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????? lewis m. grist, proprietor, j An Jitiicpcitkit jfamilji ftefospaper: Jfor % ^promotion of % political, Social, Agricultural anb Commercial Interests of (Ije Scull,). | terms--$2.50 a year, in advance. VOL. 33. ~ YORKYILLE, S. C.. WEDNESDAY, MARCH 16, 1887. NO. 11. j| ferial ftarg. i RETRIBUTION BY 'THE DUCHESS." CHAPTER VI. Granit Boyle, emerging from behind an evergreen, comes leisurely forward, an inscrutable smile upon his Arm lips. "Our dance, Millicent," he says, in the Blow drawling tone to which she is so accustomed, and which she has begun to hate so heartily. "I dare say," she says, coolly. "Will you dance it, *or pass the time in the gardens??they are astonishingly pretty." "That depends upon whom I view the gardens with," says she, glancing at him insolenty from under half closed lids. W?fl r\9 A/MIWA 11 I it ivu aibj wi vuui ov? "Ah!?then I shall dance It" "As yon will, my pretty cousin.,r There Is a touch of vindictiveness in the smile he bends upon her. "Perhaps, even, you would prefer to neither dance nor go into the gardens with ine, but spend the half hour?another half hour? here with Mr. Massareene?" If for a moment he had supposed he could confuse or disconcert her, he finds out his mistake at once. "Ye*, I should prefer that," she says. Massareene at this makes a step toward her, but Granit Boyle waves him back with a curious laugh. "No, no, my friend," he says genially. "Yon can uot have it all your own way. I would not give up this dance with my ?cousin." He pauses, and then laughs aloud. "Do you know, Milly, I was very near saying, 'with my wife;' but that would have been unlucky, eh? Counting before the happy time, eh* But really, you know"?turning again to Massareene?"I would not miss this dance with Miss Grey for a great deal." "It is astonishing how much you can say in a little time," says his fiancee with an ill disguised sneer, rising with deliberate want of haste from her low seat "Well, if this thing has got to be danced let us go and do it." She lays her hand upon her cousin's arm, and moves away a step or two with bim. Then she glances back over her sbouldder at Massareene, who is looking a little white, and comes to a standstill. "The next is ours," she says in a very sweet voice; "come for me as soon as vou can. I shall be glad to see you again." This is as much as to say she will be overjoyed when her dance with the man who is her affianced husband has drawn to a close. Granit Boyle, with a smothered imprecation, moves on again, and she perforce accompanies him?but not to the ball room. "I'm not going to dance this, nor am I going into the gardens," she says, with decision. "I am going to sit in the smaller hall, and criticise the people while they come and go. That will help to pass away the time." "Until you can with politeness get rid ofme." "Don't be rude, my dear Granit To put an unpleasant truth in glaring color is always a mistake." "I will be mistaken twice, then, for your benefit, and to prove myself by no means a fool in your eyes. You will sit here and criticise your neighbors until it is time for you to return once more to the arms?I beg pardon?the society of Gerald Massareene." "You have an excellent wit," says she, with an untroubled smile. "You cannot, however, deny the truth that lies in it?" "Why should I? You are such an extremely clever young man that one must believe you can see through the proverbial stone wall." Mr. Boyle bestows a glance that is not altogether one of affection upon his future wife. "Then you don't deny it?" he says. "Certainly not. I should welcome the advent of any one who would relieve me ?I mean you?of the burden of your? that is my?presence." She laughs as she gives voice to this lUtle impertinence?made all the more pointed by tho affectation of modesty that runs through it. Granit frowns openly. If the day should ever come in which he might claim this willful lady as his own?if?(it seems very improbable? at this moment specially so) he will certainly teach her such a lesson in propriety as she will not be likely to forget for the remainder of her days. "Don't trouble yourself to try to be polite, even in ridicule," he says, in a voice that suggests a good deal of hidden wrath beneath the forced calmness of his demeanor. "But even you and Mr. Massareene cannot dance together all night without laying yourselves open to unkindly comment. An eiTetc civilization has so ordained it, that the world has grown to look on such vulgar exhibitions of affection as?indecent." Miss Grey lets her fan drop to her side, A Kwincra "hov linnrlo TTTitVi n sudden sharp movement. "How daro you!" she says, in a low tone. "Hah! At last I have touched you, my pretty cousin l" cries he, gayly. "A little of that revenge, so wisely called sweet has fallen to my portion to-night. Why, you look positively pale! Come, pull yourself together; call upon that indominitable spirit in which you pride yourself, and give mo back my blow! What?still no words? no seething sarcasm, no pointed barb environed? Pshaw! I gave you credit for more go than you possess." His manner is maddening. Miss Grey, rising slowly to her feet, with parted lips, through which the panting breath comes hurriedly, surveys him with a glance that would have subdued most mtn. But not Granit Boyle. He rises, too, and picking up her fan with a nonchalant grace, hands it to her with a slight bow full of mockery. "You look charming so," he says, "with that haughty expression on your handsome lips. Flattery is not only vulgar, I know, but the crudest of mistakes nowadays; but you will forgive me for it, when you see how feeling has carried me away. I am a devoted admirer of artistic effects. This, of yours, is perfect. I have always considered you pretty, my cousin, but never really realized the fact that you could be beautiful until now." "You run it very fine," says Miss Grey, in n vninn cn snhdiipd to be ftlmOSt U whisper. "You arc daring. It would hardly suit yon, perhaps, to be thrown over by the heiress of the season."^ ' The heiress of the season wo'**.l not so serve a devoted lover," replies he, still with that light mocking laughter on his sneering lips. "If she did?why?she might cc-use to be the heiress of the season." lie had dealt his little blow in a soft undertone, but it tells. It is all so true! Her uncle, Timothy Boyle, her aunt, Mrs. Brand, the two whose wills make her an heiress, could as easily unmake her, were she to go contrary to their wishes. And they have decreed that she is to marry Granit Boyle, the son of their dearly loved dead brother, the first husband of Lady Yalworth. A whim on their parts. A serious matter with the girl now standing pale with passionate anger?with head down bent and a heart that madly fights with cold reason for a victory. To give up this man and a future that will land her on the world's stage as one of the richest commoners in England, or to resign this man and cleave to that other, who can give her only a very modest income and a heart all gold. "To be, or not to be!'" This struggle is sharp, bitter, but shovt lived. She has been too well trained to willingly barter all for love. Cold reason wins the day, and the heart, sobbing, rebellious, fades into the background. "As to the devoted lover part," she says at last, with a smile as careless as his own, "I will let you off all