perhaps they are waiting till you arrive, in order to do honor to your visit Indeed we shall all, both ghosts and living, be glad to welcome you. It is rather dull here. My uncle and Dr. Branksome are engaged all the morning over their business ' affaire, so that I see little of them. Mr. Fosdyke has returned to town. I assure you, I feel the contrast between this place and Scarborough. There are no bright mornings here, spent in listening to the music of the band and watching the sea in the bay. Kindly let us know by what train you are to arrive, and you shall be met at the station. Both my uncle and Dr. Branksome' desire to be remembered to you. Believe me, dear Mr. Fcuton, yours very sincerely, Daisy Stancliffe. There was not much in this letter, perhaps ?not much on which to build a whole castle of delightful hopes. But, such as it was, it served for me. I read it and re-read it a hundred times on that happy day, and pressed my lips again and again to the spot on which with her own hand she had signed her name. The journey by rail from Scarborough to Great Lorton Hall?or rather to Little Lorton, the nearest railway station on the Northeastern line?is a long and tedious one; for though the distance between the two places, as the crow flies is ? little more than thirty miles, there is no direct route. I learned, when I left Scarborough, that I must change carriages at Malton, and there intrust myself to the tender mercies of a local line, the trains on which, judging by the time table 1 had studied beforehand, were limited to something like the speed attained by the old stage coaches before the locomotive bad swept them out of existence. As far as Malton my journey was swift and pleasant I had a compartment to myself, and I spent my time in ruminating upon the post with all its memories of sweetness, and anticipating the future with the eagerness of a lover. The train into which 1 was transferred at Malton was a very short one. It was evident that the Lorton branch was not one of those for which the managers of the Northeastern railway deemed it necessary to make any very extensive provision. I took my seat in the carriage to which the porter directed me and awaited the departure of the train. There were few passengers besides myself and apparently none who were likely to travel first claay. So, at least, I thought, until, almost at the moment when the train was starting, a man m hose face I had seen only once before, but whom I was never likely to forget, suddenly emerged from a waiting room, and advancing quickly towards th' compartment in which I wa< seated, ent' red it and closed the door behind him It w is the person whom I had knocked down in the York railway stat:on on the day on which I first saw Daisy. It would not have been easy then for me to leave the carriage, even if such a course had been consistent with ray self-respect; I sincerely hoped, however, that my old antagonist \vould not recognize mo. The notion of traveling in his company was anything but pleasant I saw, now that I was able to regard him more attentively than I could do in the hurried encounter at York, that he was about thirty years of age, and that while his face bore the stamp of vicious self-indulgence, it was weak rather than wicked in its expression. He was - dressed in clothes of fashionable cut; but they were somewhat the worse for wear. / When he entered the carriage he had lifted his hat to me, and hod then seated himself in the farthest corner, where he appeared to be intently occupied in gazing out of the window upon the red tiles of the Mai ton houses. My hope that he did not know me again grew. It was soon dispelled. The moment the train had begun to move from the platform he turned toward me and, again lifting his hat, greeted me with a bow and an ironical smile. 1 said nothing, though I wondered much what his next move would be. 1 had not long to wait He rose from the corner seat he had occupied and took that directly opposite to me. "Well, my friend!" he said, still with the disagreeable smile upon his lips. "You did not expect to see me to-day, did you? I suppose that ycu and the rest of your gang thought that I was far enough away by this time?too far to disturb you in your operations." He apparently expected me to make some reply to this, for he ceased to speak, and contented himself with staring into my face in an ostentatiously offensive manner. "You really have the advantage of me," I said. "I don't know what you are talking about" "Oh, indeed!" he laughed mockingly. "You did not even know what you were doing when you tried to murder me at York, I suppose." "Don't talk nonsense, sir," I replied hotly. "You know that you struck me first." "Possibly; and you, sir, know why you refused to allow me to enter that carriage in which I had a better right to be than yourself, or any other man living." He spoke with a savage emphasis which I should hardly have expected from one whose face betokened so much weakness of character. What was his right to enter the carriage where Daisy was? I confess that my heart was beating more quickly a9 I put this question to myself. "Oh, make no mistake!" he continued, warming at the sound of his own voice. "I know you all. I know your game. Shall X tell you what it is? Don't think that I am afraid of any of you?neither of you. nor of Branksome, nor of Fllnter?no, nor of Mi?s i Stancliffe either! It's a pretty name, Stancliffe, is it not? And she has a pretty face, ; too. D her and all of you." I My blood grew suddenly hot "If you say anyth:ng more about the young lady, sir, I shall do again what I did at York." He laughed insultingly. "No, you won't," he said, "Oh, no, you won't! Your game now is not to kill me, but to find out how much I know. Well, guess, and Til tell you if you arb right But as for the young lady, j leave her to me. Unless you ara a greater ' fool than I take you to be, you know that my right to talk about her comes before yours." Not for a moment did I credit the monstrous insinuation contained in his words. And yet there was a keen pain at my heart as I listened to him. "Now look here," he continued; "I want to tell you, Mr.?why, I don't even know your name. I never saw you before that day at York. You are the newest recruit, I suppose. But never mind your nama I've seen you with the whole gang?with her, and Vltnfnn AM/1 StrJfVi oil MOof __Q nH T , know you are one of them. So just let me tell you that I am on your track. You thought it a clever thing to bury yourselves down in the wolds of Yorkshire, I suppose. You could do anything in a haunted old bouse, half a dozen miles from anywhere, and fear no awkward inquiries. Oh, Tve seen the place, and I congratulate you on the taste you have shown. A capital place it is. upon my soul, for such work as yours." "Either explain yourself," I cried angrily, "or be silent. You talk like a madman." "Well, if I were mad it would not be wonderful; but, as it happens, I am as Bane as you are. So I will explain myself, by G , and clearly, too. There is murder going to be done at the place to which you are now going, and you know it! Is that enough I" "There is murder going to be done.1' J I smiled incredulously. He really is mad, c was the thought that flashed across my I mind. t "Oh, you laugh; but you will laugh in another way yet. 1 am on your track, I tell e you, and when the time comes I'll strike. 