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lewis m. grist, proprietor. { % Iniiepbent Jfamiljt ^ttfaspaptr: Jor % ^amotion of |e |jclitital, Social, Agricultural anb Commercial Interests of t|e Sonfji. ]terms--$2.50 a year, in advance. VOL. 33. YOBKVILLE, S. C.. VE|NESDAY, APRIL 6, 1887. ISTO. 14. JtriaJ Jfofjg. RETRIBUTION BY "THE DUCHESS." CHAPTER XV. * If the idea that he looked startled and turned pale on seeing her at first suggested itself to Nadine, it i s speedily touted. Mr. Annerley, coming up to her, holds out his hand with quite a beaming smile. "You! It is not one of your days, v surely," he says. His tone is crisp, abrupt; in another man it miglit be called flurried. A long, light overcoat covers him irom his neca to his boots. Even though she cannot see the clo.thes beneath, some sudden fancy strikes Nadine that he is slightly en fete. This idea, too, however, is put to flight before it has time to harden on her brain. it jfrnqt^^aay days.-but^ * ' i She is so astonished at seeing him here in Mrs. Brand's house, that she finds a difficulty in speaking quickly or freely. "You are going," interrupts he, shortly, "so am I. Come." He opens the hall door as he speaks, and motions to her to precede him. It is all done in a moment. If he had meant to get her out of the house with a speed that admitted of no delay, he could not have done it more promptly. Still devoured with surprise at his presence in. Park Lane, Nadine forgets to comment upon this, even in her thoughts, until long afterward. As they leave Mrs. Brand's house behind them Annerley's manner undergoes a change It loses its briskness, and returns to its usual calm habit. "But you?perhaps you did uot want to come away so soon," says Nadine, in a low bewildered tone. What could a city cleric want in Mrs. Brand's house at that hour? "Yes; I was quite ready. My business was finished," returns he, steadily. "Your business? Business with Mrs. Brand?" "And very serious business! So serious that it is conducted as secretly as possible." "It has to do with your?your?firm?" asks she, in an awed tone. "With?my firm? Yes. I was sorry yon met me here. It is of the utmost consequence that my comings and goings at that house should be kept dark." Ha glances at her keenly as he speaks. "You need not be afraid," says Nadine, quietly. "I shall say nothing of it. I * shall not mention having met you. You nay be at rest about that. But I confess I am amazed?astonished!" "Come in here. It is a fine evening. A walk will do you good, and?I have something to say to you." Entering the principal entrance to the park, they stroll together in silence? pass the row, the drive, the lost touch of humanity in the shape of lifeguardsmen and nursery maids, Qptil they find themselves in a dull, out of the way spot, and virtually speaking alone. "Yes; I am more surprised than I can tell you," says Nadine again, pausing to look into his face. "To meet you ther? I And this secret business?I hope it means no barm to Millicent?Miss Grey?" "None at all, I assure you." He laughs easily. "I shall not harm Miss Grey. My business, so far as she is concerned, will very soon be at an end." "Then she is mixed up with it." "Well, yes." "Paul," says Nadine, leaning forward and speaking in a low tone, "I think I have guessed it. it?it nas sometnmg 10 do with?her sapphires." An extraordinary gleam flashes across Mr.' Annerley's features. It is momentary, but brilliant. Fear, suspicion and something stronger still are blended in it. It may be that he is disconcerted at having his "business" with Mrs. Brand thus publicly put into words. To be discovered, no matter how innocent the offense, is disagreeable to most. "You are not pleased that I have found it out?" suggests Nadine, timidly. "But not let it distress you. I shall bury the knowledge in my heart. No one shall be the wiser for it." "You will do well to do so," says Annerley, recovering himself with an effort. "You will take care also not to let it be known by word or glance that you met me to-night at Mrs. Brand's. Much depends upon your faithfulness in this matter." "Then you have found a clew to the thief? You are on his track?" asks she, breathlessly. "Yes; there is a clew." He pauses a moment, looking down into her eyes as mougn ne wouiu reau uer veijr auui. "Swear to me you will not mention having met me to-night," he says at lust, in a low, vehement tone. His intensity frightens her. "There is no need for it. I have promised; but if you wish it, yes?I swear not to reveal our having met," she answers, nervously. "Was it this you wished to say to me, Paul?" "This?and something else. But first"?? He breaks off abruptly, and laying his hands upon her shoulders, tu.iiS her so he can see her better. He has been gazing at her intently, and the extreme beauty of her flower like face, enhanced by the touch of timidity his stern voice and manner have brought into it, has set on fire the love that already burns brightly in his bosom. She is the one solitary thing on earth that he cares for ?the one human creature he adores with a passion, wild, ungovernable, that sometimes from the very strength of it makes even him tremble. If he should lose her! The very idea makes the blood rush tumultuously to his head. And there is that to be said to her to-night that? But she will not fail him?she shah not! "Nadine!" exclaims he, in a suppressed tone?low, vehement." "Tell me that you love me! I have loved you so well that I will not believe you have given me no return. All my heart?nay, my very soul, is yours to save or ruin, as you will. Is such devotion to go unrewarded? See! I am'waiting?trembling before you as the veriest leaf that grows, lest your word fail me. Does not this touch you? Are you insensible, heartless? Well, then! if you cannot from your heart say that you love me, at least tell me that your heart is empty?that you are indifferent to all the world." He waited breathlessly. But as the waiting lengthens a dark frown gathers on hia hmw anfi a sAvacra exDression curves his lips. Nadine, faint, terrified, and still with that terrible numbness overpowering her, draws back a step or two and presses her hand convulsively against her face. Annerley, laying his hands upon her shoulders, gives her a violent shake. A low cry escapes her. This cry releases her from the nervous bondage in which she has been held. "Speak, girl!" cries he roughly. "It is true you never yet told me that you love me. Am I now to learn that you have made that confession to another man?" "Oh! no! no!" The assurance falls from her with a fervor which he places to a wrong account. With a passionate thankfulness she tells herself that she can at least answer this last question wit* truth. To no man has she said, "I love you." "Ah!" says Annerley, drawing a long breath of eager relief, "that is well for my rival had he existed." There is such subdued ferocity in his tone that Nadine shivers. "Be coutent," she says, calmly, "you have no rival. There is no one I can marry" "Except me. That is as it should be." He sighs heavily, and still regards her wun a lowering urow. ".now tor my news," he says. "To-morrow. Will not to-morrow do?" asks she, fuintly, feeling tired and overdone. "To-morrow I shall probably be out of town.. Ye?,." answering her glance of surprise. "I shall be abroad for a week or too?on business." '"The same business?" demands she, eagerly. "You re a wonderful gnesser," returns