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K m: ®0etvy. WAKIN’ THE YOUNGUNS. (The old man, from the foot of the stain at 6 o'clock In the morning.) Bee-ullt Bea-ull! O Bee-ulll Kygncioas, Air you still alee pin'? Th' hour hands crespin' Noarderflva. • (Wal’ durnad ef this hyar ain't vexatious!) Don't you hyar them cattle callin', An' the ole red steer a-bawlin'? Come, look alive I flit upl Git upl Mar’min I Mar'annl (Jist hyar her snorin'I Mar’ann, it's behoovin' Thet you be a-movin’l —Brisk, I say I Hyar tlio kitchen stovo a-roarin' I The kittle's n-spilin’ Ter get hia se’f hlUn’. It's coinin' day. Git upl Qitupl JuIj: O, Julol Now whut is oilin'.’ You want ter rest? Wai’ I'U be blest I B'poee them cows *11 give down milk ’thout you pollin' ? You mus’ be goln’ crazy; Er, morelike, gittin* lazy! Come, now, route I Git up I Git upl Jake, you lazy varmint I Jake! He-ey Jake) What you hgrin’ theer fur? You know the stock’s ter keer fur So, hdp out! Crhet boy is wuaser’n a rock ter wake!) Don't stop ter shiver. But jilt unkiver, An* pop out I Git upl Git upl Youugunsl Bee-ulll Jake! Uar'anu! Julel (Wal’ dura my or'n'ry sklnl They’ve gone ter sleep agin. Fur all my tollin' 1) a See hyar, I hain't no time ter fooll It's the las' warnin', I'll give this mornln'; I’m done a-yellin’ 1 Git upl Git upl (Solus.) Wal* whut's the odds—on hour, more or less. B'Ueves It makes em stronger To sleep o little longer Thar in bed. The time Is cornin' fast enough, l guess, When I'U wish—an* wish 'Ith weep in'— They was back up yender Bleepin’ Overhead, Ter git up. —John Bohn in Atlanta Constitution. •■Nay. " he replied, looking darkly, y«t body about the business; but 1 was with a smile, "you may say what you troubled in my mind, aud greatly afraid please; yon cannot offend me. I have just that the man would do some dreadful mis- oome from Alnwick, where I sold four fat chief if he could. beasts At the inn 1 fell in with a stroll- Well, he came again a third time to me ing player, and talked with him over a it was three days later. If I was dis- glass about his wandering life. Presently quieted. I could see that ho was more so. I asked him whether he had seen any- LI is red cheeks were become pale, and his where upon his travels, especially in eyes were red. lie was quiet in his man- By WALTER BESANT. CHAPTER VII. MATHEW’S FRIENDLY OFFER. This letter made me, from ono of the most unhappy of girls, the most joyous. The immediate prospect of poverty—fur the dame declined daily—the hard work which began at daylight and ended at bedtime, the certain knowledge that Ma thew was not satisfied with a simple re fusal—these things, which had before filled my mind with terror, now appeared like the imaginary specters of the night, which cease to alarm when the day has dawned. To me it was more than the dawn of day; It was the uprising of a glorious sun of love and hope. Ralph loved mo; Ralph was well, prosperous aud in high esteem; Ralph was already wealthy; Ralph would como, and all things would be well, whatever might happen at the moment. Yet this I could uot tell to any. Mathew was not to know; my poor old grandmother was too old n < w, and too failing of mind and body, to care for earthly things; my father had clean forgotten the boy; my mother wonld not greatly care to know; nor would it soothe her anxieties to feel that we hada protec tor separated from us by tlje rolling seas and by a voyage of ten months or more. What good would be his far off treasures to us, she would have asked, when what we want Is beef for the pot, and bread f r the board? As for my father’s madness, it increased every day, so that now our cottage was a palace Indeed, every meal was a banquet, and the small beer of my brewing was champagne, port, Malaga, or Imperial Tokay. But Mathew was too much with him, and it made me uneasy to observe how ha complimented my father on his wisdom, his resolution and his wonderful success. "In all respects, madam,” ho said to my mother, “I find your husband most sensi ble and full of sound judgment. I have taken his counsel of late in many private matters of importance.” '‘Then the Lord help you!” said my mother, sharply. "What if ho does exaggerate his private fortune?" Mathew went on. "It is a fail ing with many persons concerned in trade.” "If you mean this in kindness, sir,” •aid my mother, "I thank you humbly for your good opinion of my poor, distraught husband. If you mean It in mockery, you an a most cruel man. ” "Indeed, madam,” he replied, bowing, "pray believe that I mean it in kindness.” He had no kindness at all in his nature. He designed these words to cover his in iquitous purpose. So ho continued to come and go, and to walk with my father in the garden, and whatever wild things my father said he would accept gravely as if they were in deed words of wisdom. No ono except myself suspected him of sinister designs, and my father disclosed to him the whole prodigious extent of his madness, so that I could have cried with shame and hu miliation, Mathew knowing well, as all the world knew by this time, that he was little better than the poorest in the parish. "The world, sir,” the poor gentle man would say with a lofty air, "has yet to learn how great a benefactor a simple London citizen may be. There have been many benefactors. I acknowl edge their greatness. But wait, sir, until my will Is opened and read. To you, friend Mathew, I have bequeathed a poor £10,000—no more.” "Oh, sir I” He bowed and spread his hands. “This is indeed goodness.” "It is the duty of a rich citizen to dis cover merit and reward it—the plain duty. I ana a London citizen, and am perhaps more proud of this position than becomes a Christian. The bulk of my fortune I have left to my daughter, whom I design in marriage for some great nobleman. But I have not forgotten the poor of my native parish, Mathew—no, no; and you will find, when my will is read, that schools, hospitals, marriage portions for the girls, and apprentice money for the boys, will attest my remembrance of this place.” "Sir,” said Mathew, with a grin of con tent, "you will be a benefactor Indeed.” Now, before I answered Ralph's letter, which I kept for more than a month in my bosom, reading It every day when I could snatch a moment, Mathew came to me, and after a little preamble, of which I am going to tell yon, reopened the dis tasteful subject of courtship. I was in the garden, gathering herbs for a mint julep, when places where actors like himself, with