8 Tell that to your friends. Tell it to Brank- i some; tell it to Flinter; tell it to Fosdyke; ^ and, above all, tell it to Miss Stancliffe. Say that I told you that Til bring every one * c of you?every one, mind?to the gallowg yet s Go on with your hellish plots, and see how f they will succeed now that I'm kept out of t them. That is my message to your friends, j Take it to them without fail; tell it to them 1 exactly as I have told it to you, and prepare, r every one of you, for the worst 1" I had no doubt in my mind now as to s his being mad. The change in his faoe would a have alone convinced me of that fact His a eyes literally biased with the passion that f bad possession of him. But his words had moved me also to something like passion. t "And who are you, sir. that you dare to n talk in this way to me? What is all this raving about, and from what asylum have you n escaped!" a In a moment he was perfectly calm. "You am a new hand at the business altogether." I he said?"just sworn in, eh f with a mali- ^ cious chuckle. "But if you want to know my name, Til tell you. It iB James Gregson, and James Gregson has given you your or- 0 ders, which you'll please to carry out" J The train was slackening speed at a wayside station a few miles from Malton. My i & companion nodded his head with emphasis, j as though to enforce his words, and then, almost before 1 was aware, he hud opened | and closed the door, and 1 found myself j ? alone again. Hardly had he gone than my j " attention was attracted by something lying j on the floor?something which had evidently j ^ fallen from his pocket as he leaped from the carriage. I picked it up. It was a photo- i graph of Daisy, apparently taken a year or j j"' two before. The likeness was unmistakable j I turned the card and saw the name of a v Sydney photographer printed upon it There ^ was something more. Faintly written in j! pencil were the words "Daisy Stancliffe, 1 alias Some other name had been i written after the "alias," but either pur- . 01 posely or by accidental friction?for the pho- | v tograph had evidently, from its appearance, { " been carried in Gregson's pocket for a con- i siderable period?the second name had been obliterated. , s' I had enough and more than enough to j _ think of during the tedious remainder of my . journey to Little Lorton. i u | f CHAPTER VL | i( GREAT LORTON HALL. When I alighted at the railway station I ri saw a smart dog cart standing by the road- , ~ side, and no sooner had I mentioned my des- v tination to the porter than my portmanteau was placed in this vehicle. It was a drive of ' nearly four miles to Mauleverer's house. s( The country through which we passed looked ! beautiful in the early autumn dress which P it now wore. There were distant lines of n blue hills, and near at hand long meadows w sloping to where a little river meandered ! down a gentle valley; with dark stretches of woodland interspersed here and there among the variously colored patches which repre- h sen ted meadows and cornfields. F I had asked the groom who drove me how c Mauleverer and his niece were, and had dis- t covered that he was too new a comer to be xi r Je to tell me anything that I did not know r respecting them. I remained silent, there- t fore, during tha greater part of the drive, i: contenting myself with listening to the larks, c which were pouring forth their carols high I up in the clear, blue heavens, and with keep- | ing a sharp lookout for the house where I i was to meet my darling. ! J "We came at last to a long avenue of ven- a erable trees which lined the public road on either side. It was unusual to see trees like t these planted by the side of a highway, and r I cou'.d not resist the conclusion that this e must have been the main approach to the ^ hall in past times. It led, however, straight c into a little village, consisting of not more 8 than a score of ancient houses. Beyond the c village I could see the river and a bridge * with a high-crowned arch, which I learned I subsequently had accommodated all the 8 traffic in that sparsely inhabited district * since the days of good Queen Bess. Beyond I the bridge again all was open country. I 8 looked round in bewilderment in search of 8 the halL i c Suddenly I caught sight of it, standing t hard by the road, on the very edge of the e little river. A great rookery of lofty elms I k.J ok.'.U./) i? t t uou ouioiuru m au uisb nuiu tuj uu.>ci vaitvu, so that I did not see it until we were almost at the door. We passed through a fine gateway, flush with the village street, and found ourselves in a large quadrangle, covered with grass, upon which one of the gable I ends of the hall looked out. There was another massive stone gateway opposite to that by which we entered this inclosure, and here the dog cart stopped. As I jumpxl to the ground, the iron gates of beautiful hammered metal were thrown open, and Daisy and her uncle stood before mo. They gave me a cordial greeting, Mauleverer being, as usual, quietly courteous. Daisy's face was radiant with a j happiness that seemed to answer that which filled my own heart I forgot everything about my strange companion in the railway carriage in the joy of the moment We were standing, I found, on a broad terraced walk which stretched along the main front of the hall and a warm garden , wall of red brick which was continued, for a hundred yards or more, beyond the end of the house itself. The ball was a venerable | and imposing structure, built at different periods and in many different styles of archl- ( tecture. The oldest portion dated back from I the reign of Henry VII and was a fragment ' 1 or some ecclesiastical edifice which had beei sacked and confiscated at the Reformation The most modern part was that in front o which I now stood, and which "had bee: erected in the reign of James L There was something very striking both ii the appearance and the situation of th bouse. It stood, as I have said, close to th village street; and yet the double gates, am the great walled quadrangle, to say nothini of the tall elm trees, seemed to shut it of eompletely from the outer world. The rive ran so close to its northern walls that ther was hardly room to pass between the hous uid the edge of the stream. Here, on th touth side, where I had met my host and hi iiece, the broad walk on which we stood wa the only level piece of ground. Immediateb beyond it the park land rose steeply to wan the sky line. A house at once beautiful and romantic, 1 ihoueht. and unmistakably a house with I listory. I could imaging that in the darl iays of winter it wore a gho3tly aspect, a it roee amid the skeleton branches of thi rims from the edge of the sluggish strean ;hat swept past its walls. But to-day it hoc i pleasant appearance enough, for the sui was shining upon its richly-tinted brick iyork, and upon the mullionei windows en -iched with numberless heraldic devices ii itained glass. "Do you admire the house?" said Daisy prith a smile that had something in it of thi pride of ownership. "Indeed I do," I responded. "But is no ;he situation, so close to the village on on< land and to the river on the river, rathei peculiar?" "I thought so myself, at first," interposec Hauleverer, "but I find that we are as com pletely secluded here as if no village at al jxisted; and as to the river, you know then s no house so dry as one that stands on thi lanks of a stream. But come, Daisy, wi nust not keep Mr. Fenton standing here, L?et us show him something more than th< ratside of the house." We entered, through a quaint ston9 porch i large hall, with