that sort of thing. We shall fulfill our destiny, you and I?we shall marry, and by such means gain money, and we shall die in all probability in the odor of sanctity? but of love, I thank you, we will say nothing." "An excellent arrangement. They say those who love deepest say least about it. Shall we pose, then, as friends?" "The least of all," returns she, with an angry flash from her large eyes. "What! neither friend nor lover?" "I have said so." "Nor friend, nor lover, but only hus- j band!" laughs he. "A very unique little affair altogether." "Miss Grey, at last I may return to you," says a low voice at her elbow. With a convulsive start she turns, and, as if involuntarily, holds out her hand to Massareene. There is something in the fond, kind, ugly face that now at this instant?when her soul is filled with horror of him whom she has promised to marry?appeals to her strongly. "Yes, yes?at last!" she murmurs, brokenly, and moves away with him without so much as a parting glance at Granit Boyle. CHAPTER VII. It is midnight. Twelve hours have been chimed by some great clock a mile away, the strokes falling solemnly on the cttll olr nf thfl cmmmpr riirrht, Tr/lfflft I has ceased, and only the sonnd of an occasional carriage may be heard, the red lights from its lamps flaming upward and sometimes casting a lurid shadow upon the bed where Millicent lies sleeping. The girl had appeared a little tired, a little ennuyee for the last day or two, and Mrs. Brand had decided upon her refusing any invitation for this one night at least. She should go to bed early, so would Mrs. Brand?the whole household, indeed, should retire at an abnormally early hour, and Granit, who was acquainted with all these circumstances and arrangements, was forbidden to call after six o'clock. Boom ? boom?boom ? goes the big clock somewhere. Millicent, as though disturbed by it, turns uneasily in her bed,' and, as growing consciousness gains on her, sighs deeply. Alas! there are many reasons why she, the petted debutante of the year, should sigh profoundly. Her body, indeed, is well (this seems rather a grievance than otherwise), but her heart is sick and sore within her. Oh! the horror of having to marry Granit while her affection is all concentrated on another! And yet, to lose her inheritance! To a girl trained as sho has been ?as hundreds of others are trainedsuch a consideration is paramount. To be cast from her throne, to be discarded by her world, to sink from a comparative supremacy to a sure mediocrity!?in that lies the sting. If only the matter could be altered, and arranged for her on lines according to her own liking! She had thought of appealing to her aunt?had even hinted to her that Boyle was not altogether so dear to her as he should be. But Mrs. Brand had pooh-poohed all such hints as being mere girlish folly, and had told her that in time she would find her cousin was far above the average of the young man <ili > met. and that thev had good reason to believe a defunct title, thathud once belonged to a branch of their family, would be revived in his favor. How quiet the night has grown! Even in the heart of. this surging London, it seems as though a time of rest can reign; the stir, the roll of the odd carriage or two only enhances the extreme deadness of the calm. Millicent turns wearily upon her pillow, and tries with passionate anxiety to forget her woes in sleep. In vain sho courts the wished for slumber; in vain she seeks to kill her cruel thoughts. Still they remain with her, growing ever more persistent as wakefulness grows upon her. Impatient, and angry with herself, and finding the night insufferably worm, sho half pushes the . bedclothes from her, with tho intention of rising nr.d flinging wide her window, when a slight noise in the adjoining room arrests her attention. Is it a footstep? or one of those strange sounds that break tho stillness of the night!'?ghostly sounds that we all know, coming from nowhere apparently, yet loud euough to make tho pulses beat und suggest a covering of tho head with the friendly bedclothes. Millicent, wide awake now, but uncertain, listens intently. Sho has indeed drawn bock her foot into the shelter of the bed, but otherwise has shown no fear. Is it a step? It hes stopped now. After all, it might havo been auntio coming for her cologne water, or one of tho maids for the neuralgia enre that lies on the mantelpiece in her boudoir. In spite of these consolatory reflections, however, she cannot conceal from herself that she is growing frightened, and is regretting with ever increasing earnestness the fact that she is sleeping alone, in a corridor cut off from the rest of the house. fsnnwi alter an, 11 was nuuaug?a silly scare. Silence once more reigns supreme. Not even the indomitable mouse is to be heard. No scratchings, no squeaks anywhere. Not even a Good heavens! what was that? That horrible stealing sound in the room beyond. It is coming nearer and nearer! Of that some horrible inner sense assures her, though now she can hear nothing. Oh, how the minutes drag! The knowledge that even if she screamed until life left her she coulJhnot be heard by auy one member of the household adds ten thousand terrors to her already miserable situation. Ah, there! There it is "again?that stealthy footstep; more distinct now? more real. All in one momeut every shuddering recollection of people murdered, every ghastly detail that she has ever read or heard, recurs to her, and makes the blood freeze within her veins. Soon, perhaps, that blood will be frozen eternally. And now a maddening regret occurs to her. The bell! why had she not thought of that sooner? To cross the room, to pull violently at it?even if her effort failed to bring one of the servunts (a most likely thing, as all the servants sleep at the very top of the house)?at least she might have alarmed this midnight assassin, and sent him flying from I the scene of his unlawful labors. But now! Is it too late yet? Almost paralyzed by fear as she is, she rises cautiously upon her elbow, and is just about to make a rush for the bell, when CHAPTER VIII. The door beyond opens slowly, and a figure that looms large and terrible in the light of the dim lamp it carries appears upon the threshold. Millicent, benumbed, fascinated, staring with wide eyes, sees a man dressed iu the common course fustian suit of an artisan. The face is hidden; over it a mask of black satin is drawn carefully. This gives a last touch of terror to a presence already big with fearful mystery in the I eyes of the poor girl gazing at it, in a [ smellhniiml rm<r?iOi from over the frilled ' and dainty linen sheeting. It is an impossible thing, in spite of all ! wise writers to the contrary, to account : for human feeling?to arrange for what ( it will cause the owner of it to do or say j on certain occasions and under certain | circumstances. Millicent, a moment ago more dead ! than alive, when her fear was hidden ! from her, now that it appears before her ! in flesh and blood and an 'abominably j bad suit of clothes, feels her soul rise ! within her, her courage grow apace, and j lifting her eyes?though still in a very : agony of doubt and horror?she stares nt j the intruder with some small semblance j of defiance. The intruder, however, being no doubt a man of base mind, to whom lofty sentiments are unknown, returns her would-be j haughty glance through his