profligates and thieves resort, such a lad as Ralph. It is wonderful to relate that he rememberod seeing th* boy at a place called Grantham. It was about six or , seven years ago. Tho reprobate lad was | making love—to a young actress. When my informant came across the party again ! Ralph had left them. ” At first I concluded that this was sheer fabrication, but afterward gleaned that it was to a certain extent true; that is, that Ralph had made the acquaintance of the actress aud her family on his way to Lon don; but there was no love making. How could there be, when ho was already in love with me? And what follows was pure and clumsy Invention. "lie wandered about with them playing and acting,” Mathew went on, "for four or fivo years. Then ho deserted them, or was turned out in disgrace—it matters not which—and, I am ashamed to say”— but he looked delighted—"took to the road, where ho is now known everywhere as Black Ralph or Bloody Ralph. ” •‘Are you quite sure of what you say?” “As sure as I am that he will bo hanged os noon as ho is caught.” I know not by what reasons Mathew persuaded himself, if indeed he did per suade himself, that Black Ralph, who was f notorious highwayman about this time, and practiced his wicked calling on the York road, was Ralph Embleton. Yet he made so certain of it that he told—under strict promise of secrecy—the barber, who told everybody, also under promise of secrecy, and it was noised abroad that tho distinction of giving birth to the most bloodthirsty villain in England belonged to Warkworth, and many people advised Mathew to go armed and to provide his house with a loaded blunderbuss, a bull dog and a few man traps, because his cousin would probably visit him with in tent to murder as well as rob. “I suppose,” Mathew went on to me, “that you will now give up tliinking of that young vagabond A pretty girl like you should throw your thoughts higher. Why, though your father’s a beggar, as one may say” "He Is not a beggar so long os my grand mother lives." “Perhaps that will not be nmch longer,” ho replied with an ugly grin. “Now, Brasilia, listen to me. You know that I’ve set my fancy upon you. I’ve been waiting just till you grew up, and then for—for ono or two littlo things to ripen which have now ripened and turned out pretty well Now that everything is ready, there is no reason to wait any longer. Ralph being a highwayman and certain to bo hanged” “Then, Mathew,” I replied, “I will wait until ho is hanged, and then you can talk to mo again if you like. Now, go away, and leave me to my work. ” Ho went away for tho time, and next morning his sister Barbara came. Sho was at first mysterious about sudden changes of fortune, unexpected reverses, and the judgments of angered heaven. Theso things I did not then consider as pertaining to myself, because I knew not how I had especially angered heaven, more, that is, than thonghtless youth may do at any time, and yet obtain for giveness by daily prayer. She also added a certain exhortation to kiss the rod, which I pass over. Then she launched into praises of her brother. lie was most industrious, sho said; up early and to work before daybreak; he was full of re ligion, which surprised me very much to hear; he was thrifty and had already saved a large sum of money—this, I found afterward, was false; he could provide a- comfortable homo, and happy, indeed, •.lio added, would be tho woman on whom bis choice should fall. Added to this that lie was no longer young and scatter braiued, but arrived at the sober age of three or four-and-thirty; and that Mathew’s wife would have the advantage of her own society, help, example and admonition. I told her that Mathew had got his answer, and that I thought it hard that a woman could not bo supposed to know her own mind in so important a matter. “What is your answer, then?” she asked. “I will talk to Mathew on the subject again,” I repUed, “when Ralph is hanged, since this is a thing which both you and he desire so vehemently. ” Two days afterward Mathew himself met mo as I was on my way to the castle. He begged me to give him another hear ing, and, as I could not refnso so simple a thing, I led him by the path below the castle to the bank of tho river, where he could talk at his ease and unheard. First it was the same story. Would I. forgot the young villain and marry him? He was so much in love with me, that he would not say as somfe men—not so rich, mind you, as himself—would say, that I might go hang myself in my garters for aught ho cared. He would forgive my disrespect and Impudence; ho wonld for get the past altogether; people should seo that he was of a truly noble and forgiving disposition; ho would give me another chance, so great was his generosity. Very well, then, would I marry him? I replied very gravely, that he had al ready received his answer. When Ralph was hanged, and not before, I would listen to him. Then I asked him seriously why he thought so meanly of me as to try this trumped up story about play actors and highwaymen upon mo, and reminded him of what a truly wicked disposition he must be, thus to glory and delight in the supposed wickedness of his cousin, whose guardian ho had been, and whose lands he now occupied. He grew angry at this plain speaking, and began to swear, as Is the wont of such men. If kindness would not movo me, he said, something else should bo tried. I thought I was free and independ ent of him, did I? I should see what power was In his hands, and what mis chief he could do mo. I was young and imprudent. It chafed me to hear that ho, and such a man as ho, could do me harm —as if tho meanest wretch who ever lived cannot do harm—and I told him what I cught to have kept a secret, that so long as Ralph lived I should not want a pro tector, and that, so far from his being a highwayman, I knew certainly that he was a prosperous gentleman, already held in great honor, and respected by all. He was so staggered by this intelli gence that I thought he was going to have some kind of fit. Consider how much it meant to him; ho would certainly have to give up tho mill, and to render a strict account of all his doings; ho would be reduced to the station of a poor small (■farmer; ho would bo robbed of his re- uer, and held out his liand. “Drusilla,” he said, "I was wrong tho other day. Yon won’t nairy me? Very well. then. Never mind; some ono elso will, if I want. What matters ono wo man more than another, if you como to t.iiinlr about it? What