immense open fireplace ow paneled roof of carved oak, and col imns of the same wood supporting the ceil ng. There were doors leading from thL mil in almost every direction. The apart nent itself was furnished in a style whicl x>rresponded with the architecture. Then vere heavily carved Jacobean chairs anc ablee, a lounge or two, some magniflcenl jlack oak cabinets, and an antique clocl vhich would have created a furore if ii sould have been seen at Christy's. An im nense staircase, up which it would hav< >een an easy matter to drive the traditlona soach-and-four, led from the hall to th< Ira wing room floor. The walls of the stair :ase were hung with splendid tapestry. ?Vom the gallery to which the stairs gav< iccess I was conducted by my host into th< [rawing room, an apartment which corre ponded in Bize with the great hall below, it either end of it were smaller rooms, on< ltted as a boudoir and the other as a 11 >rary; while beyond these again were suites if spacious bed rooms, many with rudely arved walls of paneled oak, and other: lung like the staircase with venerable tapes f could not refrain from giving audible xpression to the admiration with which ] aw the noble dimensions of all the apart nents, and the fine taste with which they vere furnished. "Yes," said Mauleverer, "it all doe: redit to the people who have made a ram hackle old house habitable in a wonderully short space of tima When I saw il hree months ago, nobody would have sup losed that it could ever again be made fit tc ive in. Yet we find it comfortable enough iow?do we not, Daisy?" "Oh, it is a charming place," she anwered. "But you know, uncle, I have ilready told you that for some things?such a brightness and life and society?I preerred the Grand hotel at Scarborough." "Yes, my dear, I know you are always hrowing Scarborough in my teeth. Never alnd; we shall see it again some day." I had tried to catch Daisy's eye while her nele was speaking, but she would not look t me." "You have something here, at any rate," said, "which you can't get at the Grand otel." "What is that?" asked Mauleverer. "A haunted room?Miss Stancllffe told me f it. I suppose you have not seen the ghost et?" "You do not believe in such nonsense?" aid the millionaire. "If I did I should not like to acknowledge 1 in the present day," I replied. "Nobody has seen it yet," said Daisy, with n air of mock solemnity; "but we all believe a it?all but my uncle and Dr. Branksome. ind do you know that, if you are not afraid, ou are to sleep in the haunted chamber! t is the best bedroom in the whole house." Afraid! I should have been a poor creaure, indeed, if, in the presence of the girl I >ved, and as I stood in the full sunshine, , hich was streaming through the painted ,-indows from the cheerful day outside, I ad for an instant admitted the thought of ear to my heart "Oh, nothing could be better than that," I ried, with a laugh; "I shall be able to iffestigate a genuine case of ghost seeing for lyself. It is not often a man has that privlege." "And very seldom that he has it under ach exceptional circumstances." I turned with a sudden start; for it was Iranksome who had spoken. He had joined s unperceived as we stood chattering in the allery at the head of the great staircase, le shook hands with me in a friendly fashin, and then, continuing his speech, said; You will not only sleep in the haunted oom to-night?that is, if you are not afraid -but in one which, I am told, nobody has entured to sleep in for more than a cenary." "So much the better. I ought to have a tory to tell to-morrow." "Yes," said Daisy, "we shall think very oorly of your imagination if you cannot rnke our nerves tingle at breakfast time r-ith the horrors you have to relate." "And may I 6ee the torture chamber?" 1 sked, resolved to keep up tae jest WHK nnrfninlwl" cairl AfnnlavAPOP Ftfftfl lis usually equable temperament, which was lervadei at most times by a mild melanholy, seqmed to have caught the spirit ol he joke. But, with his accustomed kind0 s, he added, "Perhaps you may not like the com when you have seen it. I don't know hat it is altogether kind to ask you to sleep n it?it may be damp, or disagreeable in ither ways, you know; so if you would >refer another " "But, my dear Mr. Mauleverer, there is 10 other room in the housa which I shall trefer to this. I shall like it, I am sure, ibove all things." And having said this, I started off with he rest of the merry little party to look at ny destined dormitory. The room, I discovred, did not lie on the same floor as the [rawing room, on which most of the sleeping hambers were to be found. We passed along 1 corridor from which a number of bedrooms ipened, until we came to a heavy oaken door, >lack with age, which barred one end of the rissaga On opening this we found ourelves on a landing in another staircase? vorm-eaten and silent, which descended into >lack depths below us. and wound its way ibove our heads for several flights. Up thi< taircase we went, still gayly. More thar >nce we found an oaken door like tha", by vhich we had come upon the stair, but in very case the door was heavily barred and >adlocked. Some faint perception of the fact hat the haunted chamber had other di'adrantares besides the presence of a suppositious ghost began to enter my mind. "You will be quiet enough here, at any ate," said Branksome. "Unless the ghost omes to trouble you. there will be nothing o disturb your sleep." "And I suppose I shall at least hear the [host?in the shape of rats." "Rats!" cried Daisy. "I don't think they lave mounted as high as this, but in the rit/?hnna thev nrn to he found in lmrinns and irmies. Every house has its special drawtack. It is not the ghost that is the drawtack here?it is the rata " "You will need to summon the Pied Piper o your aid," I said. "Better try strychnine!" was Branksome's toramentary on my jocular remark. But we had reached a broad landing at the op of the lonely flight of stairs. I could see hat we were in one of the more remote vings of the house; for the windows which ;ave us light looked down upon the sullen iver. "Here we are," said the doctor, who now ook the lead, probably because Mauleverer vas breathless after his climb. We entered a small anteroom, the walls of vhich were panele I. There was a quaint a old fireplace in one, corner of the apartment, c and the mullioned window gave compare- f f tively little light The room had been ? n newly furnished in the French fashion, with r heavy chairs, gilded mirrors and girandoles, b a beautiful ormolu writing table, a richly h B carved bookcase and all the accessories of a * e delightful little salon such as a bachelor n j might rejoice to own. A curtain of velvet hung over the door- c f way which led from this antechamber into t r the sleeping room. There was nothing f ghostly here. It was a large, bright airy I 0 apartment with a big window commanding li 9 a matchless prospect along the valley. Like a a the sitting room, it was furnished in the a 3 French fashion, and all the appointments a were sumptuous. The only feature of the c j room that seemed to suggest the idea of age a was the embossed leather which, hanging t - I kaatrllv fpAm fha millnir nnvarnil fl.ll the walla. z "I think you will agree with rae, Mr. Feng ton," said Branksome, "that a man haa no 3 occasion to complain of his quarters hera h j This is by far the finest room in the house, r { to my thinking. Just look at the view from 2 3 the window. It is rather ouriou?, by