mask with an air calm as a summer eve. "Get up!" he says?neither more nor less, but just this concisely. It is a demand that Miss Grey in her newborn fit of courage sees fit to scorn. "I shall not!" she says from her stronghold behind the bedclothes. However ignominiously she behaves i afterward, it must now be said of her I that she is filled with a high courage. "Won't you:'" says the man in fust- j ian. His tone is remarkably high and j squeaky; not?as'Miss Grey remarks, even at this awful moment?like the voice of any human thing she has ever heard. "I give you just_ three minutes to get into your clothes:"no more. T.oolc shnrp, and never mind your hair. That is a woman's first thought, isn't it? But it must go for once." lie laughs in so suppressed a fashion that she hardly knows what the laughter is like; but that it is wild and reckless, and decidedly mirthful, is apparent to her. It did not declare itself to her then, but afterward it occurred to her that his whole air was hardly in accord with the fustian. "I shall not stir," she says valorously.. "Then I regret to say that I must assist you," returns he, advancing toward her slowly. This settles it, of course. Her high born courage fades, evaporates. Her spirit dies within her. With both hands she clings to the bedclothes. "No, no!" she gasps. "I will get uponly?only" "Go? That, of course," says the man c as argeenble as he can in his squeaky tones. "I shull go to the next room, 101 i precisely five minutes by my?no, by t the way?your watch. Don't, let me ad- t vise you, let it be longer." c He strides toward the door by which ho has entered, and then suddenly stops c short. So does her heart. Once again I she had dwelled upon , the hope of what 1 a ringing of the bell might bring forth; s but, as if the mysterious being had read 1 her inmost soul, he now turns to her. 1 "By the bye," he says, "to ring your bell may suggest itself to you. You i might ring a thousand bells in this house, I I verily believe, without result; but still I decline to take the chance. After all, s I think I shall stay here, in this remote 1 corner, while you put on your dressing r gown." 1 "Oh, no!" i The words break from Milllcent desperately. a "No? You would prefer not? But" I "I swear to you I will not ring the ^ bell," declures she wildly. "I don't know .. why you wisji mo to rise; but yet I give you my word I will not touch the bell j if you will only go into that next room a and give me the five minutes you have t promised." "A woman's oath is not worth a half- j penny, to cay nothing of her word," says f the stranger pleasantly. "But still, I c will grant your request with just this last c word. If you play me false, if you seek ? to summon aid in anyway, I shall"? t drawing a revolver from his pocket and f handling it tenderly?"blow your brains . out!" The words fall from him in a whisper . ?delicately?so mildly, indeed, that no suspicion 01 violence snouiu rest wim them. Yet Millicent, cs the door closes behind liim, shuddera vehemently, and her teeth chatter as though she has been stricken with a sudden chill. With trembling haste she springs from her bed, hurries on her clothes, and having covered herself finally with a soft warm dressing gown, stands shivering with expectation upon the carpet. She must have got through her task with far greater speed than she had imagined?in three minutes, instead of the allotted five, as a good while elapses from the time cko had finished her hurried dressing to tho dreaded moment when again her foe appears before her. "You are a paragon," he says. "Permit me to congratulate you. I said five minutes?I gave you seven; it uppears three would have been sufficient. But now to business. Where are those sapphire and diamond ornaments that have made you the envy of all beholders this season, and added a faint luster to the brilliancy of your charms)1" Yes?certainly his manners are not in keeping with his clothes! "My sapphires!" gasps she feebly. "And diamonds! Do not detract from their value. Come!"?sharply?"let us have no nonsense. I know you keep them in this room or the one beyond; but where? I assure you?I beg you to believe that I would not for worlds have roused you from your happy dreams had not my failure to discover the jewels compelled me to apply to you for assistance." "My uncle always keeps them," begius the girl, telling her lie without a regret in the fond but vain hope that it may save her sapphires. All at once the suave manner of the man disappears, and an angry oath escapes him. "Look here, girl," he says roughly, though his voice is fine and squeaky as ever, "no trifling! I know these stones to be in your keeping, and I shall have them to-night or" He pauses, draws the revolver again from his pocket, and significantly clicks it. "Where are the sapphires?" "Over here," says Millicent, now fairly cowed. She moves mechanically toward the wall opposite, and raising her hand, touches a spring that is evidently connected with some secret press in the wan?a press coiiceaieu uy uiu pupenug. A small door flies open, and not having the courage to actually give him her treasures (jewels are always dear to a woman, be she good or bad), she points faintly to the disclosed cupboard. The man in fustiun lifts his lantern, peers curiously into the recess, and with a low cry of triumph seizes upon the different cases that lie side by side upon the wooden shelf. Cool, even in the moment of victory, ho opens the cases deliberately one by one, to make sure of the contents. Yes, they all lie there?the beautiful glittering things, for which a girl is crying, and for which a man is bartering his souli Lifting his head, after a sharp but hurried examination of the stones that apparently satisfies him, he sees that Millicent too, is gazing earnestly at the pretty baubles once hers, so soon to be hers no longer; and that as she gazes, her soft eys are full of tears. "Seems cruel, ehl1" he says. "Well, that you may say in the future I was not ungenerous, I will leave you this out of your treasures for which you are so ready to shed your tears. I wonder if they are dearer to you than" He pauses abruptly, as one might who has been about to say something better left unsaid. "Thun your lover." He winds up with that low, suppresesd laugh again, that certainly does not belong to him, and thrusts into her unwilling hands a small but exquisite locket, heart shaped, glittering with sapphires and diamonds. "Think it is a gift from the man you will marry," he says lightly, in that dis- ] agreeable voice of his. "And now, fol- i low me?or rather, go before me?to the s door." ] It is the door leading to the corridor without to which he points. Millicent, still as one in a dream, obeys him and goes toward it. He opens it carefully, and backing outward on to the corridor, always with his eyes on her, comes there to a standstill. " I bid good night, mndaine," he says mockingly. And then (she can remember little about it afterward, so swift it was) something was flung over her face, and presesd there; there was a moment's struggle?a moment that to her was an eternity-jand then a strange dullness: the sound of a door hastily closed; the echoing of departing footsteps; a sense of suffocation, and afterward a ceusing from all knowledge, and a deadly blank. CHAPTER IX. It is eight o'clock on the ensuing morning when Lucy, Millicent's maid, rushed