hurt me most wasn’t 'our refusal, which I don't care for not one brass farthing, but you saying that 1 'wanted Ralph to go bad. Tint was cruel to such u conslu and guardian os I was to that boy.” “Well, Mathew,” I said, “if I was wrong, I pray you to forgivo me.” “I should like to know, on tho contrary, that he was becoming a credit to his fam ily. I say,” he added, "I should like to know it, if you can assure mo of tho fact.” “Then you may depend upon tho truth of my statement, Mathew,” I said. “IIo is already a credit to your family.” “How joyful a thing this is;” Ho folded his hands and raised his eyes hypo critically to heaven. “It shows that tho many corrections I gave him produced their effect. I was a throwing of this bread upon the waters. After many days, as ono may say, it hath como back to me.” He spoke with a—sweetness which dio not deceive mo. “And this prosperity, Drusilla. Who told you of it?” “That I must not say.” “Where, in what place, is the boy?" “That I shall not tell you ” “How is ho employed, then?” "I must aay nothing. Mat how Do uot lisa wan, oesiuca, a uangorous tmng to ao, DO- cauac I rm convinced that nothing moro . cffojtqtily turns aside tho fancy of a man : for a wora.:n—which is a delicate and ten der plant, oven at its strongest—than the thought that sho is lacking In the mod esty and reserve which are the cboiceet virtues of a maiden. Yet I ran that dan ger, though I imperiled tho most precious Uiing to mo in all tho world, the heart of my Ralph. But there is a time to speak, as well as a time to keep silence, said was this: “Dear Ralph—I have now received your letter, and I thank you for it with all my heart. My father hath lost all in London, and is now returned to his native place; wc are, therefore, poor Indeed, and have nothing to live upon except the an nuity which ho long ago bought for my grandmother, who falls daily; when she dies wo shall have nothing. Also, my futbv is afflicted with a strange belief that ho is rich. « This makes us unhappy. Mat how hath spread abroad a report that tho mill is his, and not yours at all, by reason of a second will, which nobody has seer, except himself. I fear that you will have trouble with your cousin. The fugle man is well and hearty, and bids me tell you”— Hero I set forth as many of tho messages as I could remember. “As re gards myself, ho bade mo say many things out of his kind heart, for he loves 'mo; but 1 must not write them down. My dear Ralph, do not say again that you want me to have a husband. I shall never marry any husband nor lovo any man, ex cept yourself, if you still continue to love ) me. Indeed, there is no moment of the day —if you will not think mo unmoidenly to confess this tiling—when you are out of my thoughts,*and 1 pray night and morning for your safety and n|x>edy return. Ma thew has asked me to marry him, and is angered because I refused. He has spread abroad reports that yon ore now a high wayman. Will you come back to us, dear Ralph? 1 am in great sadness, and I am afraid that Mathew means some mischief. Yet 1 would not mar your fortune by call- i ing you away from the work you have in j hand. Mathew threatens mo with re- I vengo, and Barbara, his sister, bids me i read passages in tho Holy Scriptures which threaten woe to sinners. I am afraid what they may do, though I cannot think that they can do us any evil. It makes mo unhappy to think that any can believe hero that you have boo « ic a highwayman. Yet I keep your letter -rot, and no one knows where you are. The fugleman says Barbara went away, little before Christmas. but returned a Mathew, she re peated, waa of ao Christian a disposition that he was still waiting for submission and to know where the boy was to be found. She also held out her skinny finger In warning, and when I laughed and re fused either to make submission or to tell where Ralph was living, she bade me tremble and read the first chapter of the What I book of the Prophet Joel, applying verses four to twelve to my own esse, especially the last clause, which on investigation proved to be a prophecy that joy should wither away from the sous of men. I laughed again, but I confess that I was disquieted. What consequences? I was soon to discover that the woman used no idle threat, though I believe that she did not herself know anything of the abomi nable plot which Mathew was contriving for our destruction. This, I say, was just before Christmas. We passed the season of festivity in com fort, thanks to a gift from Mr. Carnaby of a noble sirloin and some bottles of good wino for my father; but on Twelfth Night my grandmother, who had become very feeble of late, suddenly showed signs of Impending change. This was a truly dreadful thing for us, not only for the loss of a good and affectionate parent, which thoso who have faith ought not to lament, but because at her death we should lose even the small income which we had, and there would be nothing but the house. It was with despairing looks that my mother and I sat by her bedside all that night. In the morning she died, having been speechless for some hours; but, as happens often with the dying, she rallied just before the end, and recovered for a moment the power of speech. “Child,” she whispered to me with her last breath, “thou hast been a good child. The Lord will reward thee. Be of good hope, and never doubt that the boy will return to be thy protector and thy guide.” After her funeral I asked my mother if she had any money at alL She told me that on leaving London some of their old friends mado up between them a purse of a hundred guineas in memory of old times, but after payment of their small debts and tho cost of the journey from London, she had tho sum of fifty-five guineas put by for unforeseen wants— that wo must live on this money as long as it lasted, after which she supposed we must starve. Fifty-five guineas! Why it would last Fint hr. bhiKtrred and threatened. ask me. It is very certain that Ralph is alive, and that ho is prospering. I shall answer no more questions.’’ "I will ask other people then." “It is of no use,” I said hurriedly. “There is no one knows except me.” This was not true, but at tho moment I was thinking of my mother, who certainly did not know. “No one knows except you?” ho re peated. “That is strange indeed.” “It is very strange." “And how long,” ho went on, “is the mystery to be kept up?” “As long,” I replied, "as your cousin pleases.” Then his sweetness left him, and he fell again into a madness of wrath. Ho went away, however, when he found that I would tell him nothing. All this time I had not written my an swer to Ralph’s sweet letter. Tho reason was that I feared my words would prove so poor and weak compared with his noble language; and I was afraid besides that what I might say would offend or disap point him. What maiden but would have been ashamed? Yet this business with Mathew made me resolve to lose no time, and I began seriously to consider what I should say in reply to tho long letter which I carried in my bosom and read daily. In order to bo undisturbed, 1 carried paper and pen to the fugleman's room at tlxo castle, and wrote my letter in tho after noons, whenever I could snatch an hour from my work. What was I to say in answer to the many tender protestations of Ralph? And how was I to speak of Mathew? “Teil him,’’ said tho fugleman, “that Mathew is a villain. Last Tuesday week there was a run to - Coldstream—lace and brandy—Mathew stood in and found tho ponies. Yet he is a villain.” “And what about yourself?” I asked. “As for me',’’ ho said, “I always said that once the boy got his foot on the low est’ rung, it would not bo long before he was on the top of the ladder. Half way up and more he is, I reckon, by now. So that I am not surprised to hear of his good fortune, and only wish I was young •riough to bo his fugleman. Tell him that first cf alL But Mathew is a villain. Next you may say that I’m well and hearty, and likely to continue in tho way that a villain must have rope enough to . . . , . ... i i it ai i> i ». f ,, us a year and a quarter at least with pru hung himself. Ah, Ralph, if you could , ^ t-.a c i . t> . .. U . ' . denco. Fifty-fivo guineas! It was e como back to us. But tho quiet country would bo tedious to you after your splen dors and tho pleasure of an active life. But whether you como home or whether you stay, you must always believe that I am your loving Drusilla. “P. S.—I forgot to beg that you may not take it ill that I have written these words. For, indeed, you maybe married, ar at least in love, with ono more worthy loan myself, find if that is so, I wish both her aud you many years of happiness md love, and shall only ask her to let me lovo you still as my brother. How can Mathew presume to court a girl who has inown Ralph!” CHAPTER VHI. IS IT TRUE? Now was Mathew pulled asunder with t grievous doubt and anxiety. For not raly might his enemy, as ho considered him, appear at any moment to demand a strict account, but ho knew very well .hat if he pushed on his suitor attempted my deviltry with us, I might send for Ralph and ask his protection. Yet could my story be true? How could I know, and I alone, of his welfare and the place of his dwelling? Was it possible, he thought, that such a secret, if there was any secret, should be intrusted to tho keeping of a mere girl? If the boy was really doing well, why did he not return on his twenty-first birthday and claim his : Inheritance? So that the more he thought about it, tho more he tried to persuade himself that the thing was false. And yet he was afraid; I could seo that ho was continually haunted by tho fear of what might happen. Ho sought me often and begged for information concerning his i cousin. Next, ho tried my father, but his memory as regards the lad was quite’ gone; and my mother, but she took no in terest in the subject, and said she knew nothing about the boy for her part. “Yet,” said Mathew, “your daughter pretends to know where he is and what ho is doing.” “1’hen,” replied my mother sharply, “Lord help the man! go and ask my : daughter.’’ “But sho will not tell me.” “Then how can I? Hark ye, Master Mathew; you como here too often. My daughter hath given you her answer. She bears no love to you; she will hare none of you. Go, then, and leave us alone, of grace, such being my constitution and Wo are poor enough, God knows, but not my habits. Mathew, his cousin, is a so poor as to thrust husbands ou our girl desperate villain. Tell him that. You against her will. Leave us to ourselves. may tell him next that if he still re- gardeth eggs I have got such a collection for him ns can’t be matched. As for Mathew, he is a rogue and a villain. Fish, tell him, are plentiful this year, and otters there bo in plenty. Yesterday I trapped a badger, and I know of a marten opposite the hermitage. The birds are wild, but I had good sport with Ids worship last winter, ami hope to do some thing by myself when tho nights draw out. Say next that I send him my faith ful respects aud humble good wishes; and Mathew is a villain. And as for your own pretty self, you sit down and tell him that there isn’t a straighter maid, nor one more beautiful, on the banks of Coquet; while, as for eyes and shape and rosy lips” “Indeed,” I cried, “I shall tell him no such nonsense. No, I will not tell him such nonsense.” "Why, he loves thee, sweetheart. Say it, child, to please him, so lonely ho is, and so far away from us. I wish ho had good man, and find another wife.” After this, Mathew remained quiet again for throe or four months. That Is to say, ho came no more to the house. So great, and reasonably great, was my suspicion of him that I was certain h* ! would do something to revenge himself upon me, or to get me in his power. Yet I know uot—I could not guess—what he would do, or in what way he could injure mo, as if tho machinations of wicked men can ever be suspected and guarded against; as if the head of him who is desperately wicked may not conceive, yea, and exe- ! cute things which an innocent girl would I believe incredible. The first alarm was ' caused by a visit from Barbara, who came to see my mother and myself, together or separately. She said sho was a messenger from her brother, who, whatever I might say or think, was tho most forgiving and the most long suffering of men; that he was perfectly prepared, if I would make submission, ask pardon for the injmrious Fifty-fivo guineas! it was a little fortune to us. It would keep us until I got a letter from Ralph. Where upon I told my mother to be of good cheer and to wait patiently and hope for the best. She sighed, being uever a woman of sanguine disposition, and ignor ant of those secret springs of happiness within me which made me think lightly of present poverty. And now you shall hear a plot of dia bolical wickedness, which for the time was successful. We all know that for a season sinners are sometimes permitted to compass their own designs, but for their surer undoing in the end. Two days after the burial of the dame, at a time when we might bo supposed to bo overwhelmed by the calamity of being left destitute, Mathew came to the cot tage. He looked ill at ease, and his eyes met mine shiftily, but he spoke ont with boldness, while he produced a leather pocket book and turned over certain papers within it. “I have como, madam,” ho said address ing my mother, but looking at m^, “to inform you or your husband—It matters not which—that I can no longer wait for the Interest on the principal of my money, and that you must be prepared to pay, cr take the consequences.” “What interest? What money?” asked my mother. "Why,’’he affected great surprise, “is it possible that you are going to deny the debt?” “What means tho man?” my mother said impatiently. “Nay,!’ said Mathew, smiling, but look ing like a hangdog villian the while, “this passes patience. I mean, madam, my loan to your husband." “What loan?” she repeated; "and when?” “Why,” said Mathew, “if you pretend not to know, I am not obliged to tell you; but since . Well, I will tell you: I mean this, madam; the sum of two hun dred pounds advanced by me to your hus band, for which, and in security, he hath assigned me a mortgage on this house.” My mother was quite wise enough to know what was meant by a mortgage. She asked, but w ith pale face, where was his mortgage. Mathew unrolled a paper and laid it on the table. My mother read It through hurriedly. Then she sank bock in her chair and covered her face with her hands, saying: “It is true, my child. Here is thy fa ther’s signature. This is the last blow." saw s an ing at the ren g e; an( ] ij 0 would bo convicted as a slanderer and calumnious person, if that mattered anght. First ho blustered and threatened. I iared, did I, to reproach him; very good, I should see what things ho could do; I should laugh the other side of my mouth. Did I refuse this offer? Very well, then, t should find oat what his displeasure meant. And, perhaps, ‘ before long, t should be sorry for the Insult 1 had of fered him and the proposal I had refused. He then flung away, becoming at this point speechless, and Indeed he looked so apgry that I was afraid he would have thrown aw Mto the stream. I want home, and said nothin* to anr- garden gate. He looked so jocund, smiled so pleasantly, and ho wore so self satisfied an air, that I was quite certain some evil thing had happened. “Drusilla,” he said, "I have heard cer tain intelligence. Yon may depend upon Ita truth, which is confirmed in every par ticular. I think that you should be the ®mt to hear of it, aad though it be, yet I could not but expect.” ’T suppose,”! said with a laugh,be cause I knew that he waa about to Invent •°®« wicked falsehood, “I suppose you nave got something to tell me about i, whom your cruel conduct drove I into the world?" blushes on tho checks and all. A girl ought to be proud for such as him to fall in love with her.” “Is he truly In lovo with mo?” I said, with tears coming into my eyes, because now that tho words were spoken I know very well how much I longed for that very thing. "Why, he says he wishes me nappiness with my husband. As if I could toko any husband but Ralph. ” “There—there,” he cried, “tell him that. Tell him that, and it will make him happy and bring him home.” "You think such a little thing as that would bring him home?” "There’s ono thing,” said the old man, “which women can never understand, and that's tho strength and power of love. There was a man in Lord Falkland's regi ment—but I cannot tell thee all the story. There was a young gentleman in tho Fourteenth, when we were stationed at Gibraltar, in love with’ a Spanish lady- hut of that at another time. What did the soldier care that he got 800 the next day? And as for tho young gentleman, be would have done the same—and always said so—if another dozen of duels was to come after it, aud him to be pinked in every one. Cheerfully he would have done the same for such another charmer. Ah! he would, and more; but women never understand.” With theso mysterious words did he en courage me as to the force and vehemence among men of the passion called love. If Ralph was only home again, we should have a protector. I thought of this and hesitated no longer. Yet it gas an tmmaidenly thing which I did, aad to this day I am uncertain aa to whether I wit, iustifisd hr all the circumsUaoes. It thy picture just now, with the pretty | things I had said, and reveal what I knew of Ralph, viz., where ho was living, what lie vres doing, and what were his inten tions; to pass over all, and to take mo onco more into favor. “Good Lord!” said my mother. “Does the man think ho is the Great Bashaw? Favor, indeed!” "Beggars,” said Barbara, “must not be choosers.” At these words my mother flamed up and asked Mistress Barbara many ques tions relating to her birth, parentage, wealth, religious professions, personal beauty, and so forth, leaving her no time to answer any. This is, with respect to the memory of a kind parent, a manner of speech common among women—oven well bred city madams when they are angry. Finally, sho said that there had been quite enough said about Mathew’s proposals, and that he was to understand again, and once for all, that they were distasteful; upon which Barbara coughed, and said that she had delivered her message, that she hail no desire, fo$ her own part, for tho alliance, which would as certainly be os distasteful to herself as it was to Mrs. Hethcrington, and more so, for her brother had a right to look for fortune, which would be of much more use to him than a baby face; that she was surprised, being a messenger of peace, and seat by a man of substantial estate, as all the world knew, to be thus treated by folk who were ex pected shortly to come upon this parish, and the daughter to be glad of honest ser vice and a crust. But enough said. "Hoity toltyl” cried my mother. "This is brave talking, indeed, from plain milltrs and simple farmers. Is the world going UMddo down?”. - m “Here i * thy father 1 * signature. Mathew rolled up the paper again and put it in his pocket. “Can you, madam,” he asked, “pay me my money ?