the g . way, that these should be the original c hangings of the room. All the tapestry a j downstairs haa been bought in Paris within r the last two months; bnt this old leather is f< genuina It must have covered these walls ' L j for a couple of hundred years at least" tl We all turned to admire the hangings; u t The gilding had nearly disappeared from t] 3 the surface of the leather, but the designs ji embossed upon it were still plainly to be s seen. They were elaborate and beautiful t . nothing, I felt, could be better than the a rooms allotted to me; and yet, even then, I g * confessed in my innermost heart that I t hardly liked the w ay to them. ii * It was five o'clock, and when, our inspeo- y tion of the noble old house being finished, tl 3 we went down to the great hall, we found d tea awaiting us. y ' "Had you pleasant journey?" It was y Branksome who put the question to me. j * I colored. To tell the truth, I had for- n * gotten all about the journey and my strange a adventure in the excitement of my arrival ^ " at Great Lorton and joy of Daisy's pres- t 5 ence. Now it all came back to me, how- T " ever. I hesitated in visible confusion, pain- ^ 1 fully conscious of the fact that Branksome 0 * was regarding me steadily. n UT*- ?? ? ?1naoonf no if. mJtvhk harA I Vi . Ill WOJJ UUU oy pitiwuuw W +w -v.. w u been," I said at last. /"I bad a disagreeable t ? companion for a part of the way." tl At that moment, to my great relief, Daisy proposed that she should show me her ft ? flower garden while there was still light d by which to see it She hastily s 9 threw a wrapper of some kind around ? her shoulders, and led the way bare- t] headed. I followed her, delighted at the b 9 thought that at last I should sea her for a 9 few moments alone; for Mauleverer and tl Branksome remained behind. n The flower garden was at the end of the t( broad walk which passed along the front of Z the halL We entered it through a door in a 1 an old stone walL It seemed to me that everything at Great Lorton was cut up a 9 by walls or barred by doors. I had seen p nothing like it before. But within the o garden, which was spacious and well laid a r out, there were no signs of restricted liberty. 1< Everything here was be&utifuL ii * Daisy was in the best of spirits, and d pointed out to me, with all the pride of f a proprietor, the lovely autumn flowers fl which were still in bloom, and the promise * which the garden gave of further loveliness g ! in the coming summer. But by and by her s ' spirits seemed to flag, and she ceased to a " speak. The truth was, that from the s moment when we entered the garden I my- d self had hardly uttered a syllable. We h moved slowly along the winding walks, now h speechless and self-conscious. Oh, the joy x of being near her?of hearing the rustle of ? her dress, the sound of her foot upon the n path; oh, the delight of being allowed once t: more to look into that face, dearer to me ^ than the face of any othe* of God's creatures! ? But the silence was becoming oppressive, b , I broke it at last with an effort. "You are a glad that I came?" I said. With eyes full of tenderness and a smile I that made her face as an angel's she turned n and looked at ma She did not speak, but I p had my answer, and myTieart throbbed with n an exquisite bliss which it had never known tl , before " ti She had plucked a lovely tea rose that we r had found lingering on one of the trees. a "Will you give me the rose?" I said. As she gave it to me our hands touched, n and even at the same moment our eyes met, n and in an instant she was clasped in my b arms and I had printed the first kiss of love t< > upon ber fair cheek. There were a few moments of silence?of n silence broken only by ber sighs, which J 1 sounded in my ears almost like sobs. She s< did not attempt to release herself; but at tl last, ih answer to my passionate prayer, she h slowly raised her face, radiant with love ti and tenderness, towards mine and our lips fi met in a long kiss, in which our very souls fi seemed to mingle. n Presently she bIo ly drew herself away from me, though she still left her hand in 1c mine. n "How did you know," she said in a voice d that struggled against the conflicting emo- tl tions in her heart, "how did you know that I o loved you?" n "My darling," I cried, "I only knew that 1 ii loved you, and that life without you would * i be utter misery to me. But you do love me, a Daisy?do you. dearest?" ri i "Ah, yes!" she said, in a voice the tender cl cadences of which sounded like music wafted o: from some far-off heaven, "I love you. I cannot help it But it is wrong, I fear, a Biey will never allow us*to meet again." ci "I know," I said, with a bitter heart, "they n will say that it is your uncle's riches that I d love, and thoy will despise me as a fortune- t< hunter." a "No, no. They must know you tetter a than that It is not that But I know they ei will never allow us to see each other any t< more when thoy discover?ah, there is some ri ono calling!" n She started from me in affright, and an- o I swered quickly. y It was Branksome's voice which we heard, n "How now, young people I" he cried, in a ti tone of banter. "The sun has been set this c! half-hour or more, and you can hardly ap- b preciate the flowers in the dark. Besides, it t! is almost time to dress for dinner, and your d uncle has been asking for you, Daisy." t< There was nothing in the tone of his voice tl 1 to indicate that he ha 1 any suspicion as to tl i* the reason why we had lingered so long in 1 the garden. We walked silently beside it Kim When wo reached the door, he sue- ^ i jested that it would bs well to lock it now, ? 1 as no one was likely to return to the garden w i from the house that night. But even as he ? pulled the key from his pocket a voice I had b 1 learned to know and hate saluted us. It was o ' that of Flinter. ii "Don't lock me in all night, please," he ? ' cried, in gruff tones. "I've been just looking tl 1 round a bit. There's plenty of room for f< ' improvement here, it seems to me." p 1 He took no notice either of Daisy or my- "b self, and there was something in his manner It 1 that was almost insolent In the dim twi- ?i light I eyed him angrily, and longed for a ' chance of quarreling with him. But I felt a ? light touch upon my arm ,and the next mo- o: ment I saw that Daisy in her white dress, h 1 had passed through the gate. I followed her "" 1 instantly. o "Hush!" she said in agitated tones. "Take d 1 no notice of that man. Ho is dangerous." 1 And beforo I could recover from my surprise 11 ' she had entered the hall, where her uncle d " awaited hor. c Our dinner was not quite such a success as 11 I had anticipated. Mr. Mauleverer, it is true, was courteous as ever; and Branksome ' talked, with that fulness of knowledge which B distinguished him above any other man I b had ever met. on many different topics. But n 1 Daisy had a headache, and sat with a pale face at the head of the table; while I was ? overwoighted by the joy that filled my heart t ? as I thou ;ht of her avowal in the garden, j ^ There were no signs of Fiinter. it was evi- j v " dent that at Great Lorton Hall he was not j y allowed to associate with the millionaire on j ^ the terms of equality which were permitted I n on the yacht j a After dinner we went up stairs to the ' *' 1 drawing room, but that apartment was too n vast to le comfortable. A fire had been ' lighted in the library adjoining it and we I resorted thither and spent some time in ex- c ? amining a collection of priceless etchings j ' which had leen supplied?I could not help i thinking?by the contractors who furnished : ti the halL Mr. Mauleverer was a man of fine \ ' tastes, but ho could not be called a culti- ! d ' vated person, and I think he had very little j i idea of lite value of those matchless impressions of the Dutch masters, from Rubens ^ < downward, which none but a millionaire n oulcl have acquired. 