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lewis m. grist, proprietor.! gin Jndependipit JaniNg $leuispapcr: Joi| the ?romofion ojf the political, Social, Agricultural and (tfommerrial Jnterests of the ?oufh. J terms?$2.00 a year in advance. vat. ko yorkyille, s. c., wednesday, januaky 3, 1s94. isto. 1. A TRANSFER! BY EDITH SES Copyright, 1893, by American Press CHAPTER I THE CRY IN THE NIGHT. The night had grown very dark. Black clouds were drifting over the moon and fast blotting out the somber light of the cold stars. As I leaned from the carriage and with straining eyes vainly sought to pierce the gloom of the night the soughing of tne winu tnrougu me greui puiro iuictold the oncoming storm. A feeling of intense depression seized me. Why had I come? At this moment 1 wished myself miles away. What a senseless qnest this npon which 1 had entered! Snppose I were to find my old friend: would she be glad to see me? Was it not an unpardonable intrusion to arrive thns, unheralded, at dead of night? Was there, in fact, any greater imbecile on earth than 1, driving here, near midnight, over miles of rough country road in search of Portia Vane? Ten years had gone by since Portia and I were graduated from the Canadian convent in which we had spent four happy, uneventful years. During that time we were as inseparable as any schoolgirl friends. I had idolized the beautiful, amiable southern girl, whose tales of plantation life in all its tropical color and indolence had completely captivated me. Born and brought up in a rigid northern atmosphere, the glimpses I got through her conversation and letters of Portia's homo life were visions of fairyland. Portia was stately, clever and talented. 1 was poor, inferior and plain. But the loveliest and wealthiest girl in the convent singled me out as her friend, and my gratitude aud devotion to her were unbounded. After our graduation we corresponded for two years, during which time I was employed in teaching and laying by money, for I intended some day to visit Portia in ner soutnern nome. one wruie me of her approaching marriage, urging me to be one of her bridesmaids, which pleasure I was forced to forego. I received a few letters after her marriage, in which she spoke in glowing terrarfof her new life. Then I heard no more. We drifted apart, as all school friends invariably do. It is always the unexpected which happens. Whoever would have fancied that from his numerous train of relatives my uncle, John Mason, would have selected me, poor Prudence Mason, as the heir to his great property? When I had finished gasping over the announcement his lawyers made me, my first thought was of Portia, and that I would seek her at once to tell her the good news. Perhaps we might travel together; perhaps she was poor and needed assistance. Possibly there were children for whom I might do something. Remember an obscure plain teacher has few frends, and never in all my desolate, colorless existence had I so clung to any human being as to Portia Vane. I thought of her now as the carriage went jolting through this wilderness over the uneven roads, occasionally banging against a stump or the root of a tree. I saw her sweet face and heard again her gentle voice and remembered all her gracious and kindly acts. "Will we soon be there?" I asked my driver. He was a typical specimen of the southern "cracker," and in the monotonous, mellow accents borrowed from the negroes drawled out: "Putty soon, ma'am. It 'bout tu '?" Vvrr Haa/1 Won'o .nine, own owe uuo %jj i/vau juuu o swamp ye kin see the lights down yondah." "Dead Man's swamp!" 1 repeated involuntarily, "What a horrible?a dismal name." "Dismal place, tu," he replied, "thah hain't white noh niggah dah go in thah at night All sorts o' curus an awful goin's on thah." "What do you mean?" I asked. "Waal," he droned, "I hardly know myself what I au ,x?ean. Thet's it You know, ma'am, thet it's the mystery, thet's what skatu. Now, if ye knows what's hap)>ened, it takes half the scah off, but if tliah's only stories an nobody willin to find out it's kind o' awfuL Anyway, 1 kin tel! ye this much?tliah's lights seen in thah at midnight and terrible sounds heard. Au some says, an they don't hahdly like to whispah the word, thet thah's whah the voodoos meet." I "The voodoos?" 1 said. "Yes, uiggahs, ye know, what do unearthly things?eat dead babies, tah out folks' hearts an play with sahpents" "Oh, don't tell me anything more!" I exclaimed. "I've read of them." "Waal, ma'am, it is somethin disgustin an awful to think on. I'm alius powahful glad when I'm past the place." A few rods farther the great forest broke away a little, and in the pallid light I could?discern under the scattered trees stretches of morass, black, slimy and filthy. From the gaunt trees the long gray moss hung like lifeless figures dangling and dipping in the sullen sur face of the stagnant pools. The swamp seemed interminable, reaching away in endless gloom under the low hanging branches. The moon came out from the clouds for one moment and sent a cheerless light down on the forbidding scene, but ijuickly withdrew, as if alarmed at what she saw. It was a frightful place?weird and uncanny. The wind shuddered through the trees, and ghostly shadows seemed to lurk beneath their swaying, writhing branches. "What a horrible place!" 1 exclaimed. "Horrible? Yes. this hyah is Dead Man's swamp." whispered my companion. Though 1 was oppressed by these hideous surroundings, yet I was at the same time unaccountably fascinated, and lean, ing out I looked as far into the black vistas as the waning moonlight would permit It seemed to my excited fancy that the trees beckoned me, and that the moaning wind muttered that this awful place held secrets for me. I was conscious of a strange mental exaltation? almost a clairvoyancy. Away, away in the depths of that melancholy swamp was there not something calling me? Hark! What was that? With a frantic grasp I clutched my companion's arm as out of the night, out of this dismal swamp, trembled and shrilled an awful cry like the wail of the judgment day. It reverberated through those black mysterious avenues and was caught up by a hundred mocking echoes, then slowly died away. "My God! what is it?' 1 cried. "They're at it," whispered my driver, and he struck the tired horses a smart blow, which sent them flying over sticks, stones and roots of trees. On, on we dashed in our wild flight from a cry It was not repeated. The dead silence that followed by its contrast made the remembrance more appalling. # We were both relieved when we turned into a broad avenue lined on either side by a double row of pines, at the end of which lights could be seen. "Thah is Swamplands, Knnnel Mahchmont's place," said the driver, "an thah ofi-Mili Tilaritntinn in (ieorfrah. Uttill V w Lord! I can't go back to town tonight nohow. I'll ask Jake to put my team up an let me sleep nyah some human crittah. An I reckon, ma'am, yeah powehful glad to be at yoli jouhney's end," I did not answer. Before me rose the great Corinthian pillars and broad porticoes of the house of Portia Marchinont. I was trembling from apprehension. What if she were not at home? Would we be obliged to return over the dismal road wo had come? Should I again hear that doleful cry? My nerves were LED IDENTITY. SIONS TUPPER. Association. / clutched my companion's arm. stretched to their utmost tension as we j drew up in front of the great house. I looked at my watch. Half past 11 i o'clock. The hall door was wido open, and a flood of light poured out upon the'broad piazza. As I looked a shadow moved from out a dark corner. A figure drifted into the doorway. It was a woman, tall, graceful, dressed in white. Something in her graceful, languorous movement set the wheels of memory rolling. I forgot my doubts, my fears, my terror. "Portia!" 