sobbing into Mrs. Brand's bedroom. "Oh, ma'm! Oh, my young lady! Oh, ma'm! Oh! poor Miss Millicent!" "What! What is it? Speak, girl!" commands Mrs. Brand, her face growing pale with nervous expectation. "Oil. ma'm! that 1 should live to see this day! Oh, poor, dear Miss Grey! Her as I wus fond of. Her as never said a word unkind to mortal soul. To see her now, and to think that only yesterday" "What do you mean, girl!'" cries Mrs. Brand, ringing the bell frantically. "Good heavens! What lias happened to Miss Grey!'" "Oh, to only look at her, ma'm?I thought I'd have dropped at her feet when I pushed the door back, never knowing why it was so hard to open and she i/ing against it, with her poor head'' "The woman will drive mo mad!" cries Mra. Brand in a choked tone, and, hurrying past her, made her way to Millieent's bedroom. Already two or three servants have gathered there. The door is open, and i ;fcey are stooping over something lying m the floor almost immediately beyond he threshold. Mrs. Brand, with a little cry, and pale ind trembling, rashes forward, the servants part involuntarily, and there lying lpon the ground, to all appearance lifeess, lies Millicent. Her head is thrown backward, and one hand is tightly flinched. "She is fainting. It is only a faint!" :ried Mrs. Brand, with an anguish in her one that belies the meaning of her words. 'What are you all standing idle there tor?" turning upon the terrified women. 'Has no one thought of sending for a loctor?" She is down on her knees now beside he pale still form, and has raised the :old head on her arm. "Yes, mn'm; James has gone for a loctor," sobs the housemaid nervously. "Help me to lift her. So! Oli! bo genie, girl! There?on her bed. Pull up he blinds?what are they down for at his hour??one would think she was lead!" She says this vehemently, with a sort if defiance. But the awful word is too nuch for her?it has hardly passed her ips when her fictitious anger edres way, he bursts into tears, and, falling on her :nees beside the bed, she stretches out ter arms to the unconscious body. "Ohlmychlid! My pretty girl! What; Bit? What has happened to you? Oh! ifillicent, speak to me!" The doctor entering at this moment, he calms herself by a supreme effort, for n truth the poor woman is terribly iinlerved?no smallest suspicion of tragedy laving ever come near her before, in all ler calm, easy, luxurious life. "H'm! ha!" says Dr. Thcsby, sniffing .bout him suspiciously as he walks Ightly to the bedside and stoops over Mil[cent. "Young lady been playing iranks with chloroform?" "Oh, no! Impossible," exclaims Mrs. Jrand.. "Indeed, I hardly think there is my in the house. Certainly none that is lot under lock and key in my own room." "Nevertheless, there is chloroform lere, or has been," says the doctor, snifing again. He has been examining Milli:ent while speaking, and now calls for :ertain things to be brought him by the ittending servants. Seeing Mrs. Brand's listress, he turns kindly to her. "I can't luite make it out yet, but pray compose rourself, my dear madame. Your niece s by no means beyond the power of man ret." And, indeed, at the expiration of half in hour or so Millicent is so far recovired as to be able to smile upon them, md whisper a word or two to her aunt. "No whispering, I think?no conIdences just yet," says Dr. Thesby, rub)ing his hands. "Though I agree with rou, my dear lady, that no time should )e lost about seeing into this?er?truly ixtraordinary affair. What d'ye say, my ;ood woman," turning sharply to one of .no mams. "A handkerchief, eh? Picked up by rou? Lying on Miss Grey's face?or lartly so? eh? eh? Think what you are laying now, my good girl, as I dare say rou will have to repeat it pretty often ater on." Yes. The girl had picked it up when Irst she stooped over Miss Grey. It ,vas not exactly on her face, but looked is if it had slipped off it. The doctor, folding it neatly, puts it in lis breast pocket. "Important evidence, nadame! If you will permit me, I will ake charge of it. Heavily saturated vith chloroform, I should say, from the itrcngth of the aroma that still clings to t." "Let me see it," says Millicent sudlenly, in a voice so much stronger and vith such excitement on her pale face hat the doctor thinks it better to accede o her request, while still entreating her 0 "Be calm!?be calm! and above all Lings to be calm!" "As if," said Millicent afterward to ^adine, "any one could be expeceted to >e calm who had just escaped being murlered, and had had the finest sapphires n Enlgand stolen from her!" The handkerchief is a large, coarse, lommon one, white in color, and of such 1 texture as might be used by a respective artisan on u holiday making. "It is a clew," says the doctor triumphantly; but Millicent, though she could lot have put her conviction into words, 'eels that it will never help to bring the real offender to justice. "But what brought the man here? hat is what I want to know?" demands Mrs. Brand, with a little spreading of icr hands, when the doctor has called lome hours later to find his patient has 'nL.nntnf# /nn'of lif liiu qKc/ITIOQ JCirn 4UICUJ uuiiii^ uio cjwijwuwvj ind litis only roused to consciousness igain upon his entrance. "Not a word have I let lier speak?not 1 word," says Mrs. Brand, with very parlonahlc pride, considering the extent of ler curiosity. "Well, I must speak now," murmurs Vlillicent, still very feebly, but with a lecided increase of strength that the loctor finds very satisfactory. "Why, we shall liavo her downstairs n 110 time," declares he jovially. Then Millicent launches into a descrip:ion of the man who had thrown a handkerchief over her face and left her to ive or die, as chnnce dictated, while he nade good his escape. It is this infornation that calls forth from Mrs. Brand :he question as to what brought him into ler house at all that unseemly midnight lour. "Ah! auntie!" says the girl, looking it her out of her cushioned arm chair, .vith great pathetic eyes that have grown rrenter because of the regretful tenrs :trit are filling them. "Do you not know? Do ychi not guess? When you ipened my hand, and the sapphire locket Iropped out, did you guess nothing then?" "No, child?no." "That locket is a gift to me.'" "A gift? I know that," impatiently. 'A gift from your Ucnle Timothy, with ill the rest of those very beautiful stones. A magnificent gift, truly." "No!?ft gift from the man who has stolen all thos<" unrr iled stones!" "Stolen!" Mrs. Brand falls back in her ;hair, and gazes at Millicent with horror stricken eyes. "What! Gone-! Those priceless sapphires!" :ries Dr. Thesby, who is an old friend of Mrs. Brand's, and had been shown the sumptuous gift of Timothy Boyle when first presented to Miss Grey. "Ah!" says Millicent, laughing hystercally, "the burglar evidently did not :hink them, as you do, priceless. No loubt he is already pricing them?is arranging how to break them up and sell ;hem?breaking up?my?lovely?necklet?my beautiful"? Here, being still t'ery weak, she gives up her mournful description, and subsides into a storm of :ears. "There, there, darling! Oh, don't cry ike that! Think of your weak state. But what an ai^Jacious thing! Bless me, what will your uncle say? Now, my learust love, *1 implore you to control yourself. Bemember how that unmitigated villain nearly deprived you of your ife only a few short hours ago. In this i*prv rhiniihnr T)r Thncliv