1 was allowed no opportunity of txcbanging a word with Daisy intii she was leaving the room for the light Then, as I handed her the candle I ad lighted, I murmured two words only in ler ear, "My darling." She looked up at me rith a faint smile and let her band rest a Dement in mine as we said good night "Will you smoke?" asked Mauleverer, and n my replying in the afflmative he led me o a comfortable smoking room, where 1 ound everything needful provided for us. iranksome did not appear. I bad already earned, however, that he was no smol ar, nd I was not therefore surprised at his bsence. Mauleverer himself smoked little, nd long before I had finished my cigar his igarette had been consumed. With an pol igy on t,he score of his delicate health he y and by left me to myself. CHAPTER VIL THE HAUNTED ROOM. I am afraid I tat longer than I should ave done In the luxurious little smoking oom. It was not the admirable quality of lauloverer's cigars that chained me to the pot My mind was full of all the incidents I the day, and I slowly pondered on them a the fragrant clouds of tobacco smoke ose above my head. My predominant eelttjgwas one of almost extravagant deight."She loves me I She loves me!" was be thought that most frequently came ppermon in my mind. But ever and anon here shot across the broad current of my oy a sinister sense of doubt and apprehenion. I remembered the inscription on the ack of Daisy's portrait, "Daisy Stancliffe, lias ." I recalled, not now with the cornful indifference that I had felt in he train, the wild words of Gregson, "There 3 murder going to be done at the place to rhich you are going, and you know it," If bat were true, then, at least, I thought I id know by whom the murder would be wrought. It would be the man Flinter, rhom Dji<y had just described to me as < angeroua. Aye. and once or twice I re- 8 lembered how Gregson had involved all of * s, myself and Branksome, and even Daisy erself, in a common condemnation with ( bis ruffian. I knew how guiltless I myself ' ras of all criminal plots against any human eing. But I was not more certain of my 1 wn innocence than I was of Daisy's. Let * ie write that here with emphasis, so that, 1 lamable as I may have been in many mat- ' ars, I shall at least ba free from blame in * his. ; But from all these wild and wandering ' ancies my mind ever returned to the same ' elightful thought of Daisy's love. That ( ooner or later she" should be mine, I was re- 1 olved. As lor Mauleverer's millions, let 1 hem parish with him, if they were to stand J etween ua I was aroused from a long, deep reverie by be silvery tone of a clock which stood on the * lantelpiece of the room. I looked up. and E 0 my surprise saw that It was one o'clock, had spent more than an hour by myself fter Mau'everer had left me. There was all through the house that -dead nd s lemn silence which is never so comlete as in a large country house at that hour f the night I could feel, as it were, all round me the great empty rooms, and the jng corridors with their mysterious windage, and the worm-eaten staircases, up and own which those who had been dust now or hundreds of years had once passed in the lush of life and health. There was not a sound, I say, to break the ilence; and yet as I listened that very ilence seemed to become vocal, and all the ir was filled "with one rythmic cry that truck upon my tingling nerves with a [istinctness which spoken words could never iave attained. "There is murder to be done ere; murder, murd9r, murderI" That was chat the awful silence of the great house eemed to say to mo. I knew that it was othing more than the effect of the imagineion due to the excitement of the past day. Tet I started up in nervous terror and tghfed my candle, hardly daring to look ehfnd me as I turned from the room to sek my chamber. Whero or how I got wrong I hardly knew, found presently, however, that I had lissed the corridor through which I had to ass on my way to the staircase leading to ty room. I turned into another passage, hinking it might lead me in the right direoion. As I was passing a door in this corldor, I distinctly heard a voice raised as in nger. It was F1 inter who was speaking. "Curse him I what has brought him here to leddle with everything! You may believe te or not, as you like, but if that infernal oy is not put out of the way, and quickly, >o, we may as well give up the game." 1 heard no more. There was a faint lurmur as though some one responded to 'llnter, but I could catch no intelligible jund, so I passed on, hardly thinking for le moment that what I had heard could ave any reference to myself. The next urn brought me in some inexplicable sshion to the bead of the great staircase, ortiinh ennf. it. waa on OOftV mftttfiP for ie to find my way to my bedroom. I closed the outer door opening upon the >nely stair that gave access to my apartlent and looked around me. I was in the eligbtful little sitting room beyond which be bedroom was dimly visible through an pen door. A Are had been lighted in both ooma, but in neither case was it now burnlg. The black ashes contrasted drearily rith the sumptuous furnishing of the two partments. I did not linger in the outer oom. I crossed the threshold of the haunted bamber, and closing the door, began at nee to prepare for bed. And now, in the very dead of the night, nd cut off by long galleries and lonely stairases from any other human being, with erves shaken, too, by all the exciting indents of the day, I first realized the fact, that ) sleep in this room with all its memories nd traditions was by no means so pleasant n adventure as it had seemed a few hours irlier. What was the ghost which was said 3 haunt the placet I sat down and tried to scall the legend as I had heard it after diner. A woman, false and cruel, who had nee been the mistress of the ball, kept the oung heir a captive in this very room for lany years in order that she might substijte her own child for him. In this lonely bamber?so the story ran?the captive boy ad only one visitor; it was bis half brother, ie child for whose sake his own life was oomed to misery. And the two had learned 3 love each other, so that day by day 3e young favorite would creep up 3e dark staircase and find admiaion to tL < chamber where the true heir wds nprisoned. One day the younger child ras playing as usual in the room when smething attracted him to the window. It ras open, for it was in the summer time, ie peeped out and saw his mother standing elow him With a cry of joy he leaned ut of the window clapping his hands, and l a moment he had overbalanced himself nd had fallen a crushed and lifeless mass at be feet of the cruel woman who had sinned Dr him in vain. A few hours later, when the articulars which the shock of so terrible a ragedy had produced had died away, the idy climbed the dusty oaken staircase and nterei the room where the heir lay, overwhelmed with grief and horror at the fate f his little playmate. Dark vengeance was n her face?the vengeance of a woman who as lost all that made