1 cried. CHAPTER IL PORTIA. j There was no answer. ; The woman stood motionless as if , carved from stone. "Portia!" I cried again. Q1/-,,tt1,t alia mftujil oornsa thrt nifl.Z7.ft. "Who calls me?" she aslced. "Portia, it is I?your old friend, Prui dence Mason. Oh, do not tell me ! you have forgotten me?that you are I Dot glad to see me. I have come so far,? I and choked with my emotion I hurried up the steps, holding out my arms to her. The light from the huge bronze lamp in the hall shone straight upon my hosti ess. I saw the face of which I had so ! often thought?the face of my old friend, j Why, what was it? I stopped, dazed and bewildered. This j was not Ptfrtial i I had prepared myself for a great i change in my friend. I had not looked I to see the girl. I remembered the morning we bade each other farewell, but had anticipated seeing an older, a matnrer Portia, in whose features I yet 1 might trace the lines and expression of j my friend of long ago. But this cold, proud?yes, insolent? I faced woman, where were the amiabilii ty, the sweetness and the tenderness 1 remembered? Vanished?all?and in ! their stead I remarked only disdain and ! vexation. She saw my surprise, my hesitation? | yes, my alarm?and a singular expression j crept in her face, an expression of mini gled cunning and dread. "Why, you are not Portial" I stam: mered. "Oh, yes, i am," she replied, with a ; light laugh?"yes, and very glad to see you, Prudence. It was good of you to come so far. Vou think I have changed? So I have. But I am Portia." and she 1 bent and kissed me. The caress was intolerable. I could have screamed when her cold lips j touched mine. Ah, how different a rej ception I had pictured! What did it I mean? Was it 6he who was changed or I? j She led me in. with many polite ini quiries, uttered in perfunctory and mechanical fashion. Servants were summoned; tea was brewed; my bags and wraps taken; everything that the most Dunctilious hostess could do for a guest was (lone for me. And yet through all tb^.se kindly offices I was conscious of a vague feeling of uneasiness and distrust. Under the glow of the great drawing ! room chandelier I studied Portia's face I closely. What was it? Where was the ; great change which seemed to separate the friend of my youth from me as by a ; gulf. There was the same lustrous hair, j nntinged by a thread of silver; there ! were the great almond shaped liquid j eyes, like black velvet; the same faultless! ly faultless features; the same ivorylike i complexion. But the soul was gone from the face, the essence of an exquisite ! uature no longer looked out from the eyes. It was Portia and yet not Portia She caught my intent scrutiny. MI have grown old, Prudence," she said in answer to my inquiring looks, j "and our southern climate has not improved my complexion. Then, too, 1 i have lived a monotonous life, have been ! very much alone, and that, you know, ! is not good for one," and then she i laughed. I recalled Portia's laugh?mirth proj yoking, contagious, hearty. I could hear | again its silvery sweetness ringing ; through the leafy avenues of the old con: vent gardens. My hostess' laugh was i hollow, sinister and harsh, like the crackJ ling of thorns under a pot. Had the j years wrought a complete revolution in : her character as well as her face? "I am sorry Colonel Marchmont is not ! at home," she said after she had gra| ciously pressed a second cup of tea upon me. "He went to Atlanta last week. 1 expect him back very soon?possibly tomorrow." "You have children, Portia?" "One," she replied coldly, as if the subject were obnoxious?"a little girl 0 years old?a headstrong little creature. 1 can do nothing with her I'm glad 1 : have but one." I I Innlrpd nt hpr in nmazpment. 1 had ' often thought of Portia as a mother. How tender, loving and womanly she . would be in that relationl 1 had pictured her holding a baby on her breast and looking down at it with that divine expression only to be seen in a young mother's eyes, and I had fancied her surrounded by merry, romping, happy l children. Her scarcely veiled distaste for maternity shocked me. "You must be very weary, Prudence," Bhe said after a little. "If you like, I will show you to your room." 1 As 1 was only too anxious to be alone. I signified my wish to retire at once. Rising, my hostess took from the mantel a tall silver candlestick and led the ! way through tiio wide hall and up the old time winding stairs. I followed, with a strange sinking at I my heart. My reception, though courteous, had been utterly mechanical. 1 saw my blunder in having thrust an unsolicited visit upon an old friend who, ! alas! was not the friend of old. I rea i ?-1 if H.rto n/if no/iao. neell'U, uuwetci', uiab it nao aav/c uwwasary to prolong my stay and decided that as soon as possible I would return north j with my stock of disillusions, which now weighed upon me like the burden on Pilgrim's shoulders. The room into which Portia led me I was large and gloomy. There were a vast four posted bed and a huge ward] robe with carved panels. A fireplace ! with ancient andirons, mahogany table, chairs and old fashioned lounge, made up the main furnishings of the apartj zneht. There were quaint gilt candelabra | on the marble mantle,and a few portraits j of dead and gone Marchmonts adorned the walls. The only modern piece of j furniture was a tall clieval glass standing directly opposite tho enormous windows, which, by tho way, opened on a balcony running the entiro 6ide of the house. The room oppressed me quito as much as Portia. Dismal forebodings seized mo I as I looked at thesomber hangings of the A ! bed and windows. Tired and unnerved from my long, tedious night ride, as well i i JS / saw the reflection of a face. ; as from my disappointment, I was on the I point of giving way. However, I man! aged to control myself and receive my | hostess' frigid good night kiss. I listened to tho sound of her retreatj ing footsteps as they died along the corj ridor. T Unn?/1 n nn/1 oKtlf L JL1CU1U a uioiauii UVA/? uuu nuuu. At last I was alone. Conscious of my relief, I yet experienced half defined sensations of terror quite new to me. I had always been a singularly self reliant and courageous woman. But for the first time in my { life I felt the presence of mystery. Mys! tery seemed written on the doors of this gloomy room and on the icy face of the woman who had just left me. "Well," 1 said aloud, and my voice sounded thin and strange in the lonely room, "well, I don't know what it means. Never did a human being change as she has changed. I was an idiot to come, and I'll go as soon as I can make an excuse." The nir of the room was oppressive and musty, and 1 opened the sinn ers to allow the fresh night wind to creep in 1 then unpacked my bag and proceeded to make myself as comfortable as possible for the night. Back and forth across the room 1 walked, each time passing the tall cheval glass. It was during one of these turns that, chancing to glance in the mirror, I saw something which caused my heart to stop beating and my blood to freeze. I have already said that the glass stood opposite the windows. In its glittering depths I Raw the reflection of a face. But what a facel Malignant, crafty and yet with a lurking trace of terror, it, surveyed me through the window?Portia's face! It was but a momentary glimpse, and then as my heart slowly beat once more I heard a soft, catlike tread on the bal cony She was gone! CHAPTER IIL PORTIA'S CIIILD. Frozen with terror, I listened for a return of those velvet footsteps, but no sound was heard. I threw myself dressed as 1 was on the bed. I did not dare sleep. The candles in their vast gilt sticks burned lower and lower. I watched them with straining