fill f tn think )f it! It must have almost happened on diis very spot1" Here she grows tragic, md speaks in a deep bass tone that she lelieves belits the occasion. "Oh! Milli:ent, darling, you will break my heart ?your old auntie's heart?if you keep on sobbing like that. Dear! dear! dear! to ;hink that those supphires?heirlooms, ioctor?and the llnest in England?inleed, in Europe, I might safely say? ire now being melted down?that is, iroken up, or whatever it is those terrible nen do to them?while wc arc sitting inictive here! Can nothing be done? Oh! Ioctor?Dr. Thesby! What is the mater with her now??has that wretch suc:eeded in killing her after all?" Milliccnt, in fact, driven to despair by his prolonged lament, has gone into vioent hysterics. "No, ma'm, he hasn't," says the doc;or, with severe meaning, who had tried ;o stem the ilow of Mrs. Brand's clojuence, eagerly but ineffectually, during he past live minutes. [TO BE CONTINUKD.] B*aT A ministry of prayer is a tninstryof power. |pjscella?e0tt$ finding. COL. JAMES H. RION. THE HE conn OF A MODEST ASD NOilLE FIFE. Judge Hudson's Personal Recollections of the Distinguished Lawyer?An Example that is Full of Encouragement and Instruction for the Young Men of South Carolina. [From the Charleston Sunday News.] My acquaintance with Col. Rion began when a student in the South Carolina College. When I entered the sophomore class in December, A. D. 1849, he had risen senior, and quite naturally, no intimacy sprang up between us, because of being thus far removed from each other. Besides he was a member of the Clarios i- ~ J T - r opniu OOCieiy, tlUU X Ul MIC J^upiiiiiuiiin, and the oportunity of knowing him and of judging of his ability as a debater and of his scholarly attainments was thus lost me. Hence I could only rely upon his standing with the faculty and his reputatloh'amobg the 'students of-his class and society in forming an opinion concerning his intellectual strength. He was then, as he ever after continued, of medium height, but slender, of a quick step, lithe and active. His eyes were keen, his face thoughtful, his manners modest, his words few. Except in the society of his intimate friends he was not communicative, but reserved. Being a close student he had no time to indulge in even the mildest forms of college dissipations, and so by those who knew him not intimately was regarded wanting in good fellowship and geniality of temper. To his friends and intimates, however, he was warmhearted, and, in their society, an excellent and instructive talker, but words he never wasted upon any subject, either gay, lively orsevere. At this time he was, indeed, among the students of the College the object of interest and admiration. Especially was this the case with those in the classes below him, and to members of the Euphradian Society he was an object of wonder. The Clariosophics knew his wonderful strength, but the Euphradians could but gaze with wonder on one so little distinguished in appearance, and who was held up as the equal, if not the superior, of the handsome, dashing, brilliant Barnwell. The rivalry between the two societies, the Euphradian and Clariosophic, was intense, but of a kind ever to be commended?a laudableambition toeclipse in numbers and intellectual strength, but entirely free from animosity. Each strove annually to win the highest honors of the College. The Euphradian candidate in 1850 for the first honor of that class was Robert W. Barnwell, Jr., a young man onnol io rorplvfnnnfl PTp Wflq nflS TT IIUOV VV^UUi 1U ?i?* Av/Miiv.. .. w r sessed of a commanding presence, a brilliant eye, a countenance beaming with intelligence, a musical voice, eloquent tongue; was a born orator, charming talker, and was gifted with a capacity, seemingly, for universal scholarship. His personal magnetism was far greater than Rion's. We of the inferior classes, but of the Euphradian Society, knew well the eloquence of Barnwell, his splendid powers in debate, and his broad attainments in literature, manifested in his finished essays and thrilling speeches.' I have no hesitation in saying that the ablest speech I heard delivered against the policy of Secessson of the Southern States fell from .the lips of young Barnwell, in a debate in the Euphradian Society, during his senior year, A. D. 1850. I make this assertion, although we had the privilege ol hearing, at the old Taylor Springs, such men as Judge A. P. Butler, Col. John S. Preston and Col. James Chestnut, Jr., during that year, on the same side of the question. It may readily be understood, therefore, why we of the Euphradian society could not believe that our gifted orator and scholar would be defeated by the silent, modest, reserved, pale, slight attenuated rival of the Clariosophic Society, James H. Rion. The latter had entered college with difficulty, being "noted" on Greek? that is, failed to pass the entrance examination on that branch?and was regarded deficient in general knowledge. But we counted "without our host," as the result proved and as we began to fear before the final trial came. Never before had such excitement prevailed in the old College over the first honor. Such was the testimony of the oldest members of the Faculty, who, likewise declared that two more gifted rivals had not appeared in a class within their recollection. Rion, however, won, aud that, too, by the vote, close though, of as distinguished a faculty as the College ever had. A kind Providence had made mean ininmate of the family of the distinguihsed president of the College, the Hon. Win. C. Preston. From him I had learned much of the real merits of young Rion, and was more prepared in mind for his victory than were many of my tenow J-jUpnraaians. It was in this family, also, that I first became acquainted with the accomplished and highly intellectual Miss Kitty Weir, whom Iiion afterwards married, and who survives her distinguished husband, a woman worthy in every respect of such a man, and resembling him much in the cast of his intellect. ltion was the only son of a widowed mother, and came to college without the means to pay his expenses. lie is supposed to have been aided by the great Calhoun, but I think it is a mistake. I have been told by one who was a G'lariosophic and of a class ahead of him, that Rion came to college under these circumstances : Each society supported one beneficiary student. The beneficiary of the Clariosophic Society having graduated, the members began to cast about for a worthy object of their bounty, when it was suggested by, perhaps a son of Mr. Calhoun, that there was in Anderson a "smart little fellow," James H.