life worth living and ruu uurns witu a uwuo cu iuqko way ther woman childless. There wa3 the suden glitter of a knife, a sharp cry of terror rom the captive and then silence. In the loruing the little prisoner was found lying ead, stabbed to the heart, while beside him rouchod his stepmother, a gibbering taniac. This was the tragedy of my room. It was be ghost of the lady that was said to haunt though there were legends which told ' ow the cry of a child, a long, low wail of f tisery, had been heard in the silent night 1 cholng through the corridors in the de- c ?rted wing in which the chamber stood. I * lanced round upon the rich hangings of the 1 rail. Had they seen that awful tragody c nacted? I remembered that for scores of ears, perchance a century, no one had slept c 1 this room before to-night It needed all v \y skepticism in regard to supernatural 1 ppearances to nerve me to that outward * low of indifference which a man, even when ^ o one is near him, regards as essential to % be preservation of his self-respect Before ' extinguished the lights I drew aside the ? urtain of the window, the outline of which * as made visible against the background of ' cy. Then I hastily sought my bed, and * ried to compel myself to sleep. i Far sooner than I had expected sleep came, t seemed, indeed, that I had hardly laid my r ead upon the great square French pillow 1 rhen I was wandering away in dreamland. 1 hero was nothing bright or pleasant about ? ly dream, however. 1 wat iu bed, it ieemed to me, in the haunted room; but I was ying wide awake, and all my senses were so icutely alive that I was able to hear the faint licking of the clock in the great entrance lall, far, far away from this remote wing; md while conscious that the darkneis of light brooded all around me, I found that ivery where I could see as plainly as in the layiighc. Nay, more p.ainly, far; for now ioors an 1 walls, and heavy hangings of tapstry and leather no longer obstructed my vision. My eye pierced through all these ;hings and revealed to me everything which ay beyond. "Whit was it that?in that strange phanasmagoria of sleep?first attracted my atantion/ Far away in some distant part of he great mansion I heard, with that pretermturally acute sense of hearing with which [ now seemed to be endowed, a door stealthly opened. Some one peeped out into the larkness of the corridor. It was Fllnter? or ather it wai Flinter's face?that I saw, hrougb all the intervening: doors and walls ind passages, as I lay here on my bed in the taunted room. But it was Flinter's face? rruel, brutal, vicious?upon the body of a soman; and I knew that I was looking upon he lady who bad done murder here where I ay bound in the hideous spell of this nlghtnare vision. Slowly the figure advanced. He?she?it? i knew not what to call it, so frightfully com>ounded w as it of the real Flinter and the le;endary woman?came slowly down the cor idor, f omething bright and sharp glittering n its bony hand. Though no farap was ighted anywhere it advanced with unfalterDg certainty of step, turning round many a :orner, now opening a door and passing a ;hostly chamber into the gallery beyond, iow climbing a stair, and now pausing for a noment to feel the keen edge of that flashng blade, and to indulge in a chuckle of levilish malice. I knew that some mysteri>U8 agency had lifted me from my bed, had rarried me down all these intricate stairs ind corridors, and had placed me by the ide of the apparition. I was following it inseen and silently; conscious, too, that X lad been endowed suddenly with the power >f flying, and that at any moment I could war into the air above me. Suddenly I found that the figure had eached a door which I recognized as the inter door of my own apartments. We teemed to pass through the stout oaken barrier, and across the little sitting room, and hen in an instant we had entered the sleepng chamber, and stood by the side of the led. Some one was quietly sleeping, with us neaa nan Duriea in a great square piuuw >f down. I looked to see who the sleeper was, and with a thrill of horror I saw it was nyself who was lying thera Myself? No, [ was brooding, unceen even by the fearful hing that I had been following, above the >ed, hovering in mid-air, while my body lay nelow me, motionless, as under the spell of iome mysterious tranca The horrid thing with the knife looked lown with a grin of cruel delight upon my lefenseless form. It was Flinter now that I aw. That woman's disguise had keen cast uide, and the ruffian stood there in his ordilary attire, with all the mean and brutal ines upon his face plainly visible. He ooked at me closely for a moment, then oftly ho turned down the oovering and ilaced his hand upon my heart With the pell of an awful terror resting upon me, I vatched him from abova Quickly he withIrew his hand, and then I saw the other arm ipraised, the knife glittering in his grasp. [ tried to scream; I tried to throw my imwlpable self between the assassin and my lelpless body. I was powerless, frozen, lifeess. The knife descended like a bolt from leaven, and I saw it buried deep in my leart I awoke from my terrible dream bathed In l chill perspiration, an.l shivering from lead to foot with such a terror?cold and ;bastly?clutching at my heart as I had lever felt before. I knew that at the last noment, as the knife fell, the spell of silence lad been broken, and I had uttered a cry. rhat or some other sound was still ringing n my ears. What was it? I knew that I lad heard something?something which had iroused me from that fearful nightmare? ind that it had been clcsi to my ear; but in he agitation of my mind at that first noment of my return to consciousness I rould not recall what it was that had aroused aft And then in an instant it all flashed upon ny mind. I had heard a faint rustling as of i woman's dress sweeping across the floor, ind then there bad been a sharp sound, such is that which is made by the quick closing >f a tightly fitting door. Yes; now that I vas wide awake. I was conscious of the fact hat. if that hideous fancy which bad taken xjssession of my brain while I slept was but he vision of a nightmare, I had, at least, >een visited in my chamber during my lumbers. I sprang from my bed, an*d, running to vbere I had seen a box of matches, struck a ight, and then turned to survey the room. Ml was as it had b: en when I bad lain lown to sleep an hour before. All? I looked ound upon those somber walls, through vkicli, in my terrible dream, my vision had jierqed with ease. They gave me no hint of ;Le secrets which they held The door of the 'oom was locked on the ins de, just as I had eft it No one could have vanished through :hat substantial barrier without leaving omo trace of his passage. I felt the eathem hangings of the walls. Behind hem the wainscot gave forth in reponse to my blows a muffled, hollow ound; but it told me nothing. And ret, that some one had been with me in the oom, I felt certain. I no longer had any uperstitious apprehensions. It was no ;host, I was well assured, that had visited ny bedside. I shuddered at the thought hat perhaps my dream bad been only too eal, and that it was ,1inter who, by ^oma nysterious mean4, had found admission to ny chamber?Flinter, whose last words, as ! accidentally overheard them when I reired to rest, had pointed clearly, as I now elt, to my own removal it might be that le had been alarmed by my sudden cry at ne moment wnen ne was auout iu uiapunju ne, and had retired