eyes, shuddering as I thought of the darkness which would come. At last they went out. I was alone in the profound and awful silence of night. Toward morning I slept from utter exhaustion, and when I wakened the sun was shining full in my eyes. I turned drowsily. Then, sitting upright, I looked at my dusty, travel stained gown in which I had slept. Suddenly the occurrence of the night before returned to me. What did it meau? Why was Portia spying upon me? What possible explanation could there be of that stealthy survey through the window? "She must bexmad," 1 said us 1 wearily rose. "Yes, that must be it. She has had poor health, and possibly her brain may be turned a trifle. Dear me, I don't relish the idea of being watched like that. Well. 1 must get away as soon as possible. I wonder if it would do to go today?" There was a knock at the door, and a trim quadroon maid entered with hot water. She explained that her mistress had delegated her to wait upon me during my stay. "W'y, yon all dressed already?" she cried in surprise. Without thinking, 1 carelessly answered, "Yes, 1 slept in my clothes." The girl gave mo a quick glance. "1 was so tired," I said, "that 1 must have dropped to sleep before knowing it." "Yes'm,"she glibly replied, but there was a queer expression on her face. Presently she went over to the window aa if tn nnon it \vi<lpr "Wy, you slop wid you'ah 6liuttah3 openl" she exclaimed. "Wouldn't do dat ef I wuz you, miss." "Why?" 1 demanded. "Waal," she answered in some confusion, "1 doan' no, but sometimes folks gits kinder skeery. Wouldn't sleep wid my shuttahs open, 'deed I wouldn't. I'd like to keep my winders shet, but den I'm on do swamp side?dat's worse." "Why is it worse?" I asked. "Waal, miss, we ain't 'lowed to speak tx>ut it?missus dat mad w'en she hyahs us sayin anythiu. But I tell ye sometimes do goiu's on in dat swamp just orfel." "Look here," I said, with a considerable show of asperity. "What do you mean by 'pom's on?'" "Waal," she hesitated, "ecreams an hollerin an de debble's own noise sometimes. Dey say dat whah de voodoos go!" . "Why doesn't Colonel Marchraont put a stop to it?" "Lord bless ye, miss, he doan' care nuffin 'bout it. A lot ob drunken niggahs, he says. He jest gives ordahs none | ob de niggahs off his plantation go dah. An dey doan' dast go. But we hyahs de awfulest noises, an Suo Some seen lights, an ole Pete tole me las' night he wah down by de marsh, an he declah he done see somepin comin out de swamp, wid horns an tail an pitchfork." "Nonsense," 1 said severely; "don't let ] me hear any more of such superstitious j stuff." "Alt HgUl, IUlSb, ijlitic biliu uiccmj, and a9 my toilet was now completed 1 told her she might go. I langhed heartily when 1 wns alone. "1 am tasting some of the delights of southern life," 1 6aid. "Portia used to tell me about these superstitious slaves, but I don't remember that she said anything about voodooism. I must speak to her about it. It should be quite an interesting study. Of course that hideous scream I heard last night must have come from some of their horrid orgie9." Musing thus, I wended my war}' down the corridor and stairs into the lower hall. The great front doors were opened wide, and a flood of glorious sunshine was pouring across the tessellated floor. | The sunlight cheered me. I banished all ; care and forgot my uneasiness of the j night. "1 must have been mistaken," I urged. I "It was only my tired nerves and disor! dered fancy. Of course Portia would 1 never stoop to spying in that fashion. ; Absurd!" I stood in the door and looked down the noble avenue before tho house. The crrounds of Swamplands were extensive J and beautifully cared for. Great beds i of brilliant blossoms, splashing fountains, parterres of closely clipped box and spruce and winding paths combined to make the picture most attractive. Far in the distance 1 could seo the cotton ! fields, yonder stretched Dead Man's i Bwamp, and here on the piazza, with I her back turned to me and evidently j quite unaware of my presence, sat Por| tia. She was dressed in a filmy white gown. Her massive coils of hair revealed the shapely neck. Her head was bent. She was reading. Before I could sneak a side door opened and a little girl about. 6 years of age I came out upon the piazza. She held a bunch of scarlet blossoms in her hand and approached Portia with a timid air which troubled me. She was a beautiful eJiild, a miniature reproduction of the Portia 1 remembered. Long black curls fell over her shoulders. Her eyes were large and | dark, but had an appealing, frightened : expression pitiful to see in one so young. | j She was daintily dressed in white. "Mamma," she murmured. Portia paid no attention. "Mamma," she said a little louder. Portia lifted her head and turned her j face toward the child I could see the ! mother's profile. She .was frowning ominously. "Here are some beautiful tiowers 1 j picked for you, mamma," said the little girl, still with that air of timidity. She I appeared to desire to placate her mother. I expected to see Portia take the flowers, fasten them in her bodice and kiss I the child for her sweet attention. Judge I j She held 11 hunch id sc<tvUi hliist-uins la licr Imnil. j then of my dismay, when snatching the ; verbenas from her hand with an angry ; gesture she cried: I "How daro you, you little imp? How j often have I told you not to pick the j flowers? And these scarlet verbenas, too, which I am saving to wear to Mrs. Redmond's ball tomorrow night. You deserve a good beating," and she sud denly boxed the child's ear. "Portia," I cried involuntarily She turned and saw me. Yes, thero was no longer any doubt of it?the woman was mad. Her face was like that of a fiend, but it suddenly changed, and an almost humble look took the place of her expression of fury. The poor, grieved little child was sobbing quietly I held out my arms to her. With a baby's instinct she came , to me and crept close to my heart. She ^ did not cry out as most, children would under the circumstances, but moaned sadly, almost under her breath. "Oh. mamma, mamma!" "How could you, Portia?" 1 asked. "Well, she is such a torment. Come, now, Daphne, stop crying. You knowl am sorry 1 boxed your ears. 1 always am." "1 always am!" So then this treatment of her lovely little daughter was not unusual. Decidedly my friend was mad. 1 held the grieving little creature in my arms until her sobs had ceased, and then, still clinging to mv hand as to some protecting power, she went into breakfast with me. There was a pile of hitters at Portia's plate. She glanced over them hurriedly and paused at one. "Here is a letter from Colonel Marchmont," she said. "Now I shall know when he is coming." As sho read, her face became transfigured. The hard, stern lines softened; a flush crept to her cheek. She looked more like the old Portia than at any previous time. "Ho is coming," 6he cried, "coming tomorrow. Thank God! I haven't lived 6ince he went. I have simply existed. Prudence, you will see bim?my hus| band, my love, my god." Her passionate tones amazed and delighted me. "She has at least kept her love for her husband pure and fresh," 1 said to myself. "That is a good sign. But if she loves him so intensely, why is she so irritable to his child?" "He will be in time for the ball," she rattled on. "and vou. Prudence, must go with us. It's a ball at the next plantation. We have so little gayety in this forsaken country that we appreciate every opportunity for pleasure." '(jh. you will excuse mo," 1 said. "1 would cut u sorry figure at a ball. Let me stay at home with Daphne." The little one's hand stolo into my lap. 1 pressed the tiny fingers warmly. "As you please." cried Portia. "What's this?" A shadow crossed her face. She bit her lip and stared desperately at the