-Rion, the son of a widow lady, who wished an education, and who would reflect credit on the society if he could only enter college. He was accordingly chosen, and requested to come down and apply. He came, applied, and was admitted, but was so deficient in Greek that the kind hearted Dr. Henry was forced to reject him. The condition of his admission was, that within a given period he should qualify himself in Greek. He not only did this but soon stood first of his class in this branch, and maintained this piominence to the end. His average stand throughout his entire college career, which is a matter of record, is said to exceed the maximum on all the branches. The maximum being !), his average was 9 plus on all branches. Within a month after graduating he became engaged to be married to Miss Woir u'hn then wpnt to her relations in Pennsylvania, whilst he proceeded to Winnsboro' and took charge in January, 1851, of a Professorship in Mount Zion College, then, and for many years previous, under the charge of that famous instructor J, W. Hudson. From 0 o'clock A. M., until 2 o'clock P. M. ltion instructed his classes, and devoted the remaining hours of the day to the study of the law. At the end of the year he went to Pennsylvania and married Miss Weir, the union proving to be a most happy one. This lady was the only daughter of Samuel Weir, an editor of one of the Columbia papers, a man of decided parts. Upon his death he left this only child surviving him. Having in life been a strong friend of William C. Preston, this good and great man felt a deep interest in the orphan child, and she was often an inmate of the family. They began life in 1852; with no pecuniary means except his small income of the previous year; but rich in intellectual gifts, in strong wills, stout hearts and noble resolutions, in which essential elements of success in life the young wife was not inferior to the husband. For a year or two after beginning the practice of law Ition retained his chair of professor in the Mount Zion College, teaching a part of each day, and devoting the other half to the duties of his law office, whilst Mrs. Rion taught with distinguished success a private music class. And thus was laid the foundation of a career in life which was uninterruptedly successful. At the opening of hostilities between the Confederate States and the United States Ition entered the army and remained steadfastly at his post to the end. His career as a soldier was distinguished, and is too well known to need notice from me. His was a marked example of promptness I nnrl rlotrntinn tn rlntv of* viodlnncP. sobriety, discipline and gallantry, all accomplished, too in his usual modest, quiet and unostentatious style. After the war he devoted himself exclusively to^ the practice of the law, and achieved a success uneqnaled, perhaps, by any lawyer in Upper Carolina, and surpassed by few in the State. Hesteadily and firmly declined political office, and this greatly contributed to unbroken success in his profession. But he felt deep interest in the polltitical welfare of the State, and in all the critical periods in our eventful career since the war he stood forth boldly for the right, and contributed the full measure of his great abilities towards the redemption of the State from the thralldom in which her citizens were held by the monstrous Government forced upon us by Congressional folly and Federal bayonets. A truer patriot the State never had. His devotion to his old Alma Mater, . the South Carolina College, was admirable. His death is a great loss to that noble institution. Of all the alumni he stood in the forefront as her champion. Col. Rion's success in life was due not merely to the possession of a masterly intellect, butalso to his complete control of his faculties and his ability to exert them to their fullest extent without a waste of energy. Order was the first law of his nature. A more systematic man in labor I never knew. He was methodical almost to a fault, if fault there can be in method. Unlike the lawyers outside of our cities, he, from the outset, established hours of office labor, beginning promptly at 9 o'clock, A. M. and ending at 3 o'clock P. M. From this rule he would not depart, and gained instead of lost by its observance. The remainder of theday he spent at home with his family, looking after the improvement and regulation of his house and premises, and the evenings and nights he devoted to general reading. A law book he would not carry home, nor . would hesuffer himselftobetroubled with professional labor or duties except in his office, and during office hours he would suffer nothing to divert his attention from professional labor. No one ever visited his office as a lounger or loafer but once, the attempt would not be repeated. The result was that he accomplished much in comparatively little time. Heavy briefs for the Circuit and Supreme Courts were prepared in mar. velous short periods of time, and when prepared were models of brevity, pith and excellence. During the sittings of Court he was never out of place and always ready. I do not remember ever to have heard him make a motion for continuance. His example in this respect exercised a wholsome influence upon his brethren of the Fairfield Bar. He was courteous to his brethren i and respectful to the Court. Another beautiful trait of his was kindness to the witness on the stand. He seemed to appreciate the fact that the situation of the witness generally is very trying, and calls for gentleness and* kindness of treatment from the .attorney who occupies the vantage ground. The witness is compelled to attend Court, and takes the stand ordinarily under trying circumstances. His aim and purpose is to obV?*o nofJi on/1 cnon Lr tho truth I ) SCI V U lilO W(iui (Uiu ojiviin iiiv k< u%ii| and it is morally wrong and unkind ! for the attorney to take advantage of his position and to browbeat and . villify one who he knows cannot call him to account, and who he . knows is aiming to tell the truth. [ It is unmanly, unfair and at variance with the true ethics of the profession. Rion recognized this, and ; deported himself with great propriety towards the helpless witness. * He knew also the great dangers of the cross-examination, and conducted it with consummate skill?this skill often consisting in declining tocross-examine at all. Many more cases are lost than gained by injudicious cross-examination ot witnesses. Col. Iiion's extraordinary memory and severe method in all his habits and pursuits in life were, as is usual, inherited from his mother. I was told by Dr. Mcintosh, a native of , Society Hill, but for many years a citizen of Newberry, where he has attained distinction in his profession, a striking story of Mrs. llion's wonderful powers of memory and method. I)r. Mcintosh was assigned to one of the Confederate hospitals, I think in Richmond, where were many sick and wounded soldiers. It was the duty of the chief female i nurse or matron, among the other things, to take charge of the clothes of these men and have them washed. To avoid mistakes memorandum books had to be kept, and, in spite of these books and the greatest care of the matron, confusion was constantly occurring, greatly to the vexation of the inmates. In course of time Col. ' ? A. -f it moil's nioiner necame matron 01 inn hospital. The hooks were given her with special injunction to keep the entries correct and toavoid confusion of clothing. To the amazement of the surgeons she declined to receive the books, and assured them that no mistakes would occur. They could not credit it, hut in a short time she knew the names of every soldier in the hospital, and seemed to have engraved upon her memory a perfect ' inventory of every article of clothing, as clearly as the name of the owner. To their astonishment she never failed to distribute correctly to each soldier his change of clothing as the garments were received from the laundry. ])r. Mcintosh stated that it was a marvel to see this matron receive the immense pile of clothes, and so readily assort and distribute them without the memorandum, and never making a mistake. In all the duties pertaining to her office she was equally systematic and correct, relying solely upon her never-erring Va umnrlnf fhnn fhflf. hpP only child should be so gifted, and no wonder his success attended him in all his undertakings. The son's memory and his love of method were equal to the mother's. His law library is simply a curiosity. The value and numbers of the books are perhaps unequalled in any private law library in the South, but the curiosity is in the method of the arrangement and classification. The arrangement and disposition of the law papers, stationery and cor respondence is still more wonderful. He could enter his office in the dark and, unaided by any light, bring forth any book or paper desired. In general literature he was well versed, and retained a clear recollection of all he read. Of his learning, however, he made no display, and only intimate friends were aware of its extent. His death is a loss to the profession and to theState. 