he. There is a vague suggestion of a sneer in his smile. "Before going, however, I want to tell you that a stroke of luck has at last fallen at my feet. Today the?my?my chief sent for me and offered me a?a higher stool in the office, in fact" He hesitated a good deal, and seems indeed singularly ignorant of the proper terms to be used with regard to his rise in his position. "I am very glad," says Nadine, in her clear, cold, girlish voice, so devoid of real interest. "This rise will enable me to marry," continues he, watching her closely. She is evidently aware of his scrutiny, be cause her race remains impassive, even while her fingers interlace each other and grow into a clasp that leaves her knuckles white. She nods her head softly in answer to his remark, not trusting herself to speak. "But it will take me out of town." He is watching her still narrowly. But this time she manages to meet .his gaze. If, indeed, her fate is to marry this man, and go with him wheresoever he goes,. then it will be only kind "of drive them into the country, far from this great London, where one meets every one, and where those known to her in her present life might sometimes (cruel thought) be seen by her. "Well?" she says. "It will take me out of the country. The fact is," continues he, rushing at the rest of his communication, "I have been offered a post of?of trust that will take me to America." "You go there in search of this man who has stolen the sapphires?" says she, quickly. "You are hunting him down. Is this your post of trust? Arc you a?a detective?" Something like a vague smilo flits across his face as he notices how she shrinks from him. "Not exactly." His tone is full of mystery. "If detectives are abhorrent to you, be happy in the thought that I have nothing in common with them; that, in fact, I detest them quite as much as you do. No; I am going there in advance of the detectives, as I hope. You'll be ready to come with me?" "Is it to be soon?" "It may sound soon to you, perhaps. In about a month from to-day." It is now growing toward the end of July. "But I may have to start earlier than that. You will be ready?" He is very pale as he presses the question. If she refuses?if she even bargains for more time, it will cause confusion. But she does not refuse. A profound sigh escapes her, but she says: "Yes, I shall be ready," in a voice subdued but void of trembling. If she is to marry him, and thus to resign all good the world can give her, it will make little difference whether she lives with him here or in that far country he has named; then a sudden thought occurring, she looks at him eagerly: "My mother?" she says. "Will of course accompany us." "Will your stay there be long?" "I hardly know?for some years certainly; after that it is undecided." "Everything is undecided that lies in the years beyond;" she sighs again. "You are going abroad to-morrow, you say?" "Yes, for a week or two?perhaps three. But I shall be back in time for our wedding." He attempts to speak lightly, but the sad look on the girl's face checks him. He is, however, too elated by the victory already achieved to know any fear for the future. No doubt she is pining at the thought of leaving her home, but once married to him, the power and persistence of his love will conquer all regrets. So he thinks; so he vainly believes. "Don't look so grieved, my darling," ho whispers fondly, pressing her hand between both his own. "Think of the long and happy future that lies before you, with me forever as your slave. The time will come, Nadine, when you will not regard any ties but the one that binds me to you. Ties of home and kindred will be as naught beside it. Though now, perhaps, you give me your heart unwillingly, then you will love even as you aro beloved. Oh, that that glad hour were blended with this!" He presses his lips ecstatically to the hand he still holds. His whole face grows bright with the affection that glows within him. Then one word that he has used returns to him ? * a * itTT ni:WM 1) wun unpleasant iorce. uuwiuiug, he goes on musingly, frowning slightly. "Yes, you are unwilling to give me your heart." "Ah, no!" says she gently, and with a troubled air of uncertainty; "I am not unwilling. You mistake me. I would, with all my soul, that I could love you as you desire, and perhaps, indeed, in time"? she hesitates, as though lost in a labyrinth of painful thought. "No, I am not unwilling," she repeats again, feeling how good a thing it would be for her could she indeed obliterate from her mind all the too dear past and give herself entirely to this man. "You speak as though I am obstinately withholding something?as if you believed you were robbing me of the heart on which you set such store. But it is not so. "Whatever else you may have stolen, it was not my love. You cannot steal that; but some day, perhaps, I shall give it to you." Preoccupied as she is with sad and hurtful memory, she is roused to present life by the curious glance and start that follows on her speech. Both are subdued as suddenly as they came, and' Annerley once more regards her with only the ardent look of affection that before was his; but Nadine cannot forget that they were there. Has he heard of Mr. Duran? Has Nadine's acquaintance with him come to his ears? Does he suspect Duran of being the thief who has stolen from him his love'B heart? She feels a little cold and sick with anxiety as she waits for his next words. They reassure her. "You give me fresh life," he says. "Some day, indeed, the love I crave shall be mine. And now," glancing at his watch, "I fear our last moment has come. Now I must bid you farewell, until the happy time that will see me home with you, with our near marriage only a few hours distant. Good-by, my darling, my best beloved!" Not a living soul is in sight. Folding her closely in his arms, he holds her to Viim no tHrmrrH Hp r?nn1fl novor nfain suffer her to go. She feels the reality, ' the wild earnestness of his love at this [ instant as she never before realized it. I Softened, subdued by it, she gently re| turns his embrace, and then stands back j from him. "You will think of me?kindly, lovingly!'" breathes he with pussionute entreaty. "Sweetheart! if you could only know how hard it is to part from you for even these few days! Xadine, have pity on me,and try to love me in my absence. They say 'absence makes the heart grow fonder;' prove the saying true. Alas! how fatally honest your sweet eyes can be. There is nothing in them for me?nothing but pity! Well, even that is better than a few other things I could name? it is at least akin to love. But have you no sorrow in that we must part? Are you cold always? Suppose we should never meet again after this hour?never in all our years on earth? would not thismove you? Why, no! You look bewildered, but not sad. It is the last moment! I cannot see you again to-night ?because?because of? Never mind that. Good-by, my pretty girl!" Once again he folds her in his arms. Once again he passionately presses his lips to hers. He releases her. "This fear of mine is folly," he whispers heavily. "It is but for a week or two. We shall meet again, to know no other parting?save death!" He guides her quickly on her backward way to where again the gates loom large and dark. Into a cab outside he puts her, lays his face for an instant against her palm, and then is lost among the growing mists of the night. Now, and only now, Xadine remembers how she hud forgotten to tell him of the projected visit to Valworth Pavl:! CHAPTER XVI. A sweeping lawn; broad terraces; far away as the eye can see a gleaming, swaying ocean. Behind the lawn a background of giant firs that blot out the sky In that direction, and throw into brilliant relief tho white clad figures darting to and fro upon the tennis ground. Gerald Mnssareene, having lost his game, fiings his racket to the winds, and throws himself prone at the feet of Nadine Roche. "Pretty-place, eh?" says he. "Soothing to the nerves after the town fever?" Then looking at her and marking the extreme repose of her bearing, that almost borders upon lassitude, he says gently, "Tired?" "No." She brightens up with an effort and Bmiles at him in her kindest fashion. ** ? it- '-I* i/?! A/1 lint* naw. TltTI tiiUU^illS Qi c LOU^lCU~~*UCi U11UU turbed. Both are far from the busy scene before her. A sense of despair, of inability to move inj the path that stretched out so temptingly to her view, has saddened her eyes and given a mournful curve to her beautiful mouth. 