The watchman and southron. (Sumter, S.C.) 1881-1930, December 29, 1885, Image 1
- tfiJE SUMTER WATCH7 - AJS, Est?bil ?lied April, IS 50.
.?vs ; ~
?R?nsolidat?ft Ans. 2, 1881.1
"Be Just and Fear not-Let all the Ends thou Aims't at. be thy Country's, thy God's and Truth's."
THE TUCK S?T/THRON, Established Jane, 1866.
SUMTER. S. C., TUESDAY, DECEMBER 29, 1885.
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^I?fters
ANS?VERJED.
been asked tboosands
i Iron Bitters care every
laiepetable physician woald prescribe IMKi
BS recognize Iron a?.-lhe best restorative
eawat known to the proiess?a. and inanity of any
-^??hyj^yiinj fr-n the assertion
^reparations o? iron than of any
i in medicine This shears con
? ?rknoysledgod to be tba mast
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hevsvac ?Teinttkab?e'faet. zh\t prior-to the discor
*y<a?BB?WN>SIROSi BITTERS no perfect
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gtorfcgell theoe armants Iron is prescribed daily.
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' ' /m^5?*' J??* 33 tharon?h medicines, it acts
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StJJDi*6" i0r ?^d. Remeiiio^r Brown's Iron
ronara ia the ONE Y iron medicine that is not in?
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TAKE yo OTHER.
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TJNTlfcjYOTJ HAYS
?XAMINE?
-THE
Cteneral Merchandise
NOW BEING OFFERED BY
Jo B. CARR.
^4? examination of our stock and prices
'ca?i "buyers, before making
nein purchases iciU convince
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1JL7^BAMGAINS.
? SICE LINE OF PRINTS,
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* IL - * '
.. .. GROCERIES.
. A F?LL LINE OF HEAVY AND FANCY
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Canned Goods
Of Varions Kinds.
DRIED FRUITS.
Peaches, Apples, Cherries, ?c.
^ %!X?&?r?ue a?all,- next door north of Monaghan's.
J. B. CARR,
Nor 3_SUMTER, S. C.
PEO?JST CULTURE.
'^f^L$E^N FLOURISHES WHEREVER
JL THE? HICKORY, grows, and a well
grown tree, yields a net annual income of
$2ytfr$50. ' Mr. A. C. Danie? of Crawford,
.Gav, (Oglethorpe Co.) has a tree that bears j
yjGto? TEN to FIFTEEN bushels of 6ne nuts. !
,-. They s?l? readily at from S4 to 35 per bushel, j
Thc treea begin to bear when six to eight
.i-.ye?tt*"ot?.- J am now selling fine two-year j
./rifl?C8r'Ofnthe'"best and earliest bearing variety i
>^t-*?^ioltowing very low prices :
-w^tcif . 50 cents |
&tt$>owa $*4.00
*^&ermkr lO.oo
?1 ^jerHtrcdred 15.00
Ko_ charge for packing. Trees ready for
- ibfpnjent Jfovember 1st.
-2?'-.'. - .. . S. W. PEEK.. Proprietor,
*<?PLZ y - .- Hartwell Nurseries.
'T-f;- -, Hartwell, Ga. j
; '^^noVof t{The Nursery and the Orchard." ,
^.'Prl?e ia cloth $1.25 per copy, in boards
-$?.<K>- Send for copy and be your own !
"'Nurseryman.
.*-ip'; ?" -' '
JOHN R. KEELS,
Attorney at Law,
SUMTER, s c.
Will practice in adjoining
i?i ^Oc^ecting made a specialty.
* ~ mu m mm
AT BOTTOM PRICES?
wirepin w mum m OFFICE.
SLINGS AND ARROWS
B7 HUGH CONWAY.
Av.thor of "Called Back;' "Dark Days?
UA Family Affair," Etc.
CHAPTER IX.
A FAREWELL.
? went to my room, and threw myself
mt?a chair. Here, unelldawn, I sat.puz
zLng over Grant's words, and trying to j
turn them into a key which, might unlock j
tho secret door which stood between mv
wife and myseif. My efforts were useless.
I seemed like ona surr cnn ?3 i by stons
walis, through, which there was no escape.
Each way 1 turned, ? was met with some
impervious obstacle.
"For my saker' This concealment was
for uiy sake! I am plunged ia to despair, i
am told there is no hope. Yet ali this is
for my own sake! The riddle grew more
and- more difficult of solution. Grant could
doubtless solve it if be chose, but would he
do so?
Not he. The next day I once more at?
tacked him. I implored, commanded, even
threatened; not one word would he speak.
I was on the verge o? quarreling with him;
but as I fancied it was erny by his direct or
indirect aid I could find Viola, I restrained
my very natural wrath, and on the subject
oi Viola a sullen silence succeeded my use?
less questions.
I lingered on at the farm long after
Eustace (?rant was weil enough to dispansa
with mr services. "Where else could I go?
From wa om. but Grant had I chance o?
ascertaining my wife's present abode? I
muse wait ?nd walch. A chance word, a
letter, anything, might put me on the track.
Moreover, I had a presentiment that Viola
was not far away. People, when driven to
their wits' end, put a vast amount of faith
in presentiments.
Much as I had learned to love him, severe
as were the t wing as of reniorsa still felt for
my murderous act, it was all i could do to
force myself io believe that Grant was sin?
gle- hearted in his determination of keepiag
me in the dark respecting my wife. The
more so, as it was my conviction that,
could 1 once meet har, my pleading
would be eloquent enough to bring her ;
back to me, to begin once more tba nappy
hie so strangely cut short. Only let me see
her once more, take her by the hand, gaze
into her eyes, call up the memory of those
few short days when we were all the world
to each other; sureiy I must then be told
the truth, and conquii*.
One morning Eustace seemed distracted
and *.d at oa^a. He answered my questions
absently. Presen tly he said : "Do you mind
making a short journey for ma?"
'.Certainly not. Where to?"
"T want several things not procurable
here. W*il you go to L'Orient for me?"
"Of course I will But how am I to ge*,
there? The diligence does not ran tc-day,n
"Jean could drive you ia the light wagon,
butthac would be tedious. I will try and
borrow a horse.'*
I favored tba horse. Twenty miles in old
Boulay's wagon was not a tempting pro>
peet. So the horse was procured, and I de?
cided to stay at L'Orient for the night, and
rida back the next day. My purchases
could te sent by diiigene?.
Grout gave me a list of the articles he
wished bought. S!? aa OL them, it struck
me, seemed superfluous and trivial, and all
might lipve been ordered by letter. Thea I
mounted &r>d rode alcnr the tableland,
down the hill, through the sleepy little vil?
lage, np the other hill an i away on tba
uustv road to L'Orient
It was a blazing hot day, so hot that I
blamed myself for not having started oa
my ride either earlier in the morning or
later on, v. Lea th 5 pew ar of tba sun began
to wane. ? wondered rhat Grant had hot
suggested the latter course.