* “Go ask of the poor demented creature to whom you lent it,” she replied. “Then,” said Mathew, “If the money be not forthcoming I must sell the house. Yet there is a way” “What way?” I asked. "You know tho way. You have only to tell mo where the boy is and to marry me.” I shook my head. “And you, sir,” cried my mother, “you who lend money to poor madmen for the min of their house, you—a villain if ever there was one—you think that I would give my daughter to such as you?” “Very well, madam, very well,” said Mathew, unmoved. “Very likely the cottage will sell for as much as the mort gage. Perhaps, if not, your husband may carry his extravagances to a jail, as provided by a righteous law." Here he Red, because, I believe, my father could be caUed upon for nothing more than the house which was his secu rity. My mother pointed to the door, and Mathew went away, leaving us bewildered indeed. Two hundred pounds! Now, in deed, we were ruined. But what had he done with the money? “Mother,’' I cried, “it is a black and base conspiracy. My father has never, since he came from London, possessed single sixpence. Think of it. If he bad a penny • ’i have known it. Try to mnem.^ a ever you saw the least sign of his having money.” No, there was none. He wrote no lot- ten and received none; he bought noth- ing. His clothes, wUch were how old wore when he returned home. On the other band, because ho was of a generous heart, he was forever giving away what he called money In large sums by means of drafts upon London bankers, which he ! would sign and press upon the recipient with kind words. For Instance, on my j birthday ho always gave me an order tor £100 on a piece of paper, signed by his ‘ own hand, “Sol. Hethcrington,” bidding me, because I was a good girl, go buy myself some finery and fallals. At Christmas, the New Year, Easter, j Roodsmass, fair time, and other times of rejoicing, he would fill his pockets with thoso valuable gifts, and sally forth—first to tho vicar, with an offering for the poor, saying that it was little merit to give out of abundance; that tho Lord loveth a cheerful giver; that tho poor wo have always with us; that a rich man must remember tho fato of Dives, and that, for his part, ho would that tho church had all charities in her own hand, so that schismatics, profligates and per sons without religion should starve, with other pithy and seasonable remarks. Haring received the vicar’s thanks and a glass of usquebaugh to keep out tho raw air of tho morning, he would proceed up tho village street, the boys and girls touching their caps and making courto sies to him, while the barber and black smith would offer tho compliments of the season, with the hope that her ladyship was well. Then he would pass tho cot tage of Sailor Nan, and would call her out and press Into her hand a folded paper, saying that it was for Christmas cheer: that she must rejoice, with a dish of good roast beef and plum porridge, and a great coal fire, and bidding her God speed, would go on his charitable way, while some laughed and some looked grave, and tears would fall from tho eyes i of the women to think that ono so good and generous should also be so poor. Alas! my father was ono of thoso who could never become rich. Even while wo spoke of this wo heard outside tho voice of my father as if to confirm our words: ' “It ill becomes men of substance, Mr. i Carnaby, to allow poorer parishioners to bear the burden of such things. I will myself repair tho roof of the church at my own charges. Nay, sir, permit mo to take no refusal in this matter. If it stand me In £1,000 I will do it. Why, it is a lend ing unto the Lord; it is a good work.” It happened that in some way I had more influence over my father than any ono. That is to say, ho would unfold Ids mind—such as it was, poor man!—tome with greater freedom than to my mother, who could never make any show of in terest or belief in bis magnificent designs and charitable schemes. I therefore tried to learn from him, if I could, tho truth of this business. After listening to a long story of his intentions as regards the church and tho endowment of the living &t Warkworth, I turned the conversation upon Mathew Humble, and asked my father if ho had of lato seen and spoken with him. Ho said that Mathew now avoided rather than sought his company, for which he knew no reason, except that when you have obliged a man it fre quently happens that ho keeps out of your way—a thing, ho said, of common ex- pericnco in the city, where young men, in cautious men and unlucky men often ob tain assistauco in the prolongation of bills and loans. “Since I have boon of sucli great serv ice,” he said, “to Mathew Humble, ho seems to think that he must not como so often as ho did. A worthy man, however, and, perhaps, ho is moved by tho shame of taking assistance.” “Very likely, sir,” I said, wondering what thing, short of tho pillory, with tho fugleman and his pike beside it, would move Mathew to shame. “It is strange that men should thus court tho appear ance of ingratitude. Did you ever, sir, borrow money, sums of money, of Mathew Humble?” • Lend, you mean, Drusilla," lie replied, turning red with sudden anger. “No, sir, I said borrow. Pray pardon mo, sir, I had no intention to offend." “But you have offended, child.” Ho puffed his cheeks, and became scarlet with sudden passion. “You have of- j feuded, I say. Not offended? Do you know what you have said? Have words meaning for you? Should I, Solomon Hetherington, Knight, known and venerated for my wealtli from Tower Hill to Temple Bar, ami from London Bridge to Westminster, stoop to borrow—to borrow, I say, paltry sums—for ho could lend none but paltry sums—of a petty farmer? Not mean to offend! Zounds! the girl Is mad.” “Pray, sir, forgive me. I am so ignor ant that I knew not” “To be sure, my dear, to be sure.” IIo became as quickly appeased as ho had been easily offended. “She docs not know the difference between lending aud bor rowing. How should she?” And have you lent Mathew much, sir.” ‘As for lending, I have, it is true, placed In his hands, from time to time, sums of money for which I have no security and have demanded no interest. But let that pass. I am so rich that I can afford to lose. Let itpass. And whether he pays them back «(|M, I do not greatly c&ro.” “You gave this money to him,” I said, by drafts upon your bankers, I suppose.” “Why, certainly. You do not suppose that we London merchants, however rich we arc, carry our money about with us. That would indeed bo a return to barbar ous times.” “Then there was the paper that you signed in the presence of an attested at torney and of Barbara, what was that, father?” He laughed and made as if he were an noyed, though ho appeared pleased. “Tut, tut,” he said. “A trifle—a mere trifle; let an old man have his little whims sometimes, Drusilla.” “But what was it, sir?” I persisted. “Mathew would have me call it a mort gage,” my father went on. "A mortgage, indeed! Because he wished his sister not to know It was—ho, ho!