'Her days passed here with Maurice Duran have been infinitely sweeter to her than ever she had dreamed they might be. The very nearness of their companionship had had 41? charm, and though no word of love had come from his lips, still, eyes can speak when words are forbidden; and though honor renders one dumb, who can prevent the sense of gladness that comes with the touch of one beloved? Sweet days I too sweet to last?and swift as sweet. A whole fortnight has gone by?two weeks crowded with such exquisite recollections as will (unhappily cling to her for all her life. And now it is the ICth?to-morrow will be the night of the grand ball, given in honor of Capt Boyle's birthday, who is expected to arrive about an hour before it opens, and then? Another cruelly blissful week, perhaps, and after that a return to town, and?a hurried wedding! Then exile from all that has made life not only endurable but perfect. Sometimes a thought of Paul Annerley has crossed her mind, but, as a rule, she has resolutely put all remembrance of him far from her. She had told herself that this one holiday at least should be her own. Afterward let oblivion, let misery come, but just for these few happy days she would let utter joy hold sway. She had heard nothing of her future husband since her departure, and if at times lit had occurred to her as strange that he had not written to her from those for* * 11 1 rxf fVin VAh. eigu cities, wnitner ms scmuu ul ber of the famous sapphires led him, the sense of relief in not having to write to him swallowed up all such wonder. "How should I feel tired?" she says now, smiling at Gerald Mussareene, who has become quite a friend of hers. He has found In her an ally?a certain partisan, who derides the notion of Millicent's ever consenting to fulfllldier loveless engagement to Capt. Boyle while her heart is given to another. That other, now stretched at the pretty partisan's feet, is quite willing to accept her reading of the situation. Though Millicent herself has been somewhat' difficult to understand, a little vague in her answers, a trifle willful, in a degree?a marked degree?averse to being brought to the point, still Mr. Massareene is inclined to believe in the creed of his pretty confidante when she declares herself ready to affirm publicly her belief in the constancy of his fair, if rather trying, love. "Well, I'm glad you are not," says he pleasantly, alluding to her assertion that she knows no fatigue. "To-night there will be an influx of guests, ordered, like the supper, for to-morrow night, and it would not do to be in poor form. You look pale, however." "Are many coming?" "Enough to make us put on our best bib and tucker and our choicest manners. You will have to make your very best bow to the, Wri nontenant of the county, and to smirk at a youthful if very famous general. The only thing to be careful about is not to overdo it to-night; to remember that the morrow will bring the big Nautch, and to reserve some smiles for the hero of the hour." He speaks with some bitterness. "To-morrow night will bring Capt. Boyle." She looks at him softly out of her serene eyes. "Do not let that make you unhappy.' His presence means less than nothing. Indeed, I believe it will do your cause good." "Sweet prophetess! I would I dared share your creed." "What creed?" asks Duran, who has joined them unseen. "A belief Miss Roche has in the unconquerable power of love," replies Massareene gayly, springing to his feet and crossing the close turf to where he can see Millicent standing, for once, alone. "And so you believe in love's omnipotency," says Duran, gazing at Nadino with calm searching eyes. "You?" "There is surprise in your tone?and doubt. Why should I not hold such a creed?" returns she steadily, though her lips have grown very pale. "I cannot answer that here. Will you come with me to the Firwood? I shall not keep you long, and I must speak to you. Do not refuse me, Nadine. This is probably the last hour we shall ever have together. I leave the park the day after to-morrow." She had shrunk a little from him when first he appealed to her, but as his pleading grew stronger, more impassioned, she rose. With her eyes downcast, and her color faded to a pallor that bespoke an anguished heart, she moved beside him to the wood he had mentioned. Presently they enter it. The eternal greenness of it stirs her blood once more to an admiration that rouses her and compels her return to the immediate present. Kver since she had obeyed his word, and risen and followed him hither, she had been in a kind of waking dream that had been too sweet to permit her desire for its dissolution. Now, ho\>:ver, that she is fully awake to her danger as well us to her pain, it is too late to withdraw from a tete-a-tete, that she feels must rive her soul. Duran, stopping abruptly beneath the spreading brunches of u huge Scotch fir, lays his hand upon her arm thus arresting her footsteps also. "If love be indeed all-powerful how is it that I have failed:'" he asks in a low tone. "No love was ever stronger than that I bear for you, and yet it has been of no avail when matched against the barrier that stands between you and me. Has it been my fault, or is it that the love should be equal on both sides, and that?yours?falls below the mark:'" She had been standing with lowered lids and trembling hands, but now, as though forced to it against her will, she looks at him. Her large, dark, mournful eyes are full of a reproach?mute, but so terrible that his heart grows warm within him. Alas! how clearly in those melancholy eyes is her pure love lying. "It is true, then! I have your love," he says, always in a low voice, but none the less ecstatically; "and if so, my dearest, why will you repulse me! Ah! have pity on me, if you will not on yourself! Think?think before you sacrifice us both to a mistaken sense of duty." "I have given my word," says Nadine ?"my promise." "A word?a promise?better broken. See here, my love, I have lived many years longer than you. Too many," ho says after a pause, thut is filled with regret for those past hours when he had not known her, and when unother had borne his name?another unloved and undesircd. "I cannot bear to think what years lie between your birthday and mine; but still my very age gives me the right to speak. Is it good that you should surrender all your