That wonder came coupled with another
thought, a thought which made my heart
beat I remainbered how anxious ha had
been that I should maka' the journey to?
day, and contrasted that anxiety with tba
importance of the errand. C<.uld it be that
he was fer some purpose sanding me cut of
the way? I rode slowly cn, giving this
question full consideration; and the more I
considerad it the mere I became convinced
that my errand to L'Orient was a russ.
- Having determined this, my mind was at
once made up. I halted at the next farm?
house, and stating that the horse was lame
lert him in charge of the good peopla until
I could send for him. Then rapidly I re?
traced my step?, until I reached the tcp of
the cliff from which ones before I had
gaze i at the house which held the man on
whom I had come to wreak vengeance. I
threw myseif on tha turf, and for hours
kept my eyes on the house or on the road
which :ed to it
If I saw nothing to confirm my suspicion?
I could regain my h orsa and ride to JJ Orient
after nightfall. Thare would ba a moon,
and I could no doubt find my way.
So, wirb eager eyes I watched and
watched, until at last I saw, struggling up
the bill opposite to me, a carriage, which
muct have passed through St. Seurin. I
saw it appear and disappear, according to
the bends of the road, thea emerge on to the
table land, and finally stop in front of the
farmhouse. My heart leaped with delight
I saw Graat come out and assist soma
dark figures to alight i f.aw them eater
the bousa. 1 saw the carriage and horses
taken to the stables at the back of the farm.
Then 1 rosa and wen: to meet what fate had
m store for m?
I descended the one bill, climbed the
other, and walked brlkly toward the farm.
1 felt sure that the carriage seen by me had
brought Vioia to my temporary home.
Grant knew that she was coming; hence the
errand un which I had been sens. I chafed
at the thought of how nearly I hal fallen
into the trap.
About a hundred yards frcm the house
I saw on my left bani, ?catad on a largs
stone on the edge of the cliff, th* form of a
woman. My heart beat so violen-iy,
that for a moment I was forced to stand
still.
Changed as was her dress, unfamiliar her
attitude, 1 should have kaown her among a
thousand. At last after an interval of
two years, lsaw Viola,' She wa* clothed in
After an interval of two years J saw Viola,
1
j black-she, who formerly deteste! the sohi
j ber hue! She was sitting wita her hands
j clasped round her knee; her hoad b?*nt for?
ward in a sad. though : fui attitude. She
i seemed to be gazing afc the sea below, yet
i seeing or hearing nothing. Noiselessly 1
cept over the soft tur/ until I was close to
her.
Now that the moment for which I hal
longed hid c*r.io. what should I do? Cover
her with reproach***? Coldly demand an
explanation f lti&*s upon her returning at
once co her duty ?
No; none of these. My only thought wa?
to throw myself at her feet, to clasp her in
my arms, to cover her face wira kisses, to
swear that, notwithstanding all the past, I
loved her as ot ol j. In another second ?
should have done all this.
But suddenly she turnad her bead an 1
saw me. She started to her feet, and, with
a low crywhichv-told of pain, even horror,
turned |?BMAward the house.
I foL^B fek her aad seize ! ber
hand?B mm love! my wife I" I
from me?"
?ut struggled to free
earestr' I pleaded.
"Tell ma all-I can forgivel Tell ms ]
ins save "chat 3'on love nisi"
She looked at mj; her eyes wera to
fear. "Let me go," sha said hoarsely,
shall die!"
"Never!" I said, "until you hava tole
all What does it mean? What am
think?''
She laughs 1 wildly. "Think? T
that I am false to you-thai; I love an<
-that I hate you! Bat let me go. Ju
let me go!"
Her voice sank to piteous entreaty as
spoke the last words.
"Never!" I repente 1 I wound my i
round her, end kissed har passionately,
trembled in every fiber of her body,
.when onca more har eyes met Tiiine, the
in them positively frightened nie.
Suddenly, by a suprema effort, sha
herself from my arms and flo! raj
toward tho farm. I wa; on the pain
pursuing her, when a great revulsio
feeling came to me. Wuat had I oona
this woman should shrink from my toa
should regard me with dread and hor
I had lavished leva upon her; I was wi]
to take hor to my arms without a wor<
explanation, or an entreaty for pardon
the misery sue Lad caused ma Yet she
from me as if I ware soma noxious rep
However deeply and blindly a man i
love, there must bo a limit to his self-at
ment; so, as J strodo into tba house, to i
not ber, bu* Eustace Grant, my heart,
full of black and bitter thoughts aga
the AV oman 1 loved,
I entered Grant's sitting-room witt
either knock or warning of any sort,
was seated, and, apparently, in earnest <
vernation with a pale, s weet? faced won
some ten years his senior, and who
dressed as a Sister of Charity. He star
to his feet, and looked at me like one asl
ished.
"You here, Loraine!" he cried.
"Yes; I did not go: so far as i>'Orient.
Grant moved toward the door. "Exe
me,'* he said ; "I shall bi bac? IE a morae
This is my sister." 1 ba lady bowed, i
smiled pleasantly.
"You aro too late Grant," I said, soi
what coldly. "You cannot prevent
meriting; it has takan place."
"Poor girl!" ba said. Than turning
bis sistar, spanking in Preach, "You 1
better go and find Viola."
She ros?; and left tha room. Grant a
I were alona.
"Well!*' he said, calmly. "You hi
seen her?'
"Ye?, in spite of yonr subterfuge."
"1 acted but for tba best, lt ..as oi
this morning I knew they wera comii
Soma absurd report of my recant illa
had reached my sister. Not having has
from me for weeks and weeks, she came
learn tba truth.1'
"Came from where?*'
"From Nautas. Sba is tho superior ol
sisterhood there. She is my half sist
Her mothar was a Frenchwoman."
"Bat Viola? Why is Viola with ber?"
"She has been in her charge ever sin
sha left vou. It was to my sister I to
her."
A thought; crossed ma. "Surely," I sa:
"Viola, a married woman, can bind hers
bv no vows.' Sha is not one of "Dbe sist<
hood?"
"Tho sisterhood is a purely chantal
ene. Persons can lenve it at discretic
Viola lias baan m7 sister's guest, that is aS
"Grant," I said, "I am now under t
same roof as my wife. She-shall not lea
it until I know everything. From her li
I will leam tha maaniuj of har conda?
Go a id sand her to ma."