letter i she still held in her hand. "What shall 1 do?" 1 heard her mut| ter. "What shall I do?" Then without one word of apology . Mrs. Marchmont abruptly rose from the I table and left the room. CHAPTER IV. TIIE CLOSED OATE. When Portia rejoined mo, two hours ! later, her eyes were heavy and swollen 1 from weeping. "Pardon me, my friend," she said sadly, "for leaving you so unceremoniously, but 1 had received a terrible blow. 1 felt 1 must get away by myself. Come, ! Prudence," she concluded, "come, let us j walk. 1 cannot remain quiet." j Puzzled by her looks and manner, 1 i complied with her request. We left the | house and entered one of the broad, j densely shaded and winding paths. For I some time we walked in silence. When i I stolo occasional glances at my compan- i ! ion, I could see she was far from com- j i posed. The anxiety lurking in her eyes, i the hard, despairing lines about the lips, [ j betokened the inward conflict. At last j I spoke: "I am really grieved, Portia, to see ; vou suffering so. Is there anything I i ! can do for you?" j "No, nothing," she broke out wildly. "No, there is nothing you can do, or, for that matter, that any one can do. I tell you, Prudence," and stopping short i ! at a turn in the path she seized my arm in a convulsive grasp, "God himself could not help me. 1 am in awful danger." " Danger I" 1 cried. "Hush!" she exclaimed, looking ap- j ; prehensively about. 'Hush' Yes, in dan I ger." "My dear, my dear." i said soothingly. j patting her arm us 1 might u child's "your nerves are in n bad state You need rest Why. Portia, what danger ! I can there be to yon in your own home j j and with your husband's protecting j i love to guard yon? Why, these are the | j idlest fancies. Dismiss them at once." I "My husband!" she cried in agonized I I tones. "Ah! it is through him that dan- ) | ger threatens me. Bu.t what am I say- | j ing? Oh, Prudence! Sometimes 1 fear j I am going mad," and she bowed her head upon my shoulder and wept. My distrust, my dislike, faded instanti ly. This cold, harsh woman I had been j condemning was my Portia after all- | i racked by disease perhaps, crazed by i : fancied terrors. Poor, suffering girl! 1 I put my arms about her and comforted I j her as best I coulil. When she had grown calmer we j j walked on, and reaching a rustic arbor j sat down. Portia still sighed mournful i ly and wiped the straggling tears from , her cheeks. "A charming visit yon will have," she j I said, with a forced attempt at gayety j I "I am ashamed of my weakness, but ! when these frightful fits of depression : seizo me 1 cannot possibly control my J self." "Aro you subject to these moods, Por! tia?" "Oh, yes," she sighed 'For two years i 1 have either been torn with feverish j panics or plunged into the depths of foreboding, But today?today" I "There, there, never mind. Don't think of it,*" 1 murmured; "think of something I pleasant. Look at the glorious sky. the I sunlight, the trees, the flowers Think ' of some happy event of your life Think. Portia, of those dear, peaceful days of long ago?our schooldays? when life had not a care" I stopped abruptly. Portia's face had once again assumed that inexplicable expression?a look of mingled cunning and alarm; the same awful glance I had seen through the wiudow the night before I received now But I floundered on. 1 Hot* flonv mrl n*hot L/U JUU icuivmiwui, uuut b1* * " UUk Sister Agatha said to you the morning of our graduation? I can see her now. as she laid her hand upon your shonl-' der" "Oh, yesl" interrupted Portia 'Dear Sister Agatha, she was always bo lovely and gentle, and her precepts so sound and wise." 1 stared at her in amazement. "Why, Portia, you must.be dreaming Sister Agatha was anything but gentle. She was the terror of the school. No one was so feared and dreaded next to Mother Patricia." "Why, of course," lapghed Portia? that same sinister, mocking laugh of last night?"how stupid of'.ue! I must have been thinking of some other sister." "Doubtless yon were thinking of Sister Madeline." "Yes?Sister Madeline. It was she." "Sister Agatha said, if I recall itaright, Portia, you have every prospect of hap^ piness. Wealth, youth, beauty, are yours See to it, my child, that the avenue alon;. which the beacons of this life are placed leads to the heavenly city.' Portia, have never forgotten that scene. Tli nun, with her white, ascetic face glowing with spiritual fervor, onehand lifted as in benediction; you in the flush of beauty and expectancy listening to the fareyjell of that good woman. What a picture it would have made!" "I cannot remember it very well," Portia said, with a curious air of impatience as if the subject bored her, "at | all events I am convinced that 1 am not j in spirit very near the pearly gates. I I really think I am in the neighborhood of i Uio Vin+t/\?r?looa nif Rut cntnp. PrlldfillPG. how much longer are you going to dawdie here?" and springing up she hastily j walked on, leaving me to follow in a j more perplexed state of mind than ever, j 1 had hoped to touch Portia with the remembrance of that convent goodby, but had only succeeded in antioyirfg her. j She appeared vexed when I spoke of our i school days, and now that I gave the ! subject some reflection I recollected that j the night before when 1 had once or j twice referred to our convent life she had quickly changed the conversation. ! She had not asked once after any of our j former associates and appeared abso- ! lutely to have no interest in the old life. ; We pursued our way slowly and j silently. The drip of the fountains, the j rustle of the leaves and the shrill, sweet ; notes of the mocking birds broke the ; stillness. Occasionally Portia would ! bend over a bed of flowers, examine j them intently, pick one or two then aimlessly wander on. We came at last to a little slope which | descended abruptly toward Dead Man's I swamp. Here the tangles of thicket j and vine grew closer and denser. Birds 1 rose in frightened flight at our coming. Once 1 saw a snake wriggle quickly | across our path. "This isagloomy part of the grounds," 1 returned. "It is near the swamp, is it not?" "Yes," said Portia, almost sullenly. "Yes. 1 hate it. 1 never walk here. 1 don't know why 1 have come today 1; it an omen. I wondgr?" "An omen of what?" 1 asked lightly. "You surely do not expect to be voodooed." Again 1 paused abruptly at sight of my friend's face. "Voodooed!" she cried angrily. "What do you mean? What do you know of voodooism?" "Only what 1 have read and heard." 1 retorted. "Oh!" she returned, as if relieved. "I | didn't know but some of the servants ; had been chattering their abominable 1 8tuff to you. I don't allow it to bo talked | if I know it." "Well, i3 there nothing In it, Portia?" I 1 asked carelessly. "My driver was tell- I ing me that it was a common rumor in these parts that unholy rites are practiced in that swamp, and as we came by it last night I heard" "What did you hear?" she demanded, with distended eyes and quivering nostrils. "1 heard an awfnl cry?a fearful scream. Do you know I could only think of one tiling." "And that?" "Murder!" I scarcely breathed Portia turned so pale I was alarmed. "Oh, my dear girl, forgive me for speaking of these tilings when you are already so unstrung. But why did wo come to this desolate spot? The very surroundings suggest all sorts of ghastly topics. Let us return." But Portia went on down the slope as if impelled by somo unseen power. Straight toward the swamp she went. "Come back, dear," I urged; "come." w^) ui "Conic away," she hissed. A sudden quick turn in the path ; brought us up against a high wall coin- | pletely overrun with creepers and other ! vines. "See!" whispered Portia. "See, beyond ; that wall lies the swamp. Yes, it is a j gruesome place. I