by some mysterious loorway?such as I was well assured existed -to wait until I was again asleep I felt the leathern hangings. Instinctively 1 approached the bed, candle n hand, and examined the pillow where a leep impression marked the place where my lead bad been laid. I almost thought that I ould see myself lying there, as I had done n my vision?unconscious, silent, helpless, >eneath the knife of the villain. I shudlered at tho thought; but even as I did so, I ound something else to startle me. Lying m the bedclothes, as it seemed to me, at the -ery place where, if I had still been sleeping, hey would have covered my heart, was a :nife. It was not the long, keen, glittering, vell-polished deadly blade of my vision. It vas old-fashicned, rusted, of quaint shape, clth a clumsy handle of bene, curiously arved and stained. I took it up in wonder, t seemed to me that the handle was still varm from the grasp which had held it a ew moments before. What did it portend! low came this fearful confirmation of my Iream into the room where it had certainly lot been when I retired to rest! What neant all the mysteries that seemed to launt this house, and to envelop all the I welters in it! [TO UK CONTINUED NEXT WEEK.] \ IPsceltattwtts Reading. For the Yorkville Enquirer. COLORS FOR MOURNING. It rather seems that the South Sea Islanders have chosen more wisely than Christian people in Europe and America, in the matter of colors for mourning. The former use black and white, striped, to express sorrow and hope. In America, we hairo fnllnivoil the Oroniana nnH RnmonB and adopted black, "to express the privation of light and joy, the midnight gloom of sorrow for the loss sustained." Recently, white has come into use amongst us at the burial of infants. Howsoever sweetly expressive of innocence, it cannot be accepted as typical of hope, any more than its absence would indicate the sorrow of those "which have no hope." In this Christian land, little infants are laid away with something more than hope? with the sweet assurance that all is well. It should be borne in mind that we use these colors to symbolize our own feelings?as typical of them. "The Persians use pale brown, the color of withered leaves; the Syrians, Cappadocians and Armenians use sky-blue, to express the certain hope that the deceased has gone to or nearer heaven; and the Ethiopians use grayish brown, the color of the earth to which the dead return." o. w. s. n. MARION S DIPLOMACY. One of the stories which used to stimulate the patriotism of American boys is that of Marion's inviting a British officer to dine with him on roasted potatoes and cold water. The story has been doubted by certain critical historians, but Dr. Joseph Johnson, of South Carolina, says it is substantially true. He heard it when a child from his father, to whom it was told just after its occurrence. But the story as originally told illustrated Marion's diplomacy rather than his poverty and self-denial. The officer, a young mam, sensitive, humane, and high-toned, had been sent, under a flag of truce, to Marion's camp to transact some business with the general. After the business had been completed, ?~ ~- ? 1 .iMa ?n?tt4nr1 iKo aAhnni? Ia lilt? ^Clicrui 3 illUC 1U YllCU IIIC UU1VCI IV (lino with them. He would have had a good dinner, if Marion, seeing bis character, had not determined to make an impression on his sensitive nature favorable to the American cause. The young man had been invited to dine with Marion, and having excused himself to the aids, was provided by his host with a dinner of sweet potatoes roasted in the ashes of the hearth, and served on bark platters. The officer noticed that the general, in peeling his potatoes, put the skins carefully on one side of his plate, instead of throwing them on the ground. Oscar, the general's servant and fosterbrother, waited on them. He was always called "Budde," a corruption of brother, by Marion, who, after dinner, said to him? "Budde, bring us something to drink." Oscar brought a gourdful of water, and handed it to the officer and then to the general. "Budde, bring up Roger," and the general's horse, being led up, was fed with the potato skins. The officer saw and was conquered. He returned to the British camp and resigned his commission, saying he could not fight against men who were so conscientious in their opposition to kingand parliament as to drink nothing but water, eat nothing but potatoes, and feed their horses on the skins. Animals' Advantage Over Man.? Let us suppose the mental powers gradually diminished, while the bodily powers remained unimpaired. Suppose that process contined, until the mind no longer troubles itself about unseen things, but is content with drawing inferences from actual present sensations, so that the looking forward?the taking thought for the morrow, which is the principal source of human mental suffering?ceases to exist. v?.. tUn onnrnnoh thu rnnsti tution of one J. UU k IIV/II Uppi VMVO w of the higher mammalia* It is a constitution in which the chief sources of human pleasure remain untouched, while the chief sources of human pains are either removed or diminished. In such a constitution as compared with man, the reduction in total pleasures should be relatively small, while the reduction in total pains should be relatively large. Grant to an animal so constituted unstinted food, and it ought in theory to be happier than a human being, the limitation in its pleasures being more than counterbalanced by far greater limitation in its pains. * Imagine a graminivorous quadruped with limitless pasture and you have a state of things in which you ought to find the maximum of happiness of which organization is capable. Granted that the totality of its pleasures would not equal the totality of human pleasures, by far more would the totality of its woes fall short of the totality of human woes. If such an animal can not taste the pleasure of the knowledge of good and evil, neither has it to taste the miseries of poverty and loneliness, of loss of wife or child, or failure in business, of knowing not where to procure food or where to lay its head. The problem how to make both ends meet never vexes the mind of the ruminant; monotony has no terrors for the ox; no fear oppresses it of another's rivalry ; no jealousy of another's success. Even when disease and decay overtake it it knows nothing of that which makes disease terrible to man?the knowledge that it nuist end in a separation from those whom he loves.?Nineteenth Century. OLE BULL ANT ERICSSON. In conversation a few evenings ago, a distinguished chemist and physician, who is also an enthusiastic and critical loverof music, told an interesting story about Ole Bull and John Ericsson, the great inventor. Bull had charmed the ears of admiring thousands all over the civilized world, vi'hi la tiia nart the erreat mechanician played in naval warfare during the rebellion roused the North to enthusiasm and startled the world. Bull, happening to be in New York on a concert tour, determined to look up his old friend and renew the acquaintance. He found him in his workshop, surrounded by tools, machinery, designs, models, and materials used in mechanical constructions, directing the labors of a corps of'assistants. When taking his leave, Bull invited Ericsson to attend the concert'that night. Ericsson, however, declined, saying he had no time to waste. Their acquaintance being thus renewed, Bull continued to call upon his old friend when visiting