4|?|> A DUXKARDS HONOR. Near Hagerstown I had an experience with an old Dunkard which crave me a hif?h and lasting resneet for the people of that faith. My scouts had had a horse transaction with this old gentleman, and he came to see meaboutit. He made no complaint, but said it was his only horse, and as the scouts had told hiin we had some hoof-sore horses we should have to leave behind, he came to ask if I would trade him one of those for his horse, as without one his crop would be lost. I recognized the old man at once as a born gentleman in his delicately speaking of thet ransactlon as a trade. So I assented to his taking afoot-sore horse, and offered him beside, payment in Confederate money. This he respectfully but firmly declined. Considering how the recent battle had gone, I waived argument, but tried another suggestion. I told him that we were in Maryland as the guests of fha T In l fori ftfntoc fhut oftni* aii?? rla. viiv uuivvu ) tiiuu aitvi vui uv^ parture the Government would pay all bills that we left behind, and that I would give hi m an order on the United States for the value of his horse, and have it approved by Gen. Longstreet. To my surprise he declined this also. I supposed then that he was simply ignorant of the bonanza in a claim against the Government, and I explained that; and, telling him that money was no object to us under the circumstances, I offered to include the value of his whole farm. He again said he wanted nothing but the foot-sore horse. Still anxious that the war should not grind this poorold fellow in his poverty, I suggested that he take two or three footsore horses, which we would hav^to leave anyhow, when we marched. Then he said: "Well, sir, I am a Dunkard, and the rule of our church is an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, and a horse for a horse, and I can't break the rule. I replied that the Lord, who made all horses, knew that a good horse was worth a dozen old battery scrubs; and after some time prevailed on him to take two by calling one of them a gift. But that night about midnight we were awakened by approaching hoofs and turned out expecting to receive some order. It was my old Dunkard leading one of his foot-sores. "Well, sir," said he, "you made it look all right to me to-day, when ycu were talking; but after I went to bed tonight I got to thinking it all over, and I don't think I can explain it to the church, and I would rather not try." With that he tied old foot-sore to the fence, and rode off abruptly. Even at this late day it is a relief to my conscience to tender to his sect this recognition of their integrity and honesty in lieu of the extra horse which I vainly endeavored to throw into the trade.?General E. P. Alexander. ? HARD MONEY. During the war the genial, funloving, Dr. T. C. Boulware, now of Butler, Mo., and who by the way Ci.joys a joke whether at his own or another's expense, was a surgeon in the Confederate service, and on duty at Little Rock, Ark. As he was needing a pair of new boots he decfded to order them made, and called on a city manufacturer for that purpose. Having described what he desired, he inquired the price, and the shopkeeper said: "Our charges for getting up such boots will be$50 in Confederate scrip or ?10 in hard money." "All right said the Doctor; "you may make and have them ready before we receive marching orders. But, now, remember your figures, $50 in Confederate scrip or $10 in hard money." "Yes," rejoined the shopkeer; "I think we now both fully understand the terms." In due time the Doctor put in an appearance and was shown a fine pair of boots, which upon trial proved to be his ideal of a fit. After discussing their satisfactory appearance, good quality of material, etc., he thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew therefrom his wallet, and tak out a $10 Confederate note, coolly presented it to his shoemaker in payment for them. "Why, sir," said the astonished son of St. Crispin, "I told you the price is $50 in Confederate scrip or $10 in hard money." "And so I understand it," replied the Doctor. "But," said the shoeman excneajy, "you have paid me only $10, and that in Confederate scrip. It is $10 if paid in hard money." "Of course, I did as you say," quietly rejoined the possessor of the new boots, "and I further claim that I have fulfilled my part of the contract ; for, truly speaking, my friend, that Confederate scrip is the hardest money I know anything of." And politely saluting the bewildered shoemaker, he triumphantly marched to his quarters.? Chicago Ledger. Tiie Better Life.?"When by divine aid the soul has climbed to some elevated region of which it had never before dreamed, and finds itselfamidstflowersand fruits that had no existence in its former world, it rejoices at the translation, and is disposed to look upon that as the place in which to pitch its tabernacle and abide all its days. It is given it there to sojourn for a while, but soon a voice bids come up higher. It starts to obey the summons, but finds, perhaps, the same formidable enemies that had been encountered below arranged to hinder its further ascension. It shrinks and says, "There is no need; it is good to be here. God's grace and a true faith brought me liittioi- onrl herp if-. i? snflp fo nhide." But presently the rainbow of peace, joy and hope, the symbol of God's covenant with the soul, lifts itself from that region and removes to the higher and fairer place whither the soul is summoned. The soul of the true believer then rouses itself to battle with its foes, and takes no rest until it finds it in the higher region. This is still more heaven-like; but it is not Heaven, and soon it is necessary to ascend to a higher plateau, "lam saved," says a soul, a thousand times; hut the voice from Heaven says, "lie that endureth to the end shall be saved."?Rev. George, Boxcen. The ^Apology.?In an affair of honor between gentlemen, one man was sentenced to offer an apology for the affront he had offered to his peers. Being a Frechman, and not familiar with the English language, i he appeared before his judges and said: "Gentlemen; I 'ave zaid you are the vorst old fools I 'ave zeen. i Zat is true. I am under zentence to offer you my apology. I am very sorry for it."?Boston Beacon. 