hate it! I fear it!" | My eyes running along the wall caught i the outlines of a door or gate half hid- i den under the luxuriant growth of tangled and running vines. "Why, Portia!" I cried, "here is a gate. Let us open it and have a peep into this land of terror." As I pushed the vines away a cold hand?the hand of a corpse?was laid on mine. I turned in terror to seo Portia's maddened eyes burning liko hot coals in her livid face. "Como away," she hissed in my ear; "come. Don't dare to try to open it. Come, come." TO 111-: CONTINUKD NKXT WKKK. It Is an Unjust World. How weary 0110 becomes of the continual newspaper paragraphing of worn en. A woman does tins, a woman does that, woman us tho sunshine of homo, woman our comfort in adversity, and so on ad infinitum, ad nauseam. Why does not some enterprising writer occasionally dilate upon the virtues and charms of men??man as the consolation of weary hours, man as a ' 'ready relief' from boredom, man as the sender of flowers, as the escort to theater or concert, as tho wide awako entertainer. Surely there are many capacities in which man shines, and why should he bo ignored so coldly and scornfully? Tho woman who makes a silk quilt of 5,000 pieces gets a half column notice. The man who whittles a toy villago out of empty spools is dismissed with a paragraph. It is an unjust world, and it is time to raise a protest against this unseemly neglect of one-half of creation. FLAGS AT HALF MAST. |" 8 REV. THOMAS DIXON'S SERMON ON a WORLD'S FAIR PROPHECIES. J 8 Muttering* of Discontent and Despair In | ] an Ago of Progress?'Tho Social Disease. d Menaces In Kurope and America?The r Gulf Between the Classes. 1 New York, Dec. 81.?Rev. Thomas t Dixon, Jr., preached at Association hall r this morning, the last of the series of ser- j inons on '' Tho Prophecies of tho World's (] Fair." The text chosen was from Jere- a <nU ?? 1 At "Gniiinr* Pnnnn nnorto Ui J till Vl| KJHJ llt?j *. t (j when there is no peace." It had been planned that the last day j of the great Columbian exposition 8 should be a day of supreme triumph, t It was fit that it should be so. Its man- 8 agenient had been a magnificent sue- n cess. The people of America had join- j ed in making it a success. They had t opened it in unprecedented splendor, i They had given their hearts' enthusi- t asm to it. They had given their money, j And they rejoiced in its success. Its a magnificent achievement in art and in architecture and in the celebration of the progress of tho world was the attain- t ment of a victory for which tho nation \ rejoiced with a peculiar national pride. r It was a sad and tragic disappointment j which met them on tho day of tho close. a Instead of a day of festivity, of merri- a ment, of grand music, of rejoicing, it , was a day of gloom, sadness, silence, t foreboding. Tho flags 011 the buildings | wero all at half mast. Tho mayor of g the city of Chicago had been stricken 8 down by tho hand of an assassin. In- v stead of music, thero was silence. In- ] stead of laughter, there wire tears. And [ tho nation felt it. It was as if in tho j midst of our rejoicing wo were brought r sharply and suddenly face to face with s tho fact that thero was a skeleton in j tho closet, a skeleton of grim and terri- r bio mien?one that could not ho down- I c ed at tho.bidding of any man or any j r power. ' J i It is perhaps as well that this grand 1 j world's exposition should liavo closed ! i with the flags at half mast. It would I c not havo been a world's fair had wo not ! t in some way celebrated tho exposition j 1 of our social disease. No celebration i c in tho closing days of tho nineteenth | century that shall recite its achieve- i ment, its progress, its present position j { and its promise would bo completo with- j 1 out these dark lines drawn in the pic- i i ture. t : i THE WORLD'S DISEASE. ! 1 Wo aro brought thus faco to face i s with tho fact of a world's diseaso in tho \ i midst of our celebrating a world's tri- I 1 umph and progress. Restlessness, an- | t archy and social disorder aro facts of e which we would like to remain uncon- j c sciouB, were it possible, but it is no j z longer possible. Tho mob that surged. I r through Haymarket square and explod- j 1 ed their bombs some years ago, the i j grim monument that marks the spot I 1 today, the mob that swayed through j c the streets of New Orleans and held | t the city in its grasp until its deeds of j c murder were wrought, the lynchings ; 1 that have disgraced tho south and the ! 1 west and the north of late, the noto- 1 rious lawlessness and mob rule and slum a government of our cities?all these are f sharp reminders of the fact, that we, t too, of late, must enroll our nation s among those that suffer from this social i disease. t In Europe thero is not a nation that \ does not shiver today at the thought a of possible social revolution. Anarchy \ is rampant throughout the civilized i world. s Spain attempted to crush the wretch t that had made an effort to kill one of her great men. What was the result? The result was that in Barcelona, while 1 a great theater was packed with help- t less and innocent and unoffending men, i women and children, from the top gal- 1 lery a fiend hurled a dynamite bomb j ^ into the orchestra. If both tho bombs | 1 hurled had exploded, the entire theater | t would have been demolished, and per- , r haps thousands would have been man- ; gled to pieces. As it was, the horror 1 was enough. Thirty lives were lost, | t and hundreds were wounded. The ; ( depth of deviltry and fiendishness to j which a man must descend to be capa- j ? ble of such a crimo may be said to open j e a new chapter in the history of our civ- I u ilization. ; r Franco is reminded within tho past ! * few weeks of the same great disease. A j t bomb is exploded in the chamber of ! * deputies, with the evident dramatic in- ; (; tention of emphasizing tho irrepressi- e bio conflict between lawand lawless- c ness, between anarchy and government. ] It was only tho merest accident that * prevented this bomb from doing the 4 terrible work intended by its thrower. * Officials in Germany liavo recently * received mysterious packages which ( contained explosives sufficient to kill. * Russia has been in a condition of ( chronic anarchy for a generation. England is reminded from day to day * of the fact of this disease in her social * body. * Tho government of Italy now faces 1 tho possibility of a social revolution which threatens to destroy tho empire itself. The recent accession of Crispi to power again has done little to allay tho feeling of uneasiness and uncertainty. Crispi is the avowed enemy of the Vaticun, and yet a high ecclesiastic, in j commenting on his return to power, exhabited little concern, saying by way of 1 parenthesis that, though Crispi was an c open enemy of the Vatican, they would j scarcely expect a hostile movement upon J his part, when tho empire itself was threatened with possiblo dissolution in * a social upheaval. J AN AWFUL FACT. The threat of social disorder can no c longer be laughed out of court. It can 1 no longer be placed to tho overlurid imagination of a certain class of writers. r It is a solemn and an awful fact with which government today stands face ( to face; with which tho conservative j ! forces of society stand face to face. | 1 Crime has become an epidemic. An- i } archy lias become a disease, and tho dis- I 1 ease must be declared a world cpidem- j f ic. Tho method of infection is through | ' our debauched daily press, and it has j j spread to tho uttermost limits of tho I ^ world. Tho criminal who finds him- j 1 self in prison nowadays finds that his I | life is paraded in double leads, his i 3 achievement made tho topic of conver- j sation throughout tho world, his meth- j ods tho