happiness to one for whom you have no real regard, just because you once gave him a hope to that effect? Nhl'i there is no loyalty in that. Better let him go than live to repent the bargain ho has made." "There is my word," persists she, meekly but earnestly. "I cannot take that back; and he, too, loves me. He loves me so well," declares she with an intuition that has revealed to her the real passion of the man whom she has i r\ murrt* T fliinlr if. piUIlllOV'U vu VMUV * vuiuik a t# would kill him did I now prove false." ' You are very tender toward him!" exclaims ho bitterly. . "But of me? how is it with me? ^"o, I shall not die; I am not made of such brittle stuff as this other lover of yours. I shall probably live, even though you forsake me; but", what of my life? is it to be all barren?all wasted? Have you no pity left for me?" r "Alas! is it kind to torture me?" says; she, with such a forlorn glance as once i more reduces him to a forgetfulness ot{self, and to the old passionate regret foz; her. "It is kind. If my cruelty can rescue, , you from the Slough of Despond into which you now are drifting it is more than kind. What! will you live out all your fresh young life without a joy?all f hope? Nadine, I implore you to pause1" ' "It is too late." She lays her palms j upon her bosom and regards him with ! blanched cheeks "Oh! if I had only met you sooner; but now?now" "Your words are an acknowledgment of your love for me" cries he, casting his arms about her. "I will surrender you UnlAtrarl l Tin tinfc: , I/O no IUUU. IIOUIUVI uuuiwi ...... shrink from ine?do not seek to unloose ] my arms." 1 "I must," sobs she vehemeiitly. "Have I not told you that all this comes too late? I?I am to be married in a fortnight." It is his turn to shrink, to pole. He , opens his ormto Instinctively..and lets het. d raw back"from Kim with' q\ii VeHrff^UpSV and trembling limbs that almost refuse to support her. "I will not believe it," he says at last hoarsely. "A fortnight To give yourself body and soul to one for whom you are caring nothing?in a fortnight! Child! Darling! Say it is not true." "I cannot!" She has buried her face in her hands. "And that is a woman's honor?a woman's honesty," says he, pacing to and fro upon the mossy sward with a disturbed brow, and lips stern and compressed. "Do you think this man will thank you for the empty casket you are offerii g liim? The body without the soul would be to me worthless. Who shall say he does not think as I do? Come"? stopping short before her and gazing at her fixedly?"tell me the name of this city clerk who stands between us! If you will do nothing toward the untying of a knot that may ruin three lives, I wilL" "Paul Annerley." "But do not pursue this matter," she says eagerly, going a step or two nearer to him and laying her hand upon his arm. "Do not, I implore youl" "I shall pursue it until tho iniquitous words are said that will bind you to him for life," replies he doggedly. "Nay." grasping her hand as she turns hopelessly away from him, "do not think me unkind, my love; it is for your happiness as for my own I strive." "If indeed, you desire my happiness," cries she, risking all things in her longing to save him from a vengeance that some instinctive knowledge teaches her will be deadly, "abstain from intervention of any sort. Do not seek Paul Annerley. Let me fulfill my destiny. Let me marry him. Believe me, there is no hope!" ' $ He might perhaps have misjudged her, and have believed her already wedded in heart to Annerley, but for her concluding words. But these, and the melancholy light in her large eyes, reassure him of the truth that in reality she is altogether his. There is, however, so keen a sense of weariness in her attitude and expression that he resolves on refraining from further argument. "Well," he says, with an attempt at lightness that does not deceive her. "we have aid enough for to-day, and you look tired. Come, let me take you home. Remember there will bff a large addition to our party to-night, and of course you will like to look your best." "I will go back to the house when yon have promised me one thing," returns she steadily; "that you will not seek Paul Annerley for four days from thte. Give me these four days." She is trembling with excitement, and her eyes are full of tears that will not bo repressed. Four dayi. To-day?to-morrow; these two cannot be avoided. Were she to leave now, before to-night's dinner?that is but a herald of to-morrow night's ball, when Capt. Boyle is expected, to grace his own birthday entertainment?it would be regarded as nothing less than an act of discourtesy by her kindly hostess. But the day after she might leave; Paul by that time will surely be returned to town?and her (bitter thought!)?and she can easily so man" * ? ?v> o Knfirnor Vilm trgt; as iaj pruvuiiu a m^cuu^ n wu uiu? and Mr. Duran. "The four days you crave are yours," replies Duran gravely, noting the fever in her eyes. "Now, in turn, concede me a gratification. Let me accompany you back to the park." CHAPTER XVII. Meantime Millicent and Gerald Massareene are standing in the warm sunshine in one corner of the tennis ground. Miss Grey, who had been playing, but has now resigned her place and her racket to another, is looking at her companion with an expression half wistful, half mischievous?perhaps wholly mutinous. "Time is flying," says the young man ardently. "Have you not come to a decision yet? It is almost the last hour. After to-morrow there will be no grace left. He returns then." "Granit? Yes." "You must choose between me and him. You know that, and still you hesitate. When he returns it Will give liim an advantage, because then he will again have the world on his side?his very presence gives him an extra chance. If you could, decide?if you could let me speak before he comes." "I don't see how his presence or absence can influence the matter. There is to me only one thing to be considered? whether or not we can live happily when quite poor." "It wouldn't be quite," interposes he eagerly. "There would be the eight hundred a year." "There would be?starvation!" "If you choose to term it so," says he a little haughtily, his Irish blood aflame. "And as you so choose, it of course declares to me that you have made up your mind not to share it." He looks at her for a little while with his head well drawn up and his eyes full of an indignant entreaty. Miss Grey, receiving this look point blank, knows that the moment has come to keep him or lose him for ever. "You are so precipitate?so impulsive," she says, with a haste that .is sufficiently well bred to be devoid of the appearance of hurry'that really belongs to it. "I understand the case as well as you do,'' petulantly. "It is poverty with one man. misery with the other. One has to decide between them?and?one does not like poverty!" "Does one prefer misery?" "X?o. I suppose not." Then she pauses and locks her fingers together, and then unlocks them. "It is misery eitlier way," she says. "Not if there is love," entreats he softly. "And?you will have to make up your mind now." "You mean that you will not wait to receive my decision later on?" asks she, with a sudden swift glance from her eyes. "Yes, that is what I mean," says Massareene. It is to be now or never, then! She realizes the situation at once, and admires her true lover a little the more in that she knows he will abide by his word, and that if she now trifles