Lancaster Examiner and Herald

              ^
jcftttttttctr
ttdh
VOL XLIII.
LANCASTER, PA., WEDNESDAY, MAY 26, 1869.
NO. 28
KXAlgPfEB &  HgBAUP.
PtTBLISHED EVEEY WEDNESDAT. At no. 4 Sorth qneBii street, laneaiter, fa
TEKMS-8a.OO A YEAB IS APTAHCE.
JNO. A. HIESTAND   * E. M   KLINE,
Edllors and Proprtelora.
THE OID FOLKS' EOOH.
Thc old man sat by the chimney side.
His face was wrinkled nnd wan: And he leaned both bauds on his stoul oak cane.
As If nil his work wns done.
His coat was ofgood old fashioned grey,
Thc pocketa were deep and wide, Where his "specs" nnd his sleel tobacco bo.^
Lio snugly side by side. The old man liked to stir the Jlro,
So nenr lilm the Uuigs wero Kept; Sometimes he mused ius he gtutctt ul the coab..
Sometimes lie .sat und slept.
¦\Vllnt snw he lu llic embers there ?
Ah! niclures of oilier years; And now anil Uieu lliey walleucd sinlle.-l,
But as oflcn slnrlcd tears.
Tlis good wife sal oil tlio side.
Jun high-bnckcd ting sent chair; I seo 'nealh llie pile of her mtisliu cap
The shecu of her silvery bnir.
There's a liappy look on her nged face,
Asshe busily knlls for him. And Keille tulces up lho stitches dropped,
Kor gmndmolber's eyes nre Uim.
Their children come nud read tho new.^,
To piuss the lime each dav; Hiiw it stirs the blood In the old man's heart
To hear of the world away!
'Tis a homely scene—I told yon so.
But pleasant It is lo view. At least I thought it su niyseif,
And sketched It down for you.
lie kind unto the old, my friend
Tiicy're worn with this world's strif.*, Thougli bravely onee perchance they fought
The stern, llerce battle of life. Tliey taught our youthful feet to climb
Upward life's rugged sleep; Then let us gently lend Ihcm down
To where ibe weary sleep.
OUT WEST.
" Ruined!" exclaimeil Mr. Bael, and he clasped hia gray hair in his hanils and dropped it ou the dining table, with a motion of despairing helpless¬ ness.
Sirs. Buel aroso and left tho room. She waa not strong enough to oiler con- soLatiou to her bowed aud stricken hus¬ band.
I'^llen got up, too, in soro distress, aud went over to the table, and touched her father's arm with her alight, girlish lingers, on one of which sparkled a dia¬ mond ring.
" Ilon't grieve so, dear father. It can¬ not be ipiito as bad as you think."
" It is a Ihousaud times worse, child, than you imagine. Kvery cent of my property has been sunk iu oil specula¬ tions. A mouth ago I thought myself a rich man, but to-day I am a beggar. Do vou kuow what that means'?"
"I ouly know how you suffer, dear father," said Ellen, tearfully, getting down ou her knees beside him; " and I pity you from the bottom of my lieart."
" Pity yourself and your poor moth¬ er."
"I must think of you now, because you feel this blow more keenly than we can. Is there uothiug to hope for in the future'.'"
"Whatcan I hope for?" repeated Jlr. Uuel, almost querulously. " As au honorable man I must abandon every ceut I am worth to my creditors. Kothiug remaius but your Uncle La- throp's offer of a Western agency. He has a farm out in Egypt which he would allow us to occupy rent free as long as we cared to stay there. It is a desolate, out-of-the-way place, ten miles or more from auy towu or rail¬ way station.
1 haven't the heart to propose such a change to your poor mother. Her nerves are terribly shattered already." " It would be a thousand times better to go out there and live independently," .said Ellen, caiching at the plan, " than to starve genteelly here iu New York, or to live on any of our relations. The boys are growing up, nnd a few years of genuine country life will not injure them. l''ortuuately I have just finished sehool, aud am blessed with excellent Iiealth. Mother is the only one to be considered, and I think I can win her over to the plan."
"You little know, child, wliat you are consenting to," said Sir. Buel, in a softened toue, as he touched Ellen's forehead, pityingly. " You will be cut oil" from every social advantage, and doomed to liard work aud all manner of privations."