subject of a thousand illustra- | tions in the sensational press, his daily ; 1 life transformed from the vulgarity and ! i dread of crime into tho romance of the ' ] world of adventure. Ho only regrets j ( that ho did not make a greater crimi- ' ] nal while ho was about it. Tho other i j young devils who are in tho background, ! < waiting for an opportunity, when they j < read theso exploits resolve to outdo them i when their opportunity comes, and it soon comes, and if it does not com? they will mako it come. j ] In former days tho brutal publicity j 1 of punishment was a great source of i criminal contagion. In our time, tho i sensational newspaper is tho most com- -i i raon medium for tho transfer of this ha- ; ' silisk of crime. An anarchistic outbreak in ono nation is suro to produce through this means an outbreak in another. CRIMINAL INSANITY. It would bo idlo to suppose that an- 1 archy is itself a separato phenomenon. Anarchy is a criminal insanity. It is an. insanity which is tho product of a dis- t ease. Insanity usually comes from tho samo organic disturbance of the consti- i tution of tho patient. In this case, it . is produced by organic disturbance. If we seek to euro anarchy by killing all fVin onni-fUiiofa -ven linvn undprtnkf>n to euro a diseaso by ministering simply to i tho surface. I do not believe that an- ' archists should bo apared, nor wonld il ny rational man advocate our sparing 1 hem. They should bo removed from ociety as wild beasts are removed from i crowded street, and by the same methds that wild beasts are removed. Such | nen have no right to exist in a civilized ociety. But if they should all bo renoved by violence tomorrow the next [ay there would bo anarchists, and tho lext year there would bo practically as i nany to deal with as tho year before, i Anarchy cannot be exterminated by ex- < erminating anarchists, for the simple i eason that it does not produce itself irimarily. It is the result of a social i lisorder. It is the madness of despair < ind crime coming from a social disorler which must bo remedied first. It is useless for men to cry, "Peace! , 3eace!" when thero is no peace in the ocial world. It is useless to strengthen , ho police, strengthen the militia, to trengthen our laws with extradition , gainst crimes of violence. It is child's !, day to merely hedge in the manufac- ; ure of explosives, when the spread of , mowledge in chemistry makes it possi- | , ile for any child which goes to the j , inblic school to manufacture an an- i irchist's homb. INDUSTRY OF WAR. What is the leal status of our indusrial world today? As a matter of fact, t is arrayed into two grand hostile ar- j nies. On the one hand nro arrayed captal and conservatism in government ' ind society. Capital and conservatism ire organized and powerful, and they are lot only organized, hut they are miliant in their organization. Tho spirit >y which capital is continually being trengthened in its organization is a pirit of deep hostility against those vho aro not within the organization. 3usiness has slain sentiment. Labor lecomes more and more stiictlya comnodity, from tho point of view of these nen. Humanity is relegated to the phere of sickly sentiments. '' I will run ny business to suit myself, or I will lot run it at all," is tho motto of tho :apital king of today. "I will shut down ny business when it suits me, and it Iocs not matter what may become of the I icoplo dependent upon it. If they starve, t is their lookout. I am running my iwn business." It is needless to say that his position is one of war. It is needess to say that it is tantamount to a leclaration of war. Upon tho other hand, labor is organ- j zing in hostilo camp some hostile j ;roups. The farming element hitherto t las been a bulwark of conservatism, but | low has becomo tho stronghold of rad- j calisin. Wo havo groups of radical la- j ior unions. We havo groups of radical locialists. And we have groups of madnen called anarchists. But they are all launted by a spirit of deep seated hosility against tho capitalistic and conicrvative classes of society. They are ixtending and perfecting their organi:ation, and they have shown their trenendous power in tho past 10 years, ["hey have organized strikes that have laralyzed trade, costing millions of dolars, precipitating chaos in more than >ne nation in the business world. In he spirit and mightiness and demands if some of these organizations there is nuch that is brutal and unreasonable. Chey refuse to allow a man to earn a iving who will not work in their way ind through their union. They would orce him to starve, and if he attempts 0 work they would murder him in his ittempt. It is needless to say that this s an act of war. It is needless to say hat the position assumed by the men vho lend these forces is tantamount to 1 declaration of war in society. The veapons they use are the weapons of var. Boycotts and strikes and violence ire used to supplement when deemed lecessary. 13 THE WAR JUSTIFIABLE? We need not ask is this right, either ipon the part of the capitalists or upon he part of the radicals. If war is right, t is right. Falsehood and violence and lomicide are the elements of war. If var is right, these things are justified, rhere p.re some things that are worse han war, wo will agree?slavery, stagnation and despair. The degradation of millio)is of people could certainly be worse than the death f a few thousand. Let our statesmen ind philanthropists and teachers see to it. These are the tacts of our social re ,.rinv TLo pnnspfl f>mt. nricinat I""" tUUUJ *"V VV4-WW- O id and produced this strife in the past, ind originates it, produces it, today, are iot far to seek. They aro found in the iroadening of the gulf that separates ho two great classes from one another, farther and farther apart they aro Lriven each day. They know less of nch other; they desire hut toknowbss if each other. With this alienation nust grow, continuous misunderstandngs, and as tho breach grows wider, ho clash must become more fatal at lie last. Tho selfishness of human nauro is of course a strong element in this levelopment. The capitalist looks out or number one. He takes caro of his iwn interests. Labor has said heretofore, Wo will look out for our organizaion. If it comes in contact with capial, we will fight. If it comes in conact with our weaker bretluen, wo will :msli them to death. Ignorance and lelfishness have thus crushed tho weak md linvo produced tho despair which ;ives us a carnival of crime and sufferng and want. What is to bo gained to ither sido as at present arrayed? Aft r victory, what? If capital gain a vicory with its present mottoes, and labor io mado a slave,what has been accomilished? Capital has defeated its own >nd, and in exterminating the soul of abor it has killed tho goose that laid ho golden egg. And with present facions. and factional leaders if labor jains tho victory, what has been accomilished: Tho imperialism of capitalism las been changed for the imperialism if stupidity and brutality, ignorance ind vulgarity. A PROBLEM FOR SOLUTION. Let tho church of Christ seo to itl j Theso two armies are moving toward a dash, with all tho horrors of such a war is tho w.irldiias never seen. Martial war n the past lias been brutal enough, and | ret it has its music, its fife, its drums, j ts flags, its chivalry, its heroism. These I ire eliminated when tho weapons used I iro tho torch, the dagger, the highway- I nan's revolver and the dynamite bomb. | It is time tho teacher and tho preacher | ind tho statesman joined handsto solve j :his problem. It is time that nation j joined hands with nation to settle it. ?????? . The "Witched Tree" of Calcutta. The awful Indian bugaboo, the ! "witched tree" of Calcutta, stands near the residence of C. C. Dillon, an