He said nothing. Ha l?ft tho room, ai
in a few minutes returned,' leadla? ray wiJ
She sank wearily upon a chair, with her fi
sers nervously moving ons against t
other. I had now tima to no ica wh
changes the two years bad m ".do in he
Beautiful a* she stilt wa-, it was not ti
girlish beauty which had won my heart;
was tho sad, sweat beaury oi a young w
man who has sn if ors L Youth was sti
fhere, but the gayaty and exuberanca <
youth wera uiisttni. Vio1 a's cheek w.
paler than of old; ber figure looked slight?
altogether sha wa; moro * ethereal-mo;
fragil* looking. F jr a whila she kepc h<
eyes away from ma; thm, finding I did n
speak, she lookai at m3. Har eyes we;
lull of tears.
"Eustace tolls rae you want to speak 1
me," she said. "Will you not spare ni
Julian? I am very unhappy."
"Unhappy! Spare you! Kow have ye
spared me? Tin ; what my life has ba?
from the day y cu laf c me-think of it, an
pity me!"
She pressad her hands to her brows, an
I heard her sobbing. I could not bear t
witness her grief. 1 kaeelad at her sida.
"Viola," I whispered, "teii mo alL Li
me know what black: cloud lies betweaa a
Tell me why you left me?"
"I cannot! I cannot!'' sha wailed.
Heedless of Grant, who was still with u<
? I besought ber, implorad ber to enlighte
me, or at least to say that she loved m
I still; that, now we have met, we sh oui
part no more, lu vain! Again and agai
cer lips formed tba sad yet firm refusal A
last she said: *!Ask me no mora, Julian; i
is for your sake that I am silent."
For my sakel Grant's parrot cry! I ro;
in bitter anger and turned to Grant.
"Tell her," I said-"tell this woman, wh
bears my nama, and who is still my wife
that nothing can maka life mora terri bia tx
me than this concealment. Tell her ii
what frame cf miad 1 mat you. Bid he
spea?-. You have power ovar her. Sb
will listen to you, if not to ma."
"Viola," said Grant, ia a strangeTj
solemn voice, uhe is right; we are wrong.
I Ha must know the truth."
See raised her white face. "Never
never!" she moanel.
"lt must be," continued Grant "He is ?
man; and if there is a burden to be borne,
he has a right to bear it. He must knov
all"
Sha streiche i ont har arms imploringly,
"Eustace." she gasped, "think of thi
horror! Lat him bata m J, cursi me, gc
sway and forget me! '
"He must be toid," said Grant, firmly.
She press? 1 har hands to her eyes, ani
was silenc for soma minutas. 1 steel jd my
heart, end neicher spoke ncr movel,
although I saw the tears trickling through
her ciosad fingers.
Presently sha spo'ce: "Not until I have
gone. Eustace; not until theship has sailed."
"Sade! ! What ship?" I exclaimed, turn?
ing to Grant.
"Viola sails for Amaricanaxt week. Soma
friends of her mother's live in New York;
she goes t,o them. "
I walked across to Viola. "Why clo you
gof" 1 asked, fiercely. She seamed to trem?
ble at thi change in my voice. 1 repeats!
the question.
"1 am too near-too near to England,''
she said, in a low, pained voie-?. .
"Too uear to ma, you mean?''
"Yes! Thora must be thousands of miles
between us."
I stamped in my rae;?. I was triol past
endurance. Her one thought, her only
wish, seemed to be that of avoiiin-; ma.
"'Go'" I csrieJ, "and may ? nev.*:- gaza
again on your falso, fuir lace! Go! ani carry
with you tha memory of tha lif.> you have
ruinai, tho hopes you have blighted, taa
iovtvyou havo thrown away! Gol"
I I tum-;! on my beal, hut in tho small
! mirror ovar tha fireplace I saw Viola rise,
I pple aud tottering, f saw Grant place his
i arm round her an t support her.
"1 cannot Lear it," 1 heard her say. "I
can boar all for his sake, except hin re?
proacher Eus tact?, when I ara gone lot
lim know ail Not until I am gone. Julian,
farewell!''
1 turne 1 at th^ last word*; Viola was
? passing through tho doorway. 1 sprang
? i or wa rd, but Grant chocked ma. Tba tears
j wyre ruiJiiiic down bis cheeks.
"No," be said. "Leave her. No gool
i can be done. You will kill her if you see
? ber again. Julian, lau ve the hou-e for an
j boar; tbay wiU be gone by thoa. Trust me
I -believe mc, it is betior so."
"But 1 am to be told everything?"
"Yes, when sha has left- England."
"No. now! Tell me now! Whatever it
may be that dividas us, I can sweep it away.
1 can hinder her from going". I can bold
her to my heart aad keep her. Speak! If
' you are sworn to ke3p har secrat awhile,
j for my sake, for her sstke. break that vow,
j and let me know everything this m omen tr
j He laid his hand on my shoulder. "Ju?
lian, my goorji^^w^he said in voice full
of feeling, "if you have any hops, abandon
it. No io ve, no po wer on earth can bring
Viola back to y ou P
His words seemsi to turn my heart into
lead. I said no more, but, obeying his
request, left the house, But I waited at the
roadside for the carriage to pass; I would
catch one more glimpse of Viola before she
left me, as Grant predicted, forever.
At last the carriage passed ms. Viola
saw me ; our eyes met. Her look was one
of hopeless, yearning misery. Sha made a
faint movement as if about to stretch out
her arms, then iu a moment passel from
my gaze. And this was our fare well I
Conquering the impulse which urged mo
to rush after the carriage, -ear my wife
from it, and swear she should not leave me,
I turned, away and struck down toward tba
coast.
H.*re I wandered about until late at
night. Then, weary and miserably 1
rii-no-arc-J mvMlf ha fir tn tho fa y nc
Grant, with a face full of anxiety, was
awaiting my return. I threw myself inte
a chair, buried my face in my hands, aud.
I believed, sobbed. The disappointments
of the day, tb3 threatened hopelessness of
the future; tad completely broken me do^vn.
I felt as a man must feal who is on the
verge of suicide.
"Eustace," I cried, "can you give me no
hoper
"My poor boy, it would be ern si to de?
ceive you-none 1"
1 groaned. ''Lat us go away,'' I said.
"Come with me to England-to London.
I sha l go mad, and throw myself over tba
cliff if I stay beref
The next morning we started for England.
CHAPTER X.
"rr Etas BEEN* A DREAST, LET US FORGET IT."
Curious as it may seam, I pressed Grant
no more to make a premature revelation of
the mystery. His warning word-, bis
solemn assertion that I had nothing to hope
for, when joined to the remembrance of
Viola's grief and persistency in seeking to
avoid me, had exercised a great effect upon
me; so great that I began to dreid the
promised disclosure. Until it was made, I
could at least tell myself that someday
matters would come right. The lock I had
sean the last in Viola's eyes haunted me day
and night. Tba last words I had heard her
speak, "Julian, farewell!" rang in my ears.