New \ork, and usually when taking his leave would ask Ericsson to attend his concert; but Ericsson always declined the invitation. Upon one occasion Bull pressed him urgently and said: "Ifyou do not come I shall bring my violin here and play in your shop." Ericsson replied gruffly: "If you bring the thing here I shall smash it to pieces." Here were two men the very opposite of each other. Bull an impulsive, romantic dreamer; Ericsson stern, thoughtful, practical, proving every movement with mathematical precision. Bull's curiosity was aroused to know what effect music would i~ .Innn tho orrim mntter-nf-faet man of imvc upuu inv b?7 ?? squares and circles. So taking his violin with him, he went to Ericsson's shop. He had removed the strings, screws and apron, so that the violin would seem to be in a bad condition. As he entered the shop, noticing a displeased expression on Ericsson's face, Bull called his attention to certain defects iathe instrument, and, speaking of its construction, asked Ericsson about the scientific and accoustic properties involved in the grain of certain woods. From this he passed on to a dis cussion of sound waves, tones, semi-tones, etc. Toillustrate his meaning he replaced the strings, and improvising a few chords, drifted into a rich melody. The workmen, charmed, dropped their tools and stood in silent wonder. He played on and on, and when finally he ceased, Ericsson raised his bowed head, and with moist eyes, said: "Do not stop. Go on! go on! I never knew until now what there was lacking in my life."?New York Star. ? - - ROBERT L. TAYLOR.;* ?; The Taylor family of Tenne^ee is destined to furnish that State wlfflgfts next governor. R. L. Taylor i9 the choice of the Democracy whilst his brother, Alfred A. Taylor, is the Republican nominee. Although the Republicans have been gaining ground in Tennessee, the State still has a solid working Democratic majority, tnereiore me oaus are in iavor 01 nooen; L. Taylor. Speculation on the result of this contest can be only conjectural however, and the returns will be looked for with interest. Robert L. Taylor was born in Carter county, of Tennessee, and is thirty-six years old. His boyhood was spent on a farm and he did not enter the political arena until 1876, when he was sent to Congress. He soon became distinguished for his ability as an orator. In 1886 he was prominently mentioned for United States Senator, but after a spirited contest was defeated by Howell E. Jackson. In 1882 his name was mentioned for governor, but the choice fell on Gen. W. B. Bate. In 1884 he was chosen presidential elector at large on the Democratic ticket. Character.?There is nothing that weighs more heavily upon a right minded man than the slow progress he makes in overcoming his faults. Here we are at twenty with the faults of childhood upon us; peevish, ungovernable, insatia- , ble ; at thirty with the faults of youth; vain, inconsiderate, pleasure-loving; at forty still wearing the badges of early folly; proud, passionate, sensual; at fifty .or sixty, but not yet wise with theexpe ' rience of life; selfish still, unsympathetic, ambitious, full of conscious weakness and, perhaps, with an ill-repressed brood of evil habits and the characteristic vice of age?avarice. Yet all the while we may have been striving after the good, curbing the evil, keeping our faces heavenward; all the while aiming to fear God and keep His commandments; never at any time wholly given up the strife after ideal excellence. This, after all, is the tragical features of life; that it is linked with so much failure in character; that it is given for wisdom, and yet we are not wise; for goodness, and we are not good; for overcoming evil, and evil remains; for patience and sinpathy and self-command and love, and yet we are fretful and hard and weak and selfish. This makes the bitterness of death and calls out the cry: Vanity of vanities; all is vanity! It is the struggle, and not the attainment, that measures character and foreshadows destiny. Character is not determined by faults and weaknesses aud periodic phases of life, nor by limitations and accidents of present existence; but by the central purpose, the inmost desire of the heart. If that be turned toward God and His righteousness, it must at last bring us thither.?Dr. Munqer. ? ? A Fragment.?Time steals on with muffled tread, and we are not inclined to take note of it. To day is scarcely realized and utilized till it is displaced by tomorrow, and that, in its turn, goes the same way and with the same funeral march. Childhood, youth, manhood and old age, following rapidly on the heels of each other, soon wind up this troubled 9 dream called life, and then the curtain falls, the actors retire to appear no more. In the rush and whirl of the surging tide of humanity we meet and smile, then sigh and part. Some fine face, some sympathetic feature, is photographed on the heart and mind, hung up in the gallery of memory, and carried, in fading and falling beauty, through this weary pilgrimage, till all is merged in the cold nverthat divides the real from the ideal. It is not all of life to live, nor all of death to die, but there is a hereafter, a divinity, an immortality in both that stretches out with illimitable reach. Philosophy establishes the indestructibility of matter, and that is synonymous with the immortality of matter, and abolishes the blotting out and obliterating process of what we call death, or the ena of life. This is a beautiful world, with all its sin scars, darkness and gloom. Ties are woven and friendships formed that bind us to earth with cords that it is painful to sever, and we shrink from death and shudder as we approach the deep, dark tomb, because we look upon that as the end of life's pilgrimage, and though it may have been rough, long and weary, yet we cling to it and sigh to give it up. It shuts out all we know of life and love and happiness, and brings us face to face, with the untried, and theun known. Thr Aurora's Height.?Many attempts have been made to fix the height of the aurora borealis, but the estimates have given a discouragingly wide range of figures. The aurora has been observed when it seemed to rest on the earth's surface, and at other times has appeared simultaneously at stations so widely separated that it has been supposed to be two or three hundred miles high. In experiments with his powerful voltaic battery, practical demonstrations of the effects of electrical discharges in rarefied air were made by Dr. De la Rue. These forced him to the conclusion that thirty-eight miles is probably the height at which the most brilliant auroras takes place, that a pale and faint glow may possibly be produced as high even as eighty-two miles, but that at a height of one hundred and twenty-four miles no auroral discharge is possible. l^*4'One of the great problems of the South," says the New Orleans Times-Democrat, "is education. It is the immense amount of illiteracy in this section that J has held it back in material progress. A With a large proportion of its population unable to read or write, the heritage of ^ war and devastation, it is difficult for the OOUMi lunuvtture in hi mipivio its agriculture, or become great in manufactures." ? True Dignity.?The great underlying basis of all true dignity of human attainments, all true character, ever has been and ever must be the abiding and ever active idea of morpl obligation. This must be the germ from which all worthy motives emanate.