English j lawyer, on the Stanley road, a few miles : Dut from Calcutta. It is not a botanical j freak of tho "cannibal" or "bloodsuck- j ing" variety, neither is it a tree which ! sxhales poisonous vapors or other deadly ' dements?it issimply a species of cburail i which the natives and not a few of the English residents believe to be bewitched, j Away back in the sixteenth century j Sorega Dowlah and 22 of his men camped under it about 2 o'clock one morning, J 1 "* nil luif turn wprrt dpad. I tiUU at ua> ii^uv uii uu? Ono of the survivors remained a chattering idiot all the rest of the days of his j life, and the other died a horrible death j within the month of a terrible eruption that swelled his body out of all proportions. In the seventeenth century the j treo claimed a score or more of victims. ! What they died of 110 one knew. My record does not mention the casu- | alities of the eighteenth century, but ( during the present century they have ] been quite numerous. The last victim 1 was a servant of a Mr. Kemp of the i British department. Ho took refuge un- ! Ia neAonn n cfnrtri A I UUI IUU L'Uiat'U ucc VV vovu|;v c? ? sowar, or mounted policeman, tried to rescue the servant, but tho two men and horse were found dead next day. Since I860 five persons have been struck by lightning within 100 feet of tho "witched tree."?St. Louis Republic. |Uisrdlattfou.s grading. ACTS OF THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY. I llrlef Synopsis of Somo of tin? Now Additions to the Statute Hooks. An act to prohibit prize fighting iu this State, provides that such lights shall he unlawful, and principals and seconds shall be liable to fines not ex- I ceeding one thousand dollars and im- j prisonnient not exceeding three years; or both fine and imprisonment, in the discretion of the court. The new county government law has already been explained in these , columns. An act to divide the State into sev eu congressional districts has already been explained. An act to establish special school j districts in incorporated towns, and to authorize the levy and assessment of ' taxes iu school districts already formed, or which may hereafter be formed out- 1 side of incorporated towns, provides j for the calling of a public meeting before the first day of July of any year, by a majority of the resident freeholders. All citizens over 21 years of age j who return for taxation #100 worth of ! property, real or personal, are allowed j to vote, and a majority may elect a chairman and a secretary and levy a I special school tax not exceeding two ; mills on the dollar. An net was missed im nosing a fine of twenty dollars or thirty days' imprisonment for hunting opossums he- j tween the first- day of February and ; the first day of November. The county commissioners of York, are authorized to borrow $(1,000 to re- j lieve the last tax levy of the pledge : to secure a loan of ten thousand dol- | lars to rebuild the court house, and ' the hoard is authorized to pledge the j present levy to secure the $0,000 to he borrowed. An act was passed to change the ! name of the South Carolina Lunatic ! Asylum to the "South Carolina Asy- j lum for the Insane." Persons convicted of obtaining property less than twenty dollars in value i by false pretenses, shall be punished by a fine not exceeding one hundred dollars, or imprisonment not exceed- ! ing thirty days. The same penalty is j made to attach to carrying concealed weapons, riots and affrays, where no ; wounds arc inflicted, malicious mis- i chief and trespass. A joint resolution was passed author- | iziug the return by the various county | treasurers of $50 to each of the saloon- i ists who paid $100 for whisky license | last year. An net to fund certain bonded in- | debtedncss of York county authorizes the issue of fourteen thousand dollars worth of seven per cent, coupon bonds, with which to refund thg unpaid portion of the debt incurred for the benefit of the Narrow Gauge railroad. ooscrvcr is reported 10 nave sum mat he did not believe there was an American citizen whose income represented a salary who was not living beyond bis means. And he added that, if the man had a family, he was bringing up that family to standards and wants that lie could not honestly gratify. If the alleged fact be true to any considerable extent, it must be regardas among the cause of the many embezzlements and other pecuniary delinquencies which have become so common of late years. "Playing the races" has been the ruin of a multitude, but living beyond one's means must bear part of the blame. And it is more serious than is commonly imagined. It involves false pretences and fraud. It is a mean species of crime, and yet often committed without any compunction. Men are afraid or ashamed to say "I can't afford it," and yet are not afraid or ashamed to contract debts which they know they niTCUllur 11191 gi'ttuu icaviit'io tcl" | tificatcs issued by the board of exami- j ners, are to be good for the term of i five years unless revoked for cause. The town of Ebenezer, in York , county, is incorporated for the term of | thirty years. The boundary line commences at a point in the center of the road on the north side of the cemetery, thence it runs in a southernly direction parallel with the maiu road one and three-quarter miles to a point; thence in a westernly direction one-half mile to a point; thence iu a northernly direction, parallel with the main road, to a point; thence in an easternly direction to the beginning. The county commissioners of Chester county are authorized to sell their , stock in the Narrow Gauge railroad at | not less than $4 per share, and their stock in the Cheraw and Chester road , at not less than $2 a share. ; The town of Chester is incorporated | as a city. . , . j All persons wandering from place to place, without any known place of j residence, or residing in any city or | town, who have no visible means ot j gaining a livelihood; all suspicious j horse-swuppers who cannot show a cer- j titicate of character from a trial justice ; all persons who acquire a living by ; gambling or horse racing, without oth- i er visible means of support; all per- | sons who lead idle, disorderly lives ; j all fortune-tellers for reward, and all , sturdy beggars are deemed vagrants and made liable to a fine of not more than $100, or imprisonment for not more than thirty days. . The charter of the Chester and Be- . noir railroad was amended so as give stockholders the privilege of casting j one vote for each share ot stock o\v n- j An act was passed providing for the j election of a public printer to do all | State printing at prices agreed to by the i legislature. The term of ollice is two i years. ?r ? The charter of the Clover Manufacturing company was amended so as to | allow the company to engage in the j mercbantile business. An act was passed incorporating the board of trustees of the Associate Reformed Synod of the South. I he act makes the minutes of the board an ofticial and legal record. . An act to amend Sections 9~.?, '- ?, j 92(5 and 927 of the General Statutes, ; relating to apothecaries, provides that the Pharmaceutical Association of the State shall elect six pharmacists, doing ; business in the State, to constitute the , Board of Pharmaceutical Examiners I of South Carolina. Four members ot i the board shall constitute a quorum j for the transaction of business. The , board must meet at some designated place once every four months, and ev- j ery druggist, apothecary or pharmacist who has not already been licensed according to law, must appear before ; it for examination. To conduct business without a license from the board of examiners, renders the offender liable to a fine not exceeding $500 or im- , prisonment not exceeding six months. j Regular