Both look and words told nie that she loved
me, but told me that hopeless misery was
to be our lot No wonder I began to wi3h
to postpone the knowledge of the worst!
"We went to an hotel in London. I was
moody and miserable-a cheerless compan?
ion' to the man to whom I now clung as for
support and strength. Somehow, Eustace
Grant seemed to be tba only creature to
whom I could turn in my trouble for sym?
pathy and aid. He was very good to ma in
those days. He was more than a friend
more than a brother. But, in spite of the
compassion which I knew be felt for me, no
word which encouraged the faintest hope
passed his lips. Sympathy is precious, but
I wanted hope.
The days went by until I guossad that.
Viola's departure must be near at hand.
I grew nervous and sleepless. Wild thoughts
cf firing tack to Frau ce and seeing her
once mere shot through ma. To see her,
tench even her bani once more, before I
learned the fatal secret which I had by now
brought myself to belia ve would part us
forever.
"When doss sha sail?' I asked Grant
abruptly one night
'The day ofter tomorrow."
"From where?"
"From Havre."
In forty-eight hours sha would ba gone.
In forty-eight hours I should know why she
had left rae.
"Eustace," I said, "before I learn what
thero is to learn, there is something I should
like to do. V:oia is my wife. Whether sha
has acted rightly or wrongly, I shall soou
know; but lmust make soma provision for
her future."
"Yes,'' said Grant uThat you should
most certainly do."
"Come with ma to my solicitor's to-mor?
row. I will give bim in structions."
Grant nodded; sa 1 wrote at once and
made the appointment.
I resolved to do all 1 had purposed doing
before Viola loft. Br this act I could at
least show her that, whatever the pending
revelation, might be, I lovel and trusted
ber. I toid Grant of my intentions, and
wondered he expressed so little surprise at
what, undar the circumstances, might be
well called generous, if not quixotic
"It will be just and fair," he said quietly.
'Do it, as you suggest, at once."
Tba next afternoon found us at my solic?
itor's. Tha large tin box, labeled "Julian
Loraine, Esq.," was pulla 1 down, dusted
and opened. The notes which, two years
ago. had been taken respecting the settle?
ment were looked up and produce!. It was
arranged that Grant should be one trustee;
and my solicitor, in whom I put great faith,
the other. Ail was to bs dona with as little
delay as possible. I smiled sadly, perhaps
Utterly, as I thought it was to be done fer
the sake of ona who was eager ta put thou?
sands of miles between us.
? was looking through some papers,
among which I found one indorsed "Copy
of Julian Loraine's wilL" I drew it out,
openad it and hal i it toward Grant. '"Sas,"
1 ?aid, "there is my title to all I possess.
What a difference those few lines made to
me at the tima! Now, little good, after
ail, they have done maf
"Shortest will I ever real, Mr. Grant,1'
said the solicitor. "If every one made so
simple a will as that, lawyers would starve "
Grant, without much show of interest,
took tha paper ia his hand and ran his ey3
over it Suddenly ha stopped short and
stared at it like one who sees a ghost.
Never before hal ? seea a iran's face aal
bearing so changed in a single second. I
was positively frightened.
"What is tha matter?' I cried.
He turnad to tha solicitor. .4{Will you
leave us alone far ona minute?" he said;
"only one minute?'
The solicitor looked surprisai at the
brusque request; but, nevertheless, court?
eously vacated the office.
Grant seized my arm with a grip of iron.
"What does it mean-this.*'' ha asked, in
a voice full of wild excitement As he
spoke, he laid his forefinger on tba words
"adopted so a I"
"ilean! lt is English. It means what it
says."
"You are not that man's son?"
''You arr. not that mans .'ton.1*
"N.> moro than you oro. I have always
passed H i sue!i, an I never troubled to
correct, the error. FerNap^ a^-. my origin
isa humble one, 1 was ashamed to do so," 1
added, with a faint laugh.
H . took no notice of my self-deprecation.
! * T'dl me all about yourself-as shor? as
possible, bufcpiss over nothing."
i Sa in a few wor ts I told him the story
wine)), years ago, Julian Loraino bad told
ni".
How I wa^ born in mid-ocean, and in a
curious way establisho I some sort of a claim
\ on Mr. Loraine. M~ tale was but half fin
I ished whan Grant lett mo, and I heard him
hi tljo out'ir office shouting for t?l?graphia
terms in away which scandalized the decor?
ous clerks. Ho wrote two me-sages rapidly,
threw clown a sovereign and ask?d for soim
one to go at once to the telegraph office.
Then he seized ma by the arm.
"Come!" he cried; "all that trash"'
meaning the business papers-*'can wr?*
(Jonis with me."
He swept rae out of the ciflae lika .
fie sho?tad for a cab. and ia a moment *
were tearing at full speed toward our bot?
Had I not guessed that something deep :
something concerning my own fate lay u
der his excitement, 1 should have thcug
that Eustace Grant hal suddenly go:
mad. No; I kne w that he had made -cn
discovery whick wrought a great chan:
in everything.
"What is it? Tell me,*' I said.
"I canuct I canno: speak. Wait 03
i minute.1'
"Tell me that it m jans gocd to Viola ar
I to me."
; Hegraspel mr bani. "Julian," he sat
! "it means everything."
I I sank back s?ceoslo*1. For a minn*--? <
two I was willing to rest content with th
bold assertion and a>k no more qua st lon
j I said no more until we reached tu-j noto
Grant carelessly threw money to tl
cabman, passed his arm through miue, an
led me to our sitting-room at a rate whit
made rs the observed of all. Once thor
he grasped both rn? hands and shook' thai
vigorously. Then he leUt me.
In a minuto he was back again. He hal
; two lottars in hi; bandi Ha gave me ona.
j "Sha wrote this,*' he sail; "it is afir
! well, and was to have been given you whe
I yen had learned all."
? I snatched it and would havo opened it.
"Stop a moment," he said. "This ona :
: a letter which on her death bod Viola
mother told me to give her daughter on hi
: twenty-first birthday. Tour wife real it J
Mr. Monk's office while she was waiting fe
you and while I was talking to Mr. Moni
j When you read it, picture her feelings, an
you will understand everything."
Grant turned away and left me alot
with the letters.
Which should I ooen first? Viola's, c
coursa. Sad though ic might be, it woul
contain some word of love which would t
precious to mo. I kiss ed it and tore it opei
Here it is:
"DEAREST-You will read this, ?nowie
: alb Had we not met-hal you even tx
. lieved ma faithless to you, I could have cai
ried the dreadful secret to the grave, an
you at least might ono day bava iona
yourself happy again. You hava force
the truth from ma, and tha truth shows yo
; that this letter is an eternal farewell A
? timas 1 thought, when years and years bav
I passed, we might meet again. Dearest, i
j can never b\ Even that hope is denied u=
I Julian, fate has been cruel an i seams eve
crueler now that yon must shara the sorrow
and tha shame. Farewell."
I laid the letter on tho tabla and opane
the second packet. Another letter ia
woman's writing; also two long narrow
strips of paper. I read the iatter.
"MY DAUGHTER-If I am dead, this wi]
be given yon on yourtwenty-nrst birtbdav
The name under which I pass is not m;
owa. I am the wife-yon ara the daughte
j -of Julian Loraine, of Herstai Abbey
j Somersetshire. Kow be treated me, why
j left him, are matters upon which I need no
j speak. He was a fiend in human shape.
shall never seo him aga Le. Ha does no
! know whether I am alive or dead. I tel
you this, not that you may seek h'm am
claim the right o? a daughter, but that yoi
may shun and avoid any one bearing hi
wicked name. He is rica, but riches do no
bring happiness. Live your own swee
lite, marry a good honest mau, and let you:
true name, or the relation ship y on bear t<
the mau who so cruelly wronged me, neve;
pass your lips. If ever you feel tempted t<
go to this mau and say, *i am your dango
ter,' think OL mo and tho years of suffering
he bas caused me. Let him die wiihou
knowing he has a child so fair and lovin;
as yourself. Your effeclionaie mother,
"MARGARET LORAIN"
Tba slips of paper wara certificates-one
of the marriage of Julian Loraine and Mar
garee, the other of the birth of Viola.
Now I knew all-I rented still and pic?
tured my poor girl's unspeakable borrot
when she read that fatal letter, and learned
that her hus ban I was ber father 4 .son bj
what shewsupposai was a former wife. I
seemed to see her struck down in the firs!
flush of her wedlai happiness, even as 1
had been struck down. 1 seemed to enter
iato ber thoughts, to feel th it it was im?
possible she could meet ma again. Icould
hear her agonized entreaties to Grant tc
bear her away and bid.? har from me. J
could understand now why she took nc
steps to clear her nama in my cvas. How
she aven wished me co think her perjure 1
and faithless, so long as tha secret could be
kept from mc-x> lon; as I did not suffar
as she suffered. Yesl I could understand
what, rightly or wongi r, she and Grane
had striven to do for my sake!
On what a chance a life turas! Why
had I never toll Viola the story $1 my
birth and strange adoption? Why had I
never told Grant? It wooli have cleared
matters in a second.
Strange to say, it had never occurral to
me to mention it to eithar of them. After
I had succeeded to my reputed father's
wealth, my position was so assured-it
seemed to me so natural to be thought and
called the deal man's son-that ia sober
truth my real origin had ail but faded
from my mind. For years I had scarcely
given ic a thought. But I ground my teeth
now, as I reflected how a sraple chance
might have made me speai, and so saved
my wife and myself from more than two
years of misery!
Then tho iioa came to nn that every
moment which elapsed before Viola learned
the news was one of sorrow to her. 1
spi aa? to my feet and went in search of
Grant.
Goed fellow! I found he had already
packed his portmanteau, and was busily
engaged on mina
"if you maV:e hasta wo shall just catch
the Southampton train," ha sail.
It thanked him by a ioek. I tossel thing;
into my portmanteau higgiedy-pigg,et/, and
in tLree minutes we wera on our way back
to France.
We were in plenty of time. Ialeed, as
the boat did not ieava Southampton until
nearly midnight, we might have waite 1 ior
a later train. It vas Utter as it was.
Although starting from Lende 4 at once
meant pacing for hours the quay at South?
ampton, lhal tho satisfaction of being so
many miles nearer to Viola.
Shall I ever forget that crossing! Tho
night was fair. No thought of sie jp came
to me. I sus on deck ail nig.it, gazing out
over the sea; lcokin; out for the two great
lights un Cap de ia Heve; list uing to tha
steady, monotonous thump, thump; thump
of the engines, und knowing that every
revolution ot" me peddle-wheels was bear?
ing me nearer to "Viola; or I leaned over the
side of tho boat and watched tho hissing
water flyiutr behind in a foaming v. hi.o
j track I felt that 1 was being borna away
j ?rom all my trouble-', ;:nd that tir path tue
I sturdy ship plowed through tho moon?
light/.} ! sea wa; ona which lcd mo to ua
1 speakable happines-.? I was alone wi'.h my
! thoughts nearly all ebb time: Grant, like a
! wise man, had.gone below to court s!vcp.
j Perhaps, in spit-; of tito jo/ ha io!c in the
i approaching happiness of his friend?, my
\ cea**! ?s nul ort-repeated que*ticns becems
a trifle monoton on s. He had to assure mo
a thousand times that <>iv\ at least, cf his
messages woul I re.":'h Vi?dn in RID . t > s::-,
l:e~ departure. He bsd telegraph* I to i bj
s'. vainer, as well as tc thc Hoff] deTEu ope,
;?r, vrl.icb he kuew ?.h? was stayi:tx. He had
Limply enid, "On co account ?J to-uior
row,'' and f >1& certain sba would c <un"or
! ma:11 h-r jo'irn * \ an I av r.i. cxplfi'ia'don*.
' WoaH WviH [cw w-:rds fr-rt
I him change ber plan-:' Want should 1 dc
' if wj reache ! Havre after ibo American
j steamer had sailed, and found that airer oil
j Viola, had gone in her?
! "Do?" sail Grant "Take tlf> next beat
' and foliow her. it will be but the delny of
j a wr>e.% r.n 1 the voyar^ will de von gool"
But J conlft ?ot contnm r>i at o wit.li equa
? nimity fha though*: of Viola's spend"!-;
; another week in ignorance <>c tho truth. So
! Grant bari again au1, again to ?e~.<u,"? r::o
. that we should corfcaiiilv fini her at ITnvre
I wi.b. his sisear, wiioaccempnnied her thither
j anil had promised to sec ber saicly on bnar.l
; the steamer.
: 1 hal other qu?tions lo ask him. smoni
them when ho firs berne 1 the true reason
! ol' mv wife's sudden flight-bow he loamed
i it lio was silo it for a while, then hi .sail |
! gravely:
"Lorain-1, I will one? for all make a cleon
! breast- to yen A month after I had placed
Vio a in rn.' sister's hands .1 ?aid to myself:
j 'Itv- niau, wuosboull ha VJ mal J ber lift ;
h:ipp3\ has ty his treatment forced her to
leave him. Why should she wasto her life
in grief? Ilovehor!' So I wrote to her
I could not have spoken the words-I wrote
and told her I loved her. I asked har what
the voice of the world mattere 1 to us. The
law mi rht free her from you, and we might
be happy ! Her answer was to send me back
my letter, accompanied Ly the papers
which I gave you to-day. She knew that
I would guard, the secret. I knew that sli3
left you, not because your love ha I waned.
The hato If lt t:\ward you, the pas doa I
felt toward Violn,-' turned into the deepest
pit\*. I>ow you know ali.
It was ??st after saying rhi3 that Grant
bade me good night and left me to my own
reflections. So I watched and watched
until morning dawned, the.? broke broad
ard bright; until the sun was well up; until
at last we steamed into Havre, and I coud J
step cn the broad quay and toll myself, that
in a few minute J my wife would be weep?
ing in my arms.
Wereackei the hotel. W'o leamel that
the ladies were still there. Grant'j tol>
gram had dene its work, ?fy impulse was
to rush in Foa^ch of my wife, tut Grant
checked me. As he said, she knew n?tala;;
his message had given no information as to
the discovery he had made. Let him see
her first, and convince ber that I was,
without a shadow of a doubt, Julian
Loraine's adopted son. Then I might see
hr-r m soon as ? liked.
I consente 1, and curbed my impatiens
I sat in the cttrtirard of the hotel counting
the minute;. Grant must have told her by
now. She masc know what joy is awaiting
us. She must be longing to throw herself
into my arm?. Why am I not summoned!
Perhaps the joy has killed Lerl 1 will wait j
no longer! *j
I rose, but at that moment Grant ap- |
peared. His face told me that the good I
tidings had worked no evil. Iran toward
him. He grasp: 1 my band..
"Stay yet a few minute;,'' he said; "she
wishes it."
"She is well? There is nothing wrong?"
"She is welland happy, in tea minutes
you shall see her."
Somewhat sullenly I rcsaat.-J myself.
Presently, we were joinei by the s wc st- |
faced Sister of Charity, who had for the j
time discarded tho spotless linea insignia of ?
her calling, and was dressed in simple i
black. She talked on various subjects; but j
if Ians werai at ali I did ?o mechanically,
her voico bearing no meaning to my ears.
At last she rcs), and I understood that she !
wished me to follow her. Grant wrung my
hand as I passed him.
With a beating heart I. folio wed his sister
up tha wide stairs, followed her until she
paused before a door, and placed her hand
on tho haudla Then, turning to ma, she
whispered:
"Mr. Loraine, I know all the sad story of
the last two ye irs. I know what this poor
child lias suffered.' There are some grief >
which are too a cate to bear even the men?
tion of. Take her to your arms as if you
had parted with her bat an hour ago, and
uutil sha speaks of it let DO word of the lase
two years pass between you."
She made the sign of the cross, cpehad
the door and left ma free to eater.
What did I so ?? Viola, even as she left
that morning so soon after our wedding.
Viola in the very dress she wore that day.
How well I remembered it-remembered
its hua, its very material. Long afterward
sha told me that during thos; moa-hs of
separation she ha 1 treasured up ani kept
always near her everything that reminded
her of the few hapav days she had spent
with rn?, before the fatal m?-'ake crushed
her to the earth. Yos, I ssw Viola as of j
old-even down to the sparkling rmg wh.ch {
I had, it almost se?med to me that morn?
ing, given her. Viola, mv I ve, my wife!
The door closed softly bahia I me-the
sister's care must have done the. x openel
my arms. With a cry of rapturous delight
Viola ran toward ma, and in a moment was
sobbing and laughing on my brennt.
"Daare;t,': fha whispered, when at last
we found speech for more than ejaculations
and broken words of love, "Jaare;t, it has
been a dream-a black cruel dream!"
She shuddered as sha spoke. Once more
I pressed my lip ; to hers.
"L it us forget it," i said.
Then, hand in hand, cut ofthat long night
of dark dreams we passed into the full day?
light of the joy which life eau only know
when brightened by Mich love as ou -s!
THE END.
Huxley On the Orlsin of Character.
[Coorie Pa's ons Lathrop ]
'Nothing in this life, to me,'' s xii Pro?
fessor Huxley, "is sadder chan the fact that ?
a mau, watching the development cf his
children, -> doomed to sea bis own peculiari?
ties, his own faults-the things which ha
condemns in himself-eropp ur out ni them.
They may have hi3 good traits, too. But
rothiag that he caa do will prevent th>*o
old faults coming out in them. That illus?
tra!e-3 tao immutability of law. Children
inherit certain traits and capabilities They
must go on and develop them. Thera is
nothing more. They are bonada 1 by the
elcmeuts which are born in ihem.
A particular man receives a blow cn the
hoad, you see. Now perhaps he recover.?
from that blow; be is apparently perfectly*
well; but toe effect of the b'.? v continues, j
A sen is boru to the mau. What, has be?
come of the energy e^pe.idai in that blow
upon the man's head? Iz ii hound to con?
tinua You cannot gat ri i of that. Tue
per.?i*tonc3 OL' force makes it inevitable.
Perhaps the mao's am gets alcur alt right, i
and perhaps hi doa;-n'r-. But suppose thai j
the sou. orthabon s son, turn; out to be a j
iorger, or a cr.miual of seme sort-possibly
a murderer. How do we know taut this is |
noD the re-iul: ot tue original blow on the !
bea i. producing a slight ace: len al impras- j
sion ou tee brain, the iorceoi which tsk^s ?
the form of m .ral perversion in the offspring?
Sir Henry Taylor gives this erampla of
Carlyle's vigoro is ani reckless speech:
Carlyle being ill ono day. Lad/ Ashburton j
insisted tha? a certain Dr. Wilson shou.d I
visit him. The ductor want into hts room
and presently came flying ont again. Bxs
account was that Carly la had roc:-: ved j
him with a volley of invectives agntasc ?
himself and his profession, saying that "cf j
all tha sons cf- A icm the/- were the most |
eminently unprofitable, aul that a man
micht as well pour his sorrows into tba
long, hairy car of a jackass"
London's Man Dressmaker,
rsew York "World.]
The latest thing in Lmdou is a man dress? ?
maker, CoL M., who has sprung into sud- j
den notoriety in that difficult trade. He is |
an impoverished baronet, who has for some j
years sarved as one of the equerries of the
queen: He is fi rd; condn to a duke and is j
invited out to dinner everywhere. Dross- j
making LS his special gift He designs them j
all him elf, takes tha measures, trie; th un j
on and fits tuarn, ani the la ly wh> tells me ?
of them declares that his w.?rk is "elegant." j
To have him maka one's dre-s is now tba j
sw-!l thing in L mdon. Rather oil. though; j
don't you think, for Lady H >ward co meet j
her dressmaker at dm:nr ani have him !
wbi-psr, " I raa*t chango that trimming a >
little. Tha effect is not exnetly what I |
hoped r_
The Mlsslns; Vol ame
[New York Rim.]
librarians tho country over have be3n i
seekin? t> discover v dunn 21 of Tue i
Christian ?b orver an.l Bow join college is
said to Lave been especially per i-tent in its I
sorrell for the :ni5: ing b>;t. After looking i
for it lor le i yjars it o.rcarrad to Librarian j
Poole ot Cai cago to o:cinv.u) hi-- set, when !
he made tuc di covary that there hal n-?var j
bren any v "durna 21, that v-dum ? 2J closed j
with December. iS?l; and' v..dum J 2-J bagan !
with January, 1322; the change- bein.; ra ide j
that the volume might correopjud with the !
ya ar of tho century. !
Tho Kiggest Cheese of ATI.
According to T.ie Toronto Mail, the big- !
gest cbecsa ev9r mada in tha world was
manufactured in Canada in 136S. lt weighed j
7,<)0'J pound?. Thirty-five tons of milk wer* j
nsed. Another cheero of Canadian make
weighel 4.003 pounds. This puts Canada ;
ahead of New York. j
A Financial Si'^n.
[Chicago HeraKt.]
With seats in the New York -tock ox j
chango selling for $34,000 it begins to looi^j
as though there was retur ting coufilanca"
that the nsxt run of suckers v/ouid be farg&
What Our Editors Say.
Greenville Kos.
Our esteemed cotemporary at Charles?
ton laments thus :
'The State Legislature, or the senate
at all events, is wonderfully unselfish.
It derived no earthly benefit from the
import duties collected at Charleston,
when the State had seceded, but it
cheerfully agreed to pay the surety of
the collector the amount recovered from
him by thc United States on account of
such duties. It warms itself daily, in
whole or in part, with Mr. Asher Pal?
mer's stoves, but refuses, point blank to
pay for them. There is no selfishness
there.'
Thc difference between Mr. Palmer*?
claim and Mr. Colcock's was that Mr. j
Palmer had no estimable gentlemen and
influential politicians to buttonhole leg?
islators in his behalf. Furthermore,
Mr. Palmers claim is a business matter
of the present ; Mr. Colcock's is a shad?
owy thing of the past, sanctified by thc
rust of years; the glamor of tradition
and so forth*. The majority of our sen
ate and house may ignore the now and
be very blind to the hereafter, but the
heretofore always com mauds their rev?
erence, their votes and any needed ap?
propriation. They live in and legislate
for bygone conditions and dead years.
Thc argument *wc ought to do it be?
cause it used to be done" invariably
prevails.
Columbia's Graded Schools.
Columbia Register.
We sincerely wish that thc members
of our Legislature could possibly spare
the time to go through our graded
schools and see with their own eyes
what they are doing for the education of
the people. And by the word people we
do not mean any one class, rich or poor,
high or low ; we mean al! classes. "The
children of all classes are found in our
graded schools, and the education re?
ceived is of. the very best and most ap?
proved methods, and we have occisi?n
to know personally beyond, all dispute
that they are highly efficient. NoJiiHter
schools exist to-day io any part of the
Union. Such is the testimony of Dr.
Corry, so long in charge of the Peabody
fund, and whose business it was to know
exactly what these schools were doing.
Such is the testimony of Dr. Mayo of
Boston, who bas visited every school in
the South and is familiar with the whole
scheme of j&opuiaj^fkieation over thc
whole Union,' as well as abroi^^
'ttilmington Star.
The Democratic House ought to take
up aod pass the Hoar Presidential Suc?
cession bill before it adjourns fora frolic
of two weeks on next Monday. The
House is responsible for the murdering
of the bill in the last Congress. The
country is in earnest in the matter of
having the succession fixed. -With s?cb
a fellow as John Sherman io the Chair
and the uncertain lease of life delay is
very perilous. If President Cleveland
should die before the Congress meets
5th January. ?886, Sherman would be
President. It is in the power of a Dem?
ocratic ?Iouse to prevent it.
The Register CfiSoe.
Newberry Observer.
Tt is quite a big concern-^much big?
ger than one would infer hom seeing
only the Register newspaper. The
office is devoted largely to job work,
State printing, book-binding, etc., and
its newspaper enterprise seems to us to
be subordinate to these in the estimation
of thc management. We think this is
a mistake. The Register ought to be a
bigger paper than it is. The paper ia
high-toned and reliable, but has not
much enterprise ; very little variety ;
is quite deficient in its news service ; is
too small; is thoroughly local in its
sentiment and poi icy-and is in com?
plete accord with the powers that be.
We feel sometimes, we would like to
take hold of the Register, or some other
daily newspaper of State circulation,
and shake things up. We would like
to show up the selfishness and the grasp?
ing policy of Charleston and Columbia ;
to belabor some of the pet schemes of
these cities thai seem.io ih'?nS they have
a lien on the State Treasury and look
to it for aid and support-for instance,
the canal, the college and the citadel ;
to stir op some of the .hobbies of the
administration, especially the educa?
tional hobby ; to advocate the cause of
the people as against the politicians who
spin out fine theories and pile on heavy
taxes; to insist bu more common sense
and less high flown sentiment in the
conduct of public affairs. There is suc?
cess awaiting ?ny man who, with capi?
tal enough, will make a vigorous, inde?
pendent newspaper at the capital, with
an eye to thc good of the whole State,
regardless of the wishes or sentiments of
Cot G m bi a, and free from ail partisan
alliances or political aspirations.
The Charleston Fair.
Columbia Record.
Thc Centennial Fair at Charleston,
which opened about one month ago,
closed on Saturday night. The fair, it
seems, was far from being a financial
success. In fact, if reports are correct,
thc receipts will fall short of the expen- j
ses. This is unfortunate abd certainly j
not thc fault of those who had it in j
charge. They left nothing utidone, j
spared, neither pains nor expense, to ?
make it attractive. The exhibits were j
numerous and varied, and consisted of j
specimens of almost everything of in- j
forest to the people of thc city aud ;
State An orchestrion was purchased ?
for ?3,500 to furnish music for thc fair. ?
The orchestrion is au instrument now j
much used in public parks and halls in |
the large cities of the North aiid West, j
I ti shape it resembles a large church j
organ, but when set in motion furnishes !
music equal to that of a brass band of i
sixteen or twenty pieces, imitating the
horus, flutes, trumpets, drums and cym- j
hals. It sectus tous that the orch.es- j
frion alone should have attracted largo \
crowds each day to witness its unique :
movements; anti hear it discourse music j
The art department of the fair. ?c.J
cording to accounts, was a 'thin? of ?
beauty' and contained many beautiful ;
and some queer and quaint, exhibits, in- .
eluding reiics of antiquity. Among '
fliese relics was a fragment of the cnn
that shot off the arm from the statue of
Pttt~-H*r-4J$0. .Those familiar with j
South C?rct?c? history will remember
that the Pitt statue occupied a,pw?tjon
at . tlie intersection of Broad and Meet?
ing streets in Charleston during th?