with him, he will be over the border to-morrow ere daylight shows the land, and beyond all recalling, ,be the voice of the charmer never so sweet. ' You mean, too"? she says, temporizing a little. "Nothing but that. Make your choice now, to-day, between me and him. Tomorrow there will be no choice left. If you do not love me, that will matter not ut all, and I shull have had an escape from one who merely used me as a toy wherewith to pass the time. If you do love me, it will matter so far that you will break all bonds and defy all discomfort to link your lot with mine." His face is very pale as he says this, but his eyes are light with resolution and his voice is llrm. lie is almost handsome as he looks at her, with his glance fond hut determined, and his right hand resting on his heart inside his coat as though to still its tenlpestuous beating. Miss Grey, with a tremulous smile, draws nearer to him. "I have decided," she says gently. "Now ahd forever." , "Is it to be him, or me?" Though his accent is steady, she can see that his very lips are bloodless. "You, you!" she says. And then there is a long, long silence between them. They are standing in a corner of the tenuis ground open to all the world, so that any demonstration of joy or gratitude or love is impossible. But even when action is denied, the eyes can speak. "My beloved!" says Mr. Massareene in a tone so low that she can barely catch it, but it is so full of infinite delight and love that she tells herself it is sufficient in itself to atone to her for the enormous for tune she is willingly flinging away for his dear sake. "There is only one thing more," she says after a little bit. "Do not speak of this until to-morrow has gone by. It will ^distress [auntie and Lady Valworth, and [spoil her party." * - "But, if I say nothing, when Boyle reiturns he will still regard you as engaged him and?and he may expect" HHe will expect nothing. - We have never been a loving couple, I assure yon. No. Let the matter rest until Lady Valworth has had all her enjoyment out of her son's birthday ball." "It shall be as you wish, of course." Then, forgetful of everything save of her, he takes one of her hands and holds it closely. "Millicent! tell me you have no regret?that you do not think I have done you harm instead of good." "I think of nothing'except that I have given myself to you for weal or woe, as the case may be, and that I believe it will be for weal." "But if not, my darling? Now that I have really won you, I grow faint hearted lest you should ever repent. Oh! if you should do that! If there should be only poverty?that is woe?belore you!" "I should prefer that to weal with Granit or any other man," she says softly, with such a light in her eyes as he had rever seen there before. * ? * The day wanes slowly; and night draws near with reluctant footsteps. Nadlne, standing before her glass, is conscious of a thrill of satisfied vanity as she sees the dainty vision that is gazing back at her. All in white the vision stands: a simply clad thing in virgin muslin, but with a face above it beautiful as a dream. That it is her own face rejoices the heart of Nadine. The many guests accummulating for tomorrow night's ball have all arrived, and it is with a flutter at her breast that Nadine takes a last glance at her charming person, and clasps round her neck the diamond cross?Paul Annerley's first gift to her. It hod been deemed by her too grand an ornament to be worn on the earlier evenings here, when only a simple black grenadine had been her dinner dress, but to-night, as she sees herself looking all that the heart of man could desire, in her delicate Indian fabric, she tells herself that the glistening diamonds are whnt will add the last finishing touch to an already perfect picture. Taking up her fan, and returning the maid's congratulations on her appearance with a pleased little laugh, she leaves her room and goes slowly down the staircase toward the drawing room. For a minute or two she pauses outside the door, partly from natural nervousness at encountering so many strangers?their voices coming to herjfc a subdued murmur from within ?and partly to give herself a last glance over in the huge mirror behind her, to as * 1 M 4.1... 4. ..1,^ 1^1 sure iiersvu niutsuo jo iuuiwiuh iuh^i umu usual, and that In her true love's eyes she may find favor. She sighs a little as she remembers how far she will be from him in a few days' time?lost to him forever? bound irrevocably to one whom she may respect but can never love. The smile had died from her lips, and her face is colorless as her gown when she has finished these sad musings, and opening the drawing room door, advances slowly to where she can see Lady Valwortli in the distance. The room is somewhat crowded. Many look up as she goes by them. Some regard her silently?these the men; some ask, in a deprecatory way, who she is? these the women. All show an undisguised interest. Lady Valworth, with whom she has become a reigning favorite, turns to greet her as she approaches her side. "You must let me introduce you to a very charming little friend of mine," she says to her companion, Lord Aster, holding out her linnd to Nadine with a kindly smile. "A friend, too, of Millicent's!" She gets through the introduction, and Lord Aster, an old beau with a juvenile lisp, and a wig callow and golden as a chicken's down, murmurs something complimentary in a boyish tone that is as labored as it is ancient. "There are a few arrangements as yet incomplete. Some eligibles unassigned,'' whispers Lady Valworth to her favorite. "I should like to give you some one who would amuse you through the tedious time of dinner. Would you like" She comes suddenly to a dead stop. She had been murmuring to the girl in a gay aside, with a smile upon her face, but now the smile has given place to a glance of mingled astonishment and horror. Her eyes are ilxed on Nadine's breast, where the diamond cross?Paul Annerley's gift ?is glittering and sparkling magnificently as the girl's gentle bosom rises and falls. "That?where did yoxi get that?" demands Lady Valworth, in a stifled tone. Lord Aster, fortunately, is glancing through his jaunty eyeglasS at some ono sitting quite at the other end of the room. Nadine and Lady Valworth are virtually alone. "That?" asks Nadine nervously, sur prised at Lady Valworth's, manner. sue looks so innocently at her hostess that the latter, by a supreme effort, recovering herself, lays her hand reassuringly upon her arm. "Nothing, my love. It was a mere start I received. That pretty cross upon your neck reminded mo of one I used to udmire long ago. Who gave it to you?" "Paul Annerley?Paul, to whom I am engaged," says the girl, with a little sigh. In truth, the pretty bauble?the value of which is unguessed by her?is devoid of all tender interest, coming as it did from him. "Ah! a pretty gift," returns Lady Valworth absently. In spite of herself her manner is constrained. She moves away from Nadine and crosses the room to where Millicent is standing, conversing with Geraldine Massareene. Iler face is very pale, and there is excitement in her eye as she approaches her niece. "Millicent," says she abruptly, tapping Miss Grey's arm with her trembling fingers. "Something more thun strange has happened. I must speak to you because you are her friend, and" "What is it? You look as if you had seen a ghost!" exclaims Miss Grey, compelling her to sink upon a