" I would gladly work for you, fath¬ er," cried Ellen, impulsively. "You have screened and sheltered me ever since I was born, and studied in every way to make me happy. It is high time that I begin to pay you back ; so let us think about going "West, as soon as we can sell the house and wind up matters here."
" You are a good girl, Ellen, and I lean on you, in tliis hour of trouble, more than anybody else. Perhaps I never should have fouud out what a brave, strong heart you carry in your bosom, if we had lived on, prosperous and happy."
Ellen ISuoI had lieretofore scarcely shown herself dillerent from other New York girls of Iter class. Uom and brought up in the city, with luxurious surroundiugs, and no care for the mor¬ row, her girlish tastes had bloomed in a kindly air. There were a thousand plcisures, a thousand agreeable excite¬ ments at hand. Each season brought the dressmaker and an inundation of new goods, and EUeu waa measured and fitted for beciiming and pretty dresses, of which she felt no scorn. For each summer vacation a trip was plan¬ ned to Cape May, Saratoga, or the White Mountains. I^ife waslike afalry liook. She w.-is fond of sehool, and came forth with a bran-new parchment of the .sciences aud of oue or two mod¬ ern languages, but no available knowl¬ edge of auy branch of learning. Ellen had never bothered her head about great aims and aspirations. She ex¬ pected to appear iii society like other girls, aud by aud by lo marry, and set¬ tle down ina home ofher own.
Such was Ellen Buel when ruin over¬ whelmed her father. Beiug the eldest of the family, she had always lived like a boarder at home—not even dusting herown pretty room, with its pictures and nick-nacks. Three of them were away at boarding school, and the youngest, a curly-pated darling, was scarcely out of frocks.
Eor the first time now Ellen took her natural place iu the family, and decided, with a promptness aud energy no one had dreamed of her possessiug, that the removal out West should be acconiplished as speedily as possible. Mrs. Buel's nerves would not allow her to think oract. Sbe retired to ber bed, had the room darkened, and every breath of fresh air rigorously excluded. Mr. Buel was stunned by the blow, and Ellen was obliged to be head and hands for everybody. Before the day of the auction sale came round she had dis¬ posed of her watch and diamond ring, both of them birthday presents, and a friend bid in for her a. few of the arti¬ cles her mother most heartily prized.
It was a cold, drizzly eveuing, late in the fall, when the Buel family assem¬ bled at the cars in Jersey City, prepared to take tlieir flight inlo Egpyt. Mra. Buel .sat in the sleeping-car, with her hanilkerchief pres.sed td her eyes, sur¬ rounded by a few condoling friends. The healthy animal spirits of the boys made a little breeze through the place, while they stowed away their bags and hnndles. I.ife in the Western wilds, as' they pictured it, did not seem so dread¬ ful ufter all. Fred, the eldest, strapjied up his gun-c-vse, containing a capital nlle, which his uncle Lathrop had given Inm, wilh visions of wild-turkey shoot¬ ing and bufiUlo hunts.
Ellen h'ad hung her hat up on ahook uud made herself at home. .She was talking to Charley Jlorton ; and duriug the laiit minute or two had grown <iuitt confidential, and bad acknowled.'ed that the figure looked very iliamar to her yonng eyes. She hardly kuew whv Charley Morton had appeared at the cars that wet evening to say good-bye • for, although they had skated and dan¬ ced together a score of times during the past wiuter, nothing like intimacy had sprung up between them. Charley Morton certainly had an idea or two in his head; uud EUeu thought him the most sensible, manly young fellow she knew, although he was rather savage on modern girls, and without mercy aimed his sarcasms at the frivolous, half-d ressed creatures who float through New York society.
" I thiuk you are acling very brave¬ ly," Charley remarked with a little flush.
" O, you would not say so," replied Ellen, looking up at him with her frank eyes, "if you knew how much this exile coata me, and what hard work it is to keepcheerful."
"The more a thing costs the more precious it is," returned Charley, put¬ ting up his hand to cough.   Then he
added, abruptly, changing the sub¬ ject: "I am going to take a run out West myaelf Sne of these days, and I shall surely look you up.' „ ,    ,
" Beware of Bn-yptian darkness." And EUenTaughed; with something of tho old pleasant riug to her voice.