—a deed of gift, child. That is all. It was when I as signed certain lauds to him. A deed of gift. Wo called it a mortgage, but I could not prevent showing Barbara by laughing —ha, ha!—that it was something very different. In addition to tho money, I have bestowed upon him a field or so for the improvement of his farm. The gain to him is great; the loss is small to me. A mortgage, we agreed to call it. Ha! hal Duly signed and witnessed. Your father, Drusilla, is not one to do things irregu larly. Duly signed and witnessed.” This conversation made it quite clear to me that Mkthew had contrived an abomin- able plot for our ruin. For the supposed deed of gift which my father wished to ; oi marriage, » woum seeit me pxmeenva of Mr. Carnaby. All theso things I con sidered, but none of them approved them selves ou consideration, because a forger and a cheat will always bo ready, if he escapes punishment for the first offense, to repeat his wickedness. Lastly, I re solved upon seeking Mathew at the mill, where I could talk to him at greater freedom. I went there in tho afternoon about 2 of tho clock. When I lifted tho latch I saw Barbara sitting on the settle near the window working. Before her, os usual, lay an open Bible. Strange! that one who was so hard and severe could draw no comfortable things from a book which should be full of comfort. She shook her long lean forefinger at mo. “I have known,” sho said, “for a long time tho ruin that hangs over your house. I saw your father sign the mortgage. Ho laughed and called it a deed gift, I remem ber. Ah! good money after bad. But my brother, who was foolish enough to lend the money, was uot so foolish as to let it go without security. A deed of gift! He is c(inning, your father, and would do- ceivo mo if he could, I doubt not.” Sho turned over tho leaves and found some thing that seemed to suit tho occasion and my demerits. “ ‘Ho hath mado thy vino bare.’ My brother is full of com passion. ‘IIo hath made it clean bare.’ Thy punishment hath begun. ” “I wish to see your brother alono.” “Do you come in peace or in enmity? If In peace, you must first make submis sion. and confess your deceits as regards the boy, who is surely dead. Nothing else will satisfy him. You can begin with me. Where is the boy?” “What I have to say is with your brother, not with you.” “Go, then; but remember, when you are married, look not to bo mistress here. I shall continue to bo tho mistress as I have always been. If you como in enmity, then you have mo to battle with and not my brother alone. Two hundred pounds is not a sum to bo given away for naught. Mon arc soft where a woman is concerned; Mathew may be a fool for your sake; you ! may look to wheedle him out of his papers. 1 Ah, but you shall not. He may bo a fool, but I am behind. I am not soft; your eyes will not make a fool of me, Mistress ! Drusilla.” She then bade me go within, where I 1 should find her brother. It was a cloudy afternoon, and, so early in the season, already growing dusk; Mathew was seated beside tho fire, and ou the tablo a stout jar containing Hollands which ho had already begun to drink. “Pretty Drusilla!” ho cried, astonished. "Have you brought tho money?” “No,” I said. “I como to learn If yon are in earnest or in jest.” “In jest?” Then ho swore a loud oath. "Seo you, my lass; If that money is not paid next week, your house will bo sold. Make your account of that. But if you comply with my conditions, tho papers shall be torn up.” “Then I am como to tell you, Mathew, that although I shall not comply with your conditions, tho cottage will uot bo sold.” “Why not?” “Because, first of all, that mortgage is false. 1 know now what you did. You caused my father to sign one paper, be lieving it to be another. That is a fraud, I and a hanging matter, Master Mathew.” He laughed, hut uneasily, and he turned pale. Also, which is hardly worth tho noting, lie swore a great oath. “It’s a lie 1” ho cried. “Prove it!” “I can prove it, when tho timo comei>. Meantime, rcllect on what I have said. It is a wicked and detestable plot. Reflect upon this and tremble.” He laughed again, but uneasily. “There is another reason,” I sold, “why you will not sell tho cottage. It Is this. You are afraid that Ralph may como homo and demand an account. Well, I can tell you this; that ho will not come homo just yet. But, if you do this thing as sure as I am alive, Mathew, 1 will write to him and tell him all 1 shall tell him how yon have persecuted me to marry you, aof because you want me for your wife, and thouga you have had your answer a dozen times over, but because you want to plague and spite your cousin. 1 will tell him, next, how you have spread false reports about another will, and how you have wliispered that he is turned highwayman. And lastly, 1 will tell him how you have practiced upon the kind heart of a poor demented man, and mads him sign his name In testimony of your own foul plot aud falsehood. 1 will not spare you. I will tell him all. I will beg him to return post haste, and to bring with him officers of justice. Then, in deed, you may look for no mercy, nor for anything short of tho assizes and New castle jaiL” 1 spoke so resolutely, though perhaps through ignorance I spoke foolishly, that I moved him aud ho trembled. Yet he blustered. Ho said that all women are liars, as Is very well known; that the boy was long since dead and bnried; else why did ho not return to claim the property? That, as for my story, he did not valuo It one farthing; while, as regards my accusation, ho would laugh. In fact, be did laugh, but not mirthfully. “Como, Drusilla," he said; “your father Is welcome to the money, for aught I care. I do not desire to sell tho cottage. Sit down and bo friendly. Toll mo all about the boy; and look, my lass"—his eyes were cunning indeed—“look you. Write to the boy; tell him, If you will, about the i money. Tell him that I am willing not to press It If ho will give reasonable assur ance or security of his own in exchange. Let him, for Instance, give me a mortgage on the mill, and let him, since ho is so prosperous, pay the interest himself-" This was a trap into which I nearly fell. Bat I saw In time that ho designed to find ont in this way what ho had to fear. “I have told you,” I said, “what I shall do." “Ahl your story, I doubt, Is but made up by woman’s wit. Drusilla, you are a cunning baggage. Como, now, give over; stay here and be my wife; thou shalt be mistress In everything. As for Barbara, I am tired of her soar looks. Sho scolds all day Sbo may pack; she makes the meala uncomfortable. She may vanish; ■he stints the beer. We will keep house without her She finds faalt from morn ing to night She Is a” “You called me, Mathew?" Barbara snddenly opened the door and stood be fore os. Her eyes followed me as I went away with malignity difficult to describe, and Mathew, sinking back Into his chair, feebly reached ont his hand for the jar of Hollands Schedule o! the Hartsville R. R. Haktsvxllk. 