lounge near her. "I have seen what I never hoped to sec again! Part of my stolen diamonds! I have seen my diamond cross!" [TO UK CONTINUED.] Wiiy Colors Cannot be Photographed.?Photography has never reproduced natural colors. Scientists explain this fact by the statement that color has no objective existence. It is simply the brain's interpretation of the rapidity with which the waves of a ray of light beat against the retina. Beats more rapid produce the sensation of the mind known on . Konta loaurnnifl that known as red. Violet and red are nothing but vibrations of the ether until they reach the optic nerve and communicate to that the vibrations which the brain translates. To photograph color is therefore as impossible as to photograph sound. BSTltismuch easier going out of our way when we are in it than getting into it when we are out of it. IpscritattMitis Reading. A LETTER ON FEMALE SUFFRAGE. .Some time ago the editor ofthe Southern Christian Advocate, Methodist organ published at Columbia, deprecated the efforts of the Woman's Christian Temperance Union, fearing that it would lead to the agitation of the female suffrage question in this State. This brought forth a letter from Mrs. S. F. Chapin, of Greenville, an active member of the Union, defining the position of its members. The letter was addressed to the editor of the Advocate, but he declined to publish it. The following is Mrs. Chapin's letter which hasoc casioneu some puuuu interest uu uccuuut of the Advocate's unfavorable comments in rejecting it: Yo fearful men fresh courage take, Those votes you so much dread, Are big with mercy, and will break, In blessings on your head. Mr. Editor: In your last paper you copy from the Nashville Advocate, an article about "The Woman's Christian Temperance Union." A society which the Editor-kindly admits js "composed, of the. . wisest, anil best women in the land, and is a power for good." But he "deprecates some mistakes he thinks we are in danger of making." Well now brother Editors (both of you) 'tis nothing new for our doings to be "deprecated." We have been warned by the "wisest and best of men" against every single step we have taken in the path that has made us the "power for good" you are compelled to acknowledge we have become. We "are a power," but have become so, in spite of "deprecations, and warnings," and not becauseof any helpful words. We "are a power," because we have dared to do the right, as God gave us the right to see. We enlisted for work, not for fame or profit, but in defence of our homes and dear ones. To work for God and home and native land, and God helping us, we mean to do it; even though it lead us Oil lu uie unuui uda, I have never belonged to a Woman's Suffrage Society, but I do not agree with the Editor that "a ballot cast by a woman, for the protection of her home, against the rum batteries, which by the ballots of men, are placed over against all that is nearest and dearest to her, would "be offensive to God." I do not believe it, but I do believe, that .the pitying Saviour, knowing how long, and patiently women have waited, and suffered and plead, in vain to men for deliverance would look down with loving sympathy, and say, "O woman, be it unto tnee according to thy faith," and the saloon would go. The editor thinks woman's ballot would be "disastrous to the country." If it had not been for the self-denial of woman, we would have had no country. The priests said the expedition of Columbus would be "offensive to God," but Isabella of Spain, with woman's God-given instinct, thought differently, and pledged the jewels of the castle to enable the great discoverer to make the voyage. We women, after reading the report of the Clerk of the House of Representatives at Washington, think that we, (ignorant as we are supposed to be) could by our ballot save the nation a vast amount of money by keeping men at home who required a nation to furnish each of them with 420 towels during the session, also with perfumery by the gallon, fans more than one at $50 apiece; Mvor si ooo for oDera classes alone, also bracelets, toilet powder, fur robes, embroidered shawl straps, tons of playing cards, J125 each for stationery; and then only think of Congressmen, being supplied with mental food at their own request: "Little doings for little folk," "Daily tricks of little chicks," "Baby world," "Ring around Rosies," etc, ad infinitum. Not mentioning the thousands spent to keep up their spirits, when they go to funerals. Could our ballots be any more "disastrous" than ballots that send such unscrupulous men into the high places of the nation? Impossible. But it is urged that in order to vote, we "would have to neglect our children." What nonsense. It would not take us over twenty minutes a year to do our voting. The majority of women either have no children, or grown children, and those who have small children, could easily send and get the neighbor, who stays with them when she goes to pay her taxes to come over again, for a few minutes. There will be no "primary meetings," held in saloons, when woman comes into this right. Oh, no! her decisions will be made in the sacred precincts of her home, and in the fear of God whose word tells us, that "when the wicked rule, the land mourneth." Women ought to be allowed to say by their ballot whether the saloon keeper, (nineteen times out of twenty a foreigner,) shall be allowed to erect his rum battery, over against their home, destroying the value of their property, increasing their insurance rates, and risking the safety of the boys, for whom they went down ibtn thp shadow of death that the.v might have life. Home is woman's kingdom, and no right thinking man would refuse to grant her the privilege of defending it, and saving her loved ones from the rumsellers cruel and cunning devices. Chivalry, does not mean gapy, meaningless flattery, as some men seem to think. But thoughtful and careful consideration for those, who by man's laws are prosecuted from helping, and protecting themselves. I have seen ladies vote, so I am writing, about what I know. I happened once to be in a State where the women vote. My hostess, was a lovely little lady cultivated, refined, wealthy. I had all the ignorant prejudice against woman's ballot and thought it was really as we have been educated to believe a terrible, disgraceful thing to go to the polls, where rough men would be swearing, and where I might possibly have to use a pistol to defend myself against a shillelah. Imagine my horror, when my little friend came in and informing me that she was going to vote, asked me to accompany her to the polls. In her dainty fingers, she held her ballot, with the protest "no" conspicuously visible. I certainly might go, were she did, so I went. When we reached the voting precinct, she stepped from the carriage, men cleared the way tor her respectfully. I have been much more rudely jostled, and crowded, when I went to pay my taxes. When she returned to the carriage, she said with much emotion "I am so grateful for the privilege of doing something towards getting the saloon out of the way, before my three little fatherless boys are old enough to be enticed into them ; for they inherit the fearful appetite, and I am very anxious." Ho you think that ballot, cast for that purpose, by that mother whose heart had been torn with anguish because of the ruin (through alcohol) of a once noble and cnhnki r) v husband was an "offence to I I God." Nay, verily not the God I worship?lam sure. After the voting, we drove out into the country. She was a model house keeper, and had promised to instruct me in making some delicious pickles. We went to obtain our materials, and spent the day afterwards in preparing them. That night, the Chautauqua Circle, connected with our W. C. T. L. met. Every lady of prominence in that city was present, every one had that day voted against liquor, and yet they looked as lovely and as womanly as any ladies I ever met, and it was decidedly without a single exception, the most intelligent company I ever had the privilege of being in. Although perhaps some might have called them more womanly, if they had spent the day embroidering pink dogs, with green eyes, and been so fatigued by the exertion that they had to take lager, or morphine to tone them up. There is no accounting for taste, and there are women to ( supply that demand, but you cannot I find them in the W. C. T. U. The strongest and broadest men, i all over the South, say woman's bal- ! lot is the only hope for the homes of j the nation. I rarely make an ad- ! dress, that some distinguished man ! does not say to me Prohibition will i never become national until woman ' has the ballot." ltead your Legislative and Con- I gressional reports, and see how en- ! tirely home interests are ignored, j and saloon interests legislated for. During the session of the last Legislature, some member from the upcountry offered a bill that would prevent the sale of tobacco in any form to boys. Some other States have nn?LQPfi if Rnf thp J-sPnalnr thought it impracticable, because in order to distinguish boys from men, it would be necessary for them to carry around with them the family register. Amazing! not to be able to tell a boy from a man without the family register. To belong to the W. C. T. U. you may or may not believe in woman's suffrage- Borne Norther#Btqfea_jn thefr^crnistlfimons oppose The majority never bring it up for discussion. We have our individual opinion on that subject, as on any other. I myself, think there is too much suffrage and it is unequally distributed. I think an educational qualification should be required, and only people who can intelligently vote, whethertheybe maleorfemale, should be allowed to do so. I believe too, that women ought to be put on school boards in South Carolina as in some other States. They know far better than men, the possihilitipsof children. It is reallv Da thetic to see children in our primary schools, weeping over some of the books given them to study. Why, they do not even appear in the "Congressional report of the books supplied to Congressmen." . I think it would be a great deal more manly for some Editors to fight whisky than to be fighting women, whose one aim is to help poor fallen humanity, and it is nothing less than arrant cowardice to take shelter under an editorial 'We' and attack women, unless they allow the attacked to defend themselves. Of course, as a W. C. T. U. woman, I am entitled to think as I please, and I please to think it would be a great blessing to the nation if the ballot could be taken from a great many men who do not deserve it, and given to a great many women who do. I believe in qualified suffrage, irrespective of sex ; but I don't ask our women to endorse suffrage, or break up their unions because of it. I have never endorsed suffrage in a single speech, but I don't believe it is disgraceful and blasphemous, and all that sort of thing. If a woman can rule over the British Nation, surely an American Woman ought to be allowed to say whether or not a saloon keeper shall put his miserable pit-fall where her boy will fall into it. And they will have the privilege before very long, for the broadest viewed men all over the nation, say as Rev. Atticus Haygood did, after one of my talks, "Mrs. Chapin, you must ask that the women be allowed to say by their ballots whether the saloon or the home shall exist. The saloon will never down until it is snowed under., by the pure white ballots of women; and the sooner you women recognize this fact, and ask for the ballot, the Detter it win oe ior me iintiun. S. F. Chapin. The Increase was too Great. The son of a prominent man in public life hasjust returned to Washington from a year's experience in the cattle business in Utah. "I raised a cdmpauy here, mainly among my friends, and we invested $50,000. It took $30,000, of that to buy our range, $5,000 to get me out there, and buy our outfit, and the rest we put into cattle and expenses, principally expenses. My cattle men got into a row with a neighbor and his men ran our cattle down into the canyons. Then our foreman took it into his head to sue us for his pay, and although I had made an excellent report to the company, somehow things went wrong. My report stated that we had enjoyed an increase in our herd of 120 per cent., and that was the case. I don't know that any of our men stole any calves from our neighbors. I don't know that our cows had more than one calf apiece, but somehow we loundon our roundup that we had 120 per cent, increase. This is what broke us up. Cattlemen are used to 80 and 90, and in rare cases 100 per cent, increase, but they could not stand 120. The cattle association in that district held a meeting and passed resolutions that it was impossible for any herd to increase at such a rapid rate, and, calling upon the delegate in Congress from Utah to investigate the case, wound up by giving me three days' time to get out of theTerritory. Iam now going down to pass a civil service examination." Armchair Warriors.?"It is an astonishing; fact," said an ex-Confederate member of the Missouri delegation to a Washington correspondent the other day, "that the men in both houses who were the fiercest for war in 1861 in the majority of cases never shouldered a musket, but remained quietly at home. Now there is Vest, of our State. He was always a fiery, impetuous fellow, just asyou see him here. Before the war he was a member of the Missouri Legislature. One day he arose in his seat and, addressing the chair, said: "I see by the morning papers that the Sixth Massachusetts regiment, which was on its way to Washington to coerce the South, was fired upon in the streets of Baltimore and one of its members killed. I also read that his body was packed in ice and shipped back to New England. I now wish to say, Mr. Speaker, if the North proposes to put on ice and ship to their homes the bodies of all men killed in that unholy crusade they had better make a contract for Greenland's icy mountains, and be quick about it, too." "The funny part about it is," continued the speaker "that Vest never served au hour in the army. He was elected to the Confederate Congress shortly after the incident I have narrated and remained in a place of safety until the closeof hostilities." What Grows on Waterloo.? On the two fields of Waterloo and Linden, splendid crops of crimson poppies appear every year. The nAnnuhftQ fhoQP 1Q glWULIU >Y 111VII UUUIIUNVU XIVUV -w packed with the remains of soldiers. The preparations of opium derived from the poppy have heen used in the form of laudanum and paregoric. So, pain has been stilled by the re- 1 mains of pain and death, and babies put to sleep by the dead bodies of men who fell in the deadly onslaught. To do the right thing at the wrong time may defeat the object as effectually as if a wrong thing