graduates in pharmacy, who can show certificates from reputable colleges, are not required to pass fur- i ther examination. The license fee is , ten dollars and the examination in- , eludes the reading and explanation , of manuscript prescriptions, the detection of over doses of poisonous drugs, and the recognition and distinguishing , of the various barks, roots, leaves, ] fruits, resins and gums, etc., in common use. Nothing in the act must be ! construed to prohibit physicians from , putting up their own prescriptions. KINGS OF 1I0XUK. In many of the oldest and noblest , German families, and in not a few middle-class and peasant homes, the most precious heirlooms take the shape , of black, unpolished iron rings, bearing on their outer edge the strange device, "I gave gold for iron. Each one of them is a link in the chain which unites the vague and almost hopeless aspirations ol that time j of sorrow and defeat which visited Germanv in 1813 with the triumphs which fulfilled them half a century later. It was at the time when disunited Germany was making her last stand j that funds were required to equip the army and put it in the field. From ! all ranks money came in; from the ! nobility down to the peasantry. Men of substance sold their houses and gave 1 the nroeecds to the cause, and every day appeals were published in the i newspapers and gazettes, followed by contributions from half a noble's fortune to a widow's mite. Then a man and woman, having nothing of value left but their troth and wedding rings, gave them away to the^fatherland. Their names were , not published, but the simple-hearted I devotion appealed so strongly to the women of Prussia that rings and trinkets poured in. A citizen of Berlin then hit upon the idea of giving iron "Rings of Honor" in exchange for gold rings and other jewelry, and these rings are now among the most treasured heir-looms of those who possess them, reminding them, as they do, of the days when German women gave up their gold for iron, so that the jewels which adorned beauty and home might serve the nobler purpose of equipping valor in the field. HICKS'S JANUARY WEATHER. At the opening of the new year a reactionary storm wave will have just expended itself in western regions, and a cold wave with rising barometer will he pressing eastward behind the storms. By about the 3d, the colder weather with clearing conditions will have reached the regions of the Atlantic. At the same time the temperature will begin to rise and the barometer will be falling in the west. The 4th is the center of a regular storm period, with the new moon on the 6th, calling for the crisis of the period about the 5th, 6th and 7th. Expect rain and snow during the passage eastward of the higher temperature and falling barometer, but be on the watch for the cold wave that is certain to follow. "These cold waves often set in almost at the first appearance of the storm in the far west and north, while regions further to the east have several days of growing warmth, and threatening storm conditions; but as the storm wave works itself forward in its inevitable course to the east, the cold wave will he found pressing immediately in the rear of the storm area. This is why blizzards frequently burst in their full fury at the first touch of the storm in northwestern regions. The storm and the cold wave hitting simultaneously, the blizzard is on at once, and woe to the man who is caught without protection, or some safe guide, even within sight of his house. A partial relaxation from cold will center on the 10th and 11th and reactionary squalls of rain and snow will appear at many - -;? ,.i *i i;?? J)U1 II12") illUIJ^ lilt' JJI COO I Vf I1UV Ul change from west to east. Renewed cold will follow promptly and severely, filling the time with sharp wintry weather tip to the advent of the next storm period. The 10th is the central day of the next period, with the moon's first quarter on the evening of the 14th. It will turn warmer in westerly regions by the 14th, and during the loth to 18th, the warm wave will grow in extent and degree, causing storms of rain and snow in its regular advance eastward. Much surface thawing, especially southward, is probable during this period, but as the area of rain works eastward, its western Hanks will turn to snow and the inevitable cold wave will wind up the disturbances of the period and bring freezing weather generally lasting until the reactionary changes on and touching the 21st and 22d. About these dates it will grow warmer, and more storms of rain and snow will appear, the crisis of the disturbances being reached about the time of the full moou on the 21st. Look for the cold wave to bring up the rear promptly and severely, remembering that the "rear" in the far westerly parts is always two to four days before even the front of the storm movements have fairly reached the more easterly and southerly extremes of our great continent. It will be frosty and cold, generally, for several days after the last named named reactionary storms. The last storm period of the month begins about the 26th, and ends about the 30th. During its existence the reuulur changes in temperature, ba rometric pressure, wind currents and all phenomena belonging to a regular storm period, will show themselves in regular, progressive order. All who have been for anytime careful students of nature, or who have followed our forecasts and instructions for only a limited time, have discovered that extreme western regions, as a rule, get all the phases of storm periods earlier than central, southern and eastern parts of the continent. This is especially true in reference to the cold waves that rush in from the Northwest as sequels to almost every storm period. When storms of an equatorial origin dominate a period, the south has rain, wind and thunder, with only the cold wave feature in the north and west. All these facts are replete with interesting study, besides the practical relation they bear to the weal and comfort of man and beast. January is apt to end fair and frosty. February ushers in the equinox of Mars, and leads forward to planetary combinations, which will reach a crisis in March. LiviNii IJkyoni) Onk's Mkans.? An American capitalist who is a keen a . a * - i : .1 * u ~ * cannot honestly pay. How Many Bees Make a Pound? This question in a recent number of The American Agriculturist. Careful weighing shows that an ordinary bee, not loaded, weighs the one five-thousandth part of a pound, so that it takes five thousand bees, not loaded, to make a pound. But the loaded bee when he comes in fresh from the fields and flowers loaded with honey or bee bread, weighs nearly three times more, that is to say, be carries nearly twice his own weight. Of loaded bees there are only about 1,S00 in the pound. An ordiuary hive of bees contains from four to five pounds of bees, or between twenty thousand and twentyfive thousand individuals; but some swarms have double this weight and number of bees. The False Christs of the Seventeenth Century.?No less than four false Christs arc mentioned as having appeared between the years 1614 and 1683, among them Sabbathia Zebi, the greatest of all the many Jewish pretenders. Zebi made a great noise in the religious world, imposing himself unon the Jews as "King of the Kings of the Earth." He finally tried his hand at converting the Orient, and was only saved from being pierced by poisonous arrows by embracing Islamism and agreeing to labor for that faith. Of the other three, one was Mordecai, a German Jew; the names of the others are not given in history. At auctions in Japan the bidding is silent and secret. Each person writes his bid on a slip of paper, and the slips are quietly dropped into a box. The box is then opened, and the highest bidder named.