8. C., Dec. 7, ’89. DAILY MIXED TRAIN. Leaves Hartsville, 7.15 A. M. leaves Jovann, 7.40 “ Arrive at Floyd’s, 8.05 “ Making connection with the Sonth bound passenger train on the Cheraw A Darlington Railroad. RETURNING. Ixiavo Floyd’s, 10.00 A. M. Leave Jovann. 10.20 “ Arrive at Hartsville, 10.50 “ This train waits two hoars, if necessa ry, for the North bound freight train ou C. &. D. R. R. Leave Floyd's, 9.00 P. M. Ix>ave Jovann, 9.20 “ Arrive at Hartsville, 9.45 “ J. L. COKER. President. FOR C. & D. AND C. * S. RAILROADS PassiDsn’sOmci ) & D. andC. & S. RAILROADS, \ Charleston, 8,0., May 12, 1889. J lo ami after May 12, the trains on three roads will run as follows (Sunday ex* oq ted) every day: DOWK TEAUt. i.. vu Wudesboro Bennetts., Morven’s 0.86 V ci'nrlund •eeen eene 0.50 l.e ivt CUeraw 7.80 • e eeeeee eeeeee 7.45 8.03 8.22 8.42 8 65 • 15 Cash’s Society Hill Disc’s Darlington. Palmetto.... Arrive at Florence.... UP TRAM. Leave Florence 8.10 P M Palmetto 8.25 Darlington 8.85 Dove’s 9.52 Sooietyllill 9.12 Cash’s 9 LeaveCheraw 9.43 P M McFarlan 10.08 Morven’s •eeeen eee 10.20 Bennett 8*eee*«•••••• *•###• ••• 10* Lake W&desboro • eeeeeeeeeee 11.00 Freight Train going up. Leave Florence 7.00 a m Arrive Darlington 7.45 a m Freight going down Arrive Darlington K.OO p m Leave Darlington 8.60 p m Arrive Florence 4.10 pm G A. F. RAVENEL, Pres. II Master Transportation. ITE-W SOHEIDXJLB ORTHEASTERN RAILROAD. N' Oiiarlkston, S. C., May )2. 1889. On and after ibis schedule will he run : dale the following GOING SOUTH. No. 27, Daily. Leave F lorence *1 85 a to Leave Kingstrce 2 29 a m Arrive Lanes 2 60 a m Leave Lanes 2 50 u ra Arrive Charleston 1 00 a ni No. 23, Daily. Leave Florence *9 80 a m Leave Kingstree 10 65 a o Arrive Lanes 11 20 a • Leave Lanes 11 90 a l Arrive Charleston 1 30 a ■ No 63. Leave Lanes *7 60 P. M. Arrive Charleston t 30 a. m. Train No. 63 takes No. 63 South of Lanes Train on C & D K K conn ate at Flor- enoc with No 23 Train GOING NORTH. No, 78, Daily. Leave Charleston Arrive Lancs Leave Lanes Leave Kingstree Arrive Florence No. 14. Leave Conrleslon Arrive Lanes Leave Lanes Leave Kingstrce Arrive Florence *r. 25 A m 2 45 a m 2 60 a m 8 10 a m 4 20 a m •4 30 p hi 6 28 p m 6 28 p in ti 46 p m 7 55 p in No. 52, Daily. Leave Charleston 7 '0 a tn Arrive Lanes 9 i0 a m * Daily, f Daily except Sut. Train No. 52 tikes No. 62 North Lanes. Train Nn. 11 connects at Flor with Train on C A D K R for Cheraw ..and Wadesboro, N. C. Nos 62 runs through to Columbia via Central K R of 8 C. Nos. 78 and 14 run solid to Wilmington, N. C., making close connection with w. & W R R for alt points north. J R. KENLY, J. F. Divmt, Supt. Trans. Gen’l Sap’t. T. M. Emerson, Gen’l Pass. Agt. WILMINGTON COLUMBIA AN# AUGUSTA RAILBtil May 12, 1889. GOING SOUTH . No. 28. Leave Wilmington "6 25 pm Leave Marion 9 88 p a Arrive Florence 10 3ft. a No. 60. Leave Floreuce 3.20 a u Arrive Sumter 4.40 a a Leave Suuiier 4 40 a a Arrive Columbia - 6. It a a No. z7 Leave Wilmington *10.10 • a Leave Marion 12.40 p m Arrive Florence 1 90a m No 52 Leave Sumter flO 33 a a Arrive Columbia 11 65 p ■> No 58 Leave Florence t9 20 a a Arrive Sumter 10 28 a a No 52 runs through from Charleston via Central R U. Leaving Lanes 9 15 A M., Manning 8 53 j A M. Train on C & D R R connects at Florenc* riib No 58. GOING NORTH. No 61 (To be continued.) People Everywhere. sign, ho subetitnted a real deed of mort- _ „ , , , i „„ gage, in which my father was to acknowl- Confirm DUr stateni<-nt edge that he had received £200 for which say that Acker 8 English Kenie- his house for security, and dy is in every way superior to afterward appeared, any any and all other preparations i after notice f or the Throat and L should be given of foreclosing. How far Whooping Cough and the lawyer was concerned in this con- . .• _ 0 i: av o a tica vo Columbia. •10 36 p n Arrirs Sumter 11 68 p m Leave Sumter 11 68 p m Arrive Florence No. 78. 115am Leave Florence, 4 35 a ■ Leave Marion 6 20 a m Arrive at Wilmington, No. 69 8 36 am Leave Sumter f6 37 p a Arrive Florence No. 63, 7 50 p a Leave Columbia •6 20 p is Arrive Sumter No 14 6 82 y ■ Leave Florence •8 16 p m Leave Marion 8 69 p m Arrive at Wilmington 11 60 p a he assigned without, as clause as to In th* lawyer spiracy I know not. Perhaps he was in nocent. Indeed, I am now inclined to be lieve that he was innocent of any com plicity. How far Barbara—perhaps she, too, was ignorant of this wickedness. All that night I lay awake turning the thing over in my mind. I planned n thousand mad schemes; I would break into Mathew's room and steal the papers. I would go round the town and proclaim his wickedness; I would inveigle him surrendering the papers by Lungs. Croup it is magic aud relieves at once. We offer you a sample bottle free. Remember, this Remedy is sold on a positive guarantee by Dr. J. A. Boyd. 2 turoing Ivevs Writing poetry is recommend ed as a mental exercise* You can get physical exercise by at- rive Sumter tempting to read it to tho odi- i t or.—Terre Haute Expre&t. "Daily. fDaily except ..Sunday. No 63 rune through la Charleston, via Central R R, arriving Manning? 04 P M Lanes 7 42 P M. Cbarlestoa 9 80 P II. No 69 connects at Florence with C ft D train for Cheraw aud Wadesbero’. Nee 78 and 14 make eloee eonnectien at Wiliningiou with W ft 17 HR for all peiati North. Train on Florence R. R. leave Pee Dee daily except Sunday 4.40 P. M., airlve Rowland 7.00 P. M. Returning leave Rowland 6.80 A. M., arrive Pee Dee 9.00 A. M. C Train Ou Manchester ft Augesta R. R leave! Sumter daily 4 A. M., arrive P - HI AUgaata A* m Sunday, 11.Qi 1.01 P. M H. 1.30 P M., Ai •*■ R. KENLY, t m.: DIVINIi Gem* • I Traas. am.Pw ft • as" I ■ % m Ella ^¥■1