had heen done. STOP THE BEGINNINGS. There is a Latin maxim which, rendered into English, means "Stop the Beginnings." It contains a volume of good advice. A few days ago a minister told me he was preparing notes on the Proverbs of Solomon, and had just reached the most important verse in the book, "Train up a child in the way it should go." "Stop the Beginning," would be a good note for him to make to that verse. We have in this State a Reform School, to which vicious boys and girls are sent by courts and magistrates. Among the inmates are a good many who have been committed as "incorrigible." They are very young, ranging in age from seven to twelve years. Their parents allege that they are unable to control them, and they are sent to the Refuge in the hope that they will be reformed. The beginning of evil was not stopped, and now the restraints of the law have to be brought in to check them. In many homes there are mottoes on the walls, appropriate to the home life. "Stop the Beginnings," would be a good one to put up in the nursery. Many a good citizen would be saved to the State if the tendency of evil habiti were, checked in early childhood. A minister passing through one of the wards of a hospital came to a cot on which a young man was dying. "Can I do anything for you ?" he asked With a look of agony in his face, the younj man said, "Oh, sir, can you undo?" Tht beginnings of evil had been unchecked and a wasted life was the sad result. The maxim "It is never too late tc mend" is often quoted in regard to break ingoff from evil habits. Would it no be better for those to whom is comraitte< the responsible duty of training children to adopt this maxim: "It is never to< early to begin ?" I once read the story o a good woman whose husband was an out spoken infidel. As her children grew up one after another came Into the Church A friend asked what means she had uset in their training to neutralize the influ ence of their infidel father. "Well," sh< replied, "I never argued with him, no belittled him in the eyes of the children But I never allowed them to go to be< without reading a few verses of somethinj the Saviour had said. I put his word: over against the words of men." Parents frequently say about some bat habit of a child, "Oh, he will outgrow it' Perhaps grace may come in by-and-by t< change the heart and mould the life, bu it is dangerous to rely upon a child's out growing evil habits. The natural tenden nv nf such hahits Is tn crnw with thi growth. When the child comes to year8 of maturity, and is ready to assume the reB sponsible duties of life, it will be pleas ant for the parent to be able to say, " have taught thee in the way of wisdom; have led thee in the right paths." 8 STRONG DRINK. R The following extract from a receiA issue of a scientific exchange has somfl practical remarks on the excessive use A alcohol and its effect on the brain, whkA will be interesting reading to several whH are addicted to the flowing bowl: - Alcohol is indigestible. It cannot bl built into bone or tissue. The only thinH the body can do with alcohol is to get riA of it. It is largely thrown off by thH lungs, as one can believe who has corrA within smelling distance of the drinkeA It passes through the skin, and works i A way to every part of the body, and a po A tion of it passes to the brain, deranginA the action of the brain, and producing A species of insanity. When the alcohA reaches the- brain, of course it is closelA shut in, and as it cannot pass readllA through the skull it-is more nkely to rA main in the brain than in any other paA of the body, and here it does its moA deadly work. A The brain, when healthy is so soft th A it would not retain its shape but for tbA skull. The sharpest knife is required A cut it without mangling its structure. A is necessary to immerse the organ in alcA hoi for weeks or months in order to harA en it, when a careful examination is esse A tial. A drunkard's brain presents a coA trast. In the dissecting room it affonA rare pleasure to a medical student to sA cure the dissected brain of an old topeA A celebrated anatomist declared thatlA could tell a drunkard's brain in the dar A by the sense of touch alone. A LondcA physician reported a case in which lA found, upon making a post mortem exanA ination, so strong an odor of alcohol emiA nating from the brain that he appliedH match to it, when it burst into a flaciH The quantity of alcohol in the brain H sometimes so great that it can be collect^! by distillation after death. fl It must not be supposed that eveB drunkard's brain is as hard as a pickl^B one; but it may be fairly supposed thH the hardening effect of alcohol has no ifl tie influence in the production of degenH ration of the brain, such as results in vH rious forms of progressive paralysis. Nl merous functional disorders of the br&H are also traced, directly to the habituH use of alcoholic liquors. Locomotor ataH ia, an almost hopeless malady, involviiH the brain and spinal cord, is very oftfl the result of intemperance. a| THE CHANGESTF A LIFETIME. I Men ninety years old remember wh^B there were no steamboats, but all tr&vfl on the water was done by the slow, qI certain means of sailing vessels, whenB one started for New York it wasdoubtfH if he would reach therein a day or a weeH Now we know how many hours and miH utes it requires to make the trip. H Men now sixty, years old remembH when;' there were no railroads, but travel on land was done by stages, lfl wagons, by ox teams, on horseback, aiH on foot. Now a network of railroaH covers the whole country, and seveiM liues run from the Atlantic to the PaciM Ocean. Now it requires only six or sevJH days to cross the continent. Formerly thH trip required three months. H Men fifty years old remember whS there were no photographs, but only paitH ings and drawings, made at great pric^| of objects now done better in an instant H trifling cost. 9B Men of that age also remember when H steamboats crossed the ocean, and it wH believed that they never could, but nt^K hundreds of steamships are plowing eve^B ocean, reducing the time of crossing tH Atlantic from weeks to days. H Men forty-five years old remember whH there was 110 electro-plating, but eveiH thing in that line was done in the old-fa^| ioned slow way. Men of that age also remember wh^? +v.oro ii-orp nn tplecrnnhs. but all measac^H had to be sent by the slow-going niai^B Men twenty-five years old rememt^B when there were no telephones, but alltH messages now spoken thrQugh had to H sent by notes or special messenger. fl| All these grand and useful inventic^B have been made within the memory^B men now living. The younger gene^B tion can never appreciate them as th(fl| do who remember the want of them, a^B therefore the great convenience they ^B to the world .?Bridgeport Standard. ^B "I Haven't the Time."?"I have^B the time to read, I have to work too har^H Let us see: How many days during fS[ year 1886 did you go to town when y^B had no particular business there? Hfl| many "sales" have you attended? H^H many days have you spent hunting afl| fishing? How many days or hours ha^B you neglected your business, to talk w^B some man who had "nothing particuBH to do ?" How many days have you spHB at political gatherings? What are doing these long winter evenings? Whfl| are you and what are you doinjj while^B is raining, or while the ground is covei^B with snow? Are you sure you have^fl time to read? Jg