1 AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. At a meeting of the Loyal Legion the other evening I was reminded of one of the most peculiar incidents of the war, which has never been published. While we were before Atlanta we pushed up our lines close against the breastworks of the Confederates until we were within a few yards of each other. There were two brigades, separated only by a ravine. Every time a man showed himself above his works he was peppered at. Down in the ravine was a spring, and both sides used to go there at night to get water, nobody daring to approach it by daylight. One day a heavy log fell over the camp, and every man at once rose up glad to stretch and be able to walk around without being shot at. Some of the men were cooking their meat and boiling their coffee, others walked around on the works. Suddenly without an instant's warning, a gust of wind came up and blew the fog away about as quickly as you could snap your finger, ana there were the men of the two ODDOsincr brigades out in plain view upon their works, so exposed that a volley would have mowed down half of them. But no one was prepared for the emergencynot a gun in hand; no one made an effort to arm hiipself. Thus both sides faced each other in suspense. Then, by some inexplicable impulse, a party of the Confederates, which had evidently started to the spring, pots in hand, continued leisurely on their way. I do not know why, but our men did not molest them, and some of them even went down to the spring themselves. What follows seems strange. A tacit truce was declared, and during the few days that the two brigades continued to face each other across the ravine it continued, and not a shot was fired by the men on one side at the men of the other. They would fire at the brigades at either side and diagonally, but never at each other, and the men would meet in the ravine to trade and converse. I tell this narrative to show that there was no bitterness between the individuals of the two sides. Both were fighting for the cause.?St. Ijouis GlobeDemocrat. CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE. Thp rinncrer of relvinc too Stroncrlv on circumstantial evidence in murder'was forcibly illustrated recently in the ease of Miss Journeaux, of the island of Jersey. This lady, it will be remembered, went out for a short row with a male companion named Fame, and after they had rowed some distance he lost his oars overboard and leaped i?to the water to regain them. He could not get back to the boat, as the tide was running rapidly and Miss Journeaux soon lost sight of him, though he managed to reach the shore. This was on Sunday night, and the poor girl drifted helplessly about in the frail bark until Tuesday morning, when she was picked up by a French fishing vessel of St. Mario. She was kindly treated by the captain and crew, and landed, after a voyage of twenty-six days, on the shore of St. George's Bay, Newfoundland, from whence she was sent to St. John's to wait for a- vessel bound to France. In the meanwhile Fame was arrested for murder and imprisoned, and was not set at liberty until a telegram arrived announcing the safety of his former boating companion. How different matters might have turned out if Miss Journeaux had been lost at sea! He might have been hung for a crime which he never committed, and all his protestations of innocence would have been regarded as the wild pleadings of a man who desired to escape the just penalty of his misdeeds. No power on eartn could probably have saved him, and he would have gone down to posterity with the brand of Cain upon his brow. Only the interposition of Divine Providence seems to have saved his neck from the halter. The opponents of capital punishment will find a strong argument in this case for the abolishment of the death penalty. The World's Rulers.?A European paper figures that the Christian and monarchical world.counts among its combined reigning families 408 princes. If the female contingent was taken into account, this figure would almost be doubled. The most nourishing dynasty is that of Holstein, which holds the throne of Russia, Denmark, Greece and Oldenburg, and niimhora fiftv-t.hrpfl nrinces. including twenty-five grand dukes, two kings and an emperor. Next to it is the House o( Stettin, uniting the royal crown of Saxony, Great Britain, Portugal and Belgium, besides the ducal and grand ducal scepters of Weimar, Altenburg, Coburg-Gotha, and Meiningen. The Bourbons, with their forty-seven princes, have held Sicily, Parma and Spain. More numerous than the Hohenzollerns, the Hesses and the houses of Savoy are the imperial Hapsburg-Lorraine, with their thirty-three archdukes, and the old race of Wittlesbach, numbering twenty-three princes of or in Bavaria, a distinction to which great importance is attached. The once reigning families mediatized since the congress in Vienna in 1815 are represented by 724 princes, and these have retained but a small portion of their privileges. The Hapsburgs and the Whittelsbachs are closely allied, not merely because they both belong to the Teutonic race and flourish on the same German soil but because for many years and generations they have constantly inter-married. The lovely-Empress Elizabeth, of Austria, is the daughter of Duke Maximilian, of Bavaria, and her daughter, Gisela, is the wife of Prince Leopold, cousin of the present King and nephew of the Regent. Laws Against Bachelors.?Some years since a novel feature was introduced in municipal taxation in Belguim by allowing a rebate to all married men, with an allowance also for each child of the family, the chief burden thus falling on the bachelors. In France it is now pronncpH tn tax hachelors as they were taxed in the days of the first republic, and there is no doubt but that the measure would be carried by an overwhelming majority if the women had a voice in the matter. It is a fact, by the way, that republics, for some reason or another, have been very severe in their laws against bachelors. Plato the Wise, condemned them to a fine, and in Sparta they were driven at stated times to the Temple of Hercules by the women, who, having undressed the poor fellows, would drill and castigate them. The old Romans, too, were severe with their bachelors, who were made to pay heavy fines,, and worse than that, for after the siege of Veii it is told how Camillus compelled them to marry the widows of the soldiers who had fallen in the war. In the time of Augustus^ also, all other things being equal, the married were preferred to single men for public offices. Then the Roman who had three children was exempted from personal taxes, and the bachelors not only had to pay for them, but were prevented from inheriting the property of any one not a Roman citizen. So that the present revival of laws against bachelors in France is no novelty after all.? San Francisco Chronicle. -- ? m ? r* ? mi. ? THE TIKE JiiATEK'fci OEt'KET.? Xiie SC-? cret of the fire eater is said to consist infl merely rubbing the hands and thorough-B ly washing the inouth, lips, tongue and! other parts that are to touch the fire withB pure spirits of sulphur. This burns orB cauterizes the outer skin until it becomes! as hard as thick leather. When, by fre-B quent applications, the skin has becomefl so horny as to become troublesome, wash-B ing the parts affected with very wannl water will bring away all the shriveled! skin. Blacksmiths may often be met with! who will pick up a glowing bar of iron inl their naked hands, or rake a live coatl Prom the fire to light their pipes. JM