" rahill have a bright particular star to guide mo on my way," responded Charley; and he bent hia tall peraon down towards Ellen, and whiapored aome earnest words, whieh brought a bright flush into bcr cheek, while a little bouquet of Le Mark rosebuds and heliotrope fell upon lier lap. After¬ ward Charley pulled out his uote book, and wrote down a post-office address with special care; aud then there was a warm hand-shaking- all round, until the last screech of the ateam whistle gave him notice to depart.
Some weeks later wo see Ellen estab¬ lished in her new abode—a staring, boardy, unpainted pino tenemeut, dropped by accident, as it seemed, on the brown waste of the ]irairie. Noth¬ iug more desolate can well be imagined. The frost was late in closing in thia year. Thero.ids wero still deep with mire. Everything was contaminated with black mud. Taken from the heart ofthe great city, teeming with life, the Buels were stranded on the treeless, flat prairie, with its monotonous horizon, and here and there a eorn stack or au Irish cabin visible from the windows.
As soon as the moving from the dis¬ tant railw.ay station was partially over. Ml'. Buel departed on a collecting tour for the New York mercantile firm wliich had employed him. He left Ellen what little money he could spare, theu he clasped her close in his anus.
" Bo a good gill, Ellen, and comfort your mother. I might better have dieil long ago than liave lived to lay this burden on your youug shoulders."
" How can vou say such dreadful words, father, when it is only mouey that we have lost? There are better things in this world than money, though I don't desjiise it. Mother will come up, I am sure, as soon as we get put to rights; and, for my part, I am of so mueh importance to everybody just now, I could not be unhappy ifl should try."
Tho parting over, Ellen sat down .ind cried; and then she washed the red from her eyes, and went iuto her mother's roora. It was the best the ill-contrived, frail dwelling afforded; and she had fitted it up with the few comfortable and luxurious articles brought from tlieir old city home. Mrs. Buel lay in a semi-twilight, utterly prostrated and with her eyes closed.
" Cheer up, mother," said Ellen, tak¬ ing her while, listless hand and fond¬ ling it. "Mrs. O'Roouey, our next neighbor, has beeu in this morning, with offers of assistance. She has prom¬ ised to show me lioW to boil a potato and to make corn bread. Her skill doesn't go much beyond that point, I imagine ; but Miss Beecher's cookery- book will prove my good fairy, and be¬ fore long you shall have something to tempt your poor appetite."
" It is dreadful," moaned Mrs. Buel, " to think of your doing the work of a servant."
" Oh, no! it isn't a bit dreadful!" rc- spondedEllen, with vivacity. "Every day I am learning something new, aud I quite enjoy it. I have found out what a splendid thing it is to be useful. Any kind of work cau be made pleasant if we go about it in the right spirit. The boys are very hopeful, and 1 see how I am going to gain great influence over them. Arthur has promised to wipe the dishes every day, and I, in turn, liave agreed to practice singing with him. So you see we shall forget it is drudgery, and turn it into a kind of ju¬ bilee."
" What asingular girl you are, Ellen. You don't appear to have the least con¬ sideration for your hands. Tliey will soon be red and coarse."
"I wouldn't mind if they grew as rough as nutmeg graters," said Ellen, cheerfully, " if tliey are only able to weave a spell that sliall bring back the smiles to your face."
Mrs. Buel dosed her eyes with an in¬ jured air; and the brave young girl tripped away to attend to the duties of the kitchen. Her pretty, fashionably raade dresses had never been unpacked. Her dainty gloves, hats and laces were lying buried in the depths of a Saratoga trunk. Ellen adopted the custom of the country, and wont about in a cal¬ ico dress, a blanket shawl, and woolen hood.
The older hoys were out of doors raost ofthe time, attending to a small drove of cattle that roaraed at large over the barnlcss prairie. The house wius so badly contrived for work or comfort the poor girl was sorely put to it to know how to exist at all. Tho rooms were destitute of cupboards or cloaeta; great cracks ventilated tho side walls, and let in dangerous draughts and currents of air; the roof leaked, the chimney smoked, sulked, or utterly refused to draw.
Mrs. O'Eooney, iu spite of her proud position as an "independent Hoosier's wife, did condescend occasionally to do a day's washing- for the Buels; not so much for Ellen's pay as for her pleas¬ ant, friendly ways, and because she had olfered to teach her schock-headed boy to read.