Revolution. A shot,fired fronaJStHe'rf
Battery on 'Tames' Wand, near a ?junij?
of trees called the 4??^^ld^eii;.lrit^es'.',
tonk' off one of the arms. "The Pitt
statue has been recentljr?.repbec?zim
Washington Park, not far fr oin. wb er?
it original! j stood. Man j. otberjreljcH
of the Revolution were also "exhjb?tec!.
The specimens of hanc?-work and Kief?
ing hy native artists were perhaps the
most beautiful over gathered together in
one place in the State. .
With these facts under coniiderat?oTi'
it is hard to a oder stand why* t?&K3&fc
te???al Fair of Charleston iras'not'*
grand financial "recess. It certainly
deserved to be a success fnancia^ljr,.
Perhaps this is the wrong season ot the
year in Charleston. Perhaps it fe^oiT
ed too close upon the State Fairfield fa1
this city, which was largely attended
by people from a?l portions of the. State.,
or perhnps tbere were too many other
places of amusement ic Char??sfon.
The fair committee should give it an?
other trial about February. ? [
Religiorr in the te&?si?ni?i
?n esteemed friend and bro?her?end*
us the statistics to show the religions
make up of the General Assembly jof
Sooth Carolina, which may . interest
some of ?t?r ; re?'ders. The Se?ale tl
composed of 35 members; who are clas?
sified as follows : Baptists, 10L? Jtfetb
odists, 9; Presbyterians, 5 ;, Episcopa?
lians, 4 ; Lutherans, 2-making a fo'tajt
of 31 cbureh members, wbrje4 are.flirt
connected with any ch arch". Of t frese
four, at least two of them are faver?felj;
inclined to the Baptists. The House of
Representatives is composed of 122
members, divided in religious senti?
ment as follows: Baptist?, 31 ; IV?etk
odists, 20; Presbyterians, 17 r Episco?
palians, t'? ; Associate Reformed Pret?
ty terians, 5 ; Roman Catholics,. 5,1$
Lutherans, 3-making a lotat. of 99
church members,"while S?^rr?^^noV^???
necte.4 with' any church. In the Senate
and House, there are 130 church mem*
bers, or more than four fifths of the
entire Legislature, which fact wilt doubt?
less make ? favorable comparison w?tH '
any other State. It is gratifying-that
so large a proportion of Our law-makers
are those who delight in the law of God
and the measure of their responsibility
is in accordance with their profession as
the fo?lowera_of^?m_Who isajle io
make them wise inItfT'itttuJp^lfapZ
Hst Courier. ? '?.>??'
Things Worth Knowing: .
Ile re are some flgdres ?nd rules
very handy to know and have at hand
in theiriind of .on paper: A rod ia
16 1-2 feet, or o 1-2 yards. A m ile ia
320 rods, , A mile is 1,760 yards.. AT
mile is 5,280" feet. ? square foot Ts
144 square inches. A squ?fe yard
contains 9 square feet. A sqrj?r? rod
is 272 14 square feet. An aer? con?
tains 43,560 square feet. Au acre
contains 4,840 square yards. " Art
acre, contains 160 square rods. *' A
section, or square mile, contains; 640
acres. A quarter-section contains
160 acres. An acre is S rods wide
by 20 rods long. An acre is IQ rods'
wide by 16. rods long. An acre is
about 208 34 feet square. A solid
foot contains 1,728 solid inches. ?
pint of water weighs one pound. ^ ?|
solid foot of water weiglis 62J.-2
pounds. ? gallon of water holds 231
solid inches. A gallon of " milk
weighs 8 pounds 10 ounces. Aljmit
of water holds 2*7-8. solid inches
(28.875.) A barrel (3112 plions)
holds 41-8 solid feet (4 211.). A
solid foot contains nearly 7 1-2 solid
pints [7.48.; A bushel (struck) con?
tains 2,150 solid inches. A bushel
(heaping) contains 1 14 struck ?r?st?
els. A struck bushel contains about
114 solid feet.
A Friend as Is a Friend.
Hostctter McGinn is is a man who
promptly takes up for his friends.. He
has got into innumerable fights by
championing the cause of men" vwitK
whom he was on friendly terms. Noth?
ing pleases him so much as a chance to.
fight for a friend. One day McGinn's'
friend Swipes, who is ari inebriate, ex?
perienced a feeling of remorse, and he
said to McGinnis :
Do you know, f?oslettcr, what I think
about myself?' ?
*1 have no idea,' replied McGinnis.
'When, I think that I am a mi.-era
bie drunken sot, who doos not deserr?
to live.'
4L;oo? here, Swipes,' said McGinnis,'
threateningly, 4I ain your friend, and
you must not talk that way about your?
self or I'll hold j?? personally responsi?
ble.'
After that Swipes always spoke of
himself in McGinnia' presence as a
perfect gentleman. - Texas Siftings.
?-??- I M??i -
Two Kinds of Giris.
There are two kinda of girls, sayri
thc llome Visitorz "One is the kind
that appears best abroad-(he girls
that are good for parlies, rides, visits,
balls, etc., and whose chief delight 'Xi
in such tilings. Thc other is the k?iuf
that appears best at home-the giris*
that are useful ami cheerful in the
diii??ig-rooni, sick-room, and all the
precincts of home. They diner wide?
ly in character. One is often ? tor?
ment at home, the other a blessing 1
one is a moth', co'nsi?nY?i?g everything
about her; the oilier is a sunbeam;
inspiring light and gladness all around
her pathway. Tn which of those
ciasses do you belong ?"
1 Titer -Oe en ii : The New York edi?
tors are a good deal like the,Beaver
family up in the mountains of Penn>yl
vaoia The gmd o!J pastor of the"
province had long Inbored with the old
man Beaver and his boys but they con?
tinued in thV'ir wicked way?. Finally
? rattlesnake bit ?Tim. and the o?d pas*
tor v?as sent for in "ha.? te to help bini
over thc border, in his prayer h?i said:*
4 O Lord, we t'na'.nk theo for rattle?
snakes; s<md one in' la e lill,* one tn
bite Pete ami DVn*. and an 'awful nig
one to bite tile o\d man", for no*.!i:n> but*
rattlesnake* w'?ll' ?ouvert the BeaVcf
f.?miSy; y