Mail day, which came semi-occasion- ally, with its shower of letters aud pe¬ riodicals from the great world, always caused imineus-cxciteinentat the lone¬ ly Egyptian farm-house Now and then arrived a mi.ssive whieii Ellen read alone by herself, and then laid away with a bunch of dried flowers. It was noticeable fora whole<lay there¬ after that her feet tripped about as if keeping time to some delicious measure beating in her heart.
Later in the year the terrible prairie winds brought storms und whirling drifts of snow. Oue morning Ellen woke with little spikeleU of ice formed by her breath upon her pillow, und heard the poor, unhoused cattle moan¬ ing about the door. At this Ume she wrote as follows to a friend in New York :
" We have liad the Egyptian plague of mud, aud now we are sutt'oring from the bitter cold. As I look at the vast, wliite, heaving aea that surrounds us, I sometimes fancy myself in the polar re¬ gions, with Dr. Kane. The walls of our frail castle are draped with the odd¬ est kind of tapestry—woolen bed-blan¬ kets, hung up to stop the wind fromthe cracks. Tho boys and I take turns keepiug the fire goiug all night, else I fear we should turn into statues before moruing. Instead of promenading on Broadway, or taking an airing in the Park, I wrap my head and shoulders in a shawl, bury my person in one of fath¬ er's old coats and a pair of men's boots, and go with the boys to break the ice in the brook (or ' branch,' according to Hoosier dialect) for the poor cattle to drink. Then, together, we give them their breakfast on corn-fodder.
" The only music I practice this win¬ ter IS the music of pots and pans. I now consider myself a good plain cook, a la Herald. Atnight we gather about the lamp, and I help Fred with his al¬ gebra, and teaeh Mark aud Arthur the rudiments of French. I am oflen ter¬ ribly weary, but I remember what the Bible says about 'young ravens that perish for lack of meat.'
"My old, pleasant life with you at home begins to seem likea dream. I cau tell you, who know all my weak points, how terribly blue I get some¬ times. I try to bottle up my rebellious feelings for poor mother's sake; but, if tliose who jiraise me, as you say jieople do, for being brave, could only see the wroug side of my heroism, their adini- ration would speedily evaporate.
'•Tell me all about the fashions when you write. What are peplums and chig¬ nons ?"
Almost two years had sped away aince that wet, dismal eveuing when Ellen took le.ave of her city home. She was atill the good angel of the Egyptian farm-house; for Mra. Buel continued feeble and spiritless, and the burdensof life rested upon hershouldera. Ifany¬ thlng, Ellen was gentler, kinder, and perhaps a little more quiet thau of old. Tbe prospects of tbe Buel family were brightening. The father had seimred a good situation for Fred in Cincinnati, aud the way seemed opening for the re- "".'¦¦p-'of the entire family to that pleas¬ ant Western eity in less than a year. Ellen ought to have been glad, but somehow her heart waa ill at ease. The little pile of letters beside the withered nosegay in her pretty satin-wood box had not increased for three months past.
One evening, just at dusk, in tiie ha¬ zy Indian summer weather, when the larger boys were off shooting prairie chickens, Ellen sat milking her favor¬ ite cow, Brindle Bess, behind the corn stack. A great yellow moon was be¬ ginning to gain a little power over the wide plain. 1    "Here, Arthur," said ahe, hearing a
step near her, "take this pail to the house."
A hand was stretched forth; hut it was not Arthur's baud, ami the smiling bearded face of Charley Morton was re¬ vealed to her gaze.
"Oh! Charley," she cried, a iittle thrown off her guard, " how glail I am you have corae at last."
I will not aay positively, but I am afraid Charley coiumitted the impro¬ priety of putting llis arms around Ellen and printing a kiss on herlips. Atany rate, when the young man returned to New York she had promised to be his wife ; and he has thought more gently and kindly of womeu—even of the friv¬ olous .and aimless crowd—ever since.
FfiEDEEIC'S WIEE.
Eliza Orange stood at the long meat bin ill the jiantry, with a pie on onc hand and a knife in tlie other. She was bending a lillle, her whole miud apparently filled with the work of trim¬ ming the dough from the edge oftlie pie. But really she waa working by the barest kind of meehauicaliustiiict, .nnd it might !is well have been a cabbage as a pie she was paring so dexterously, for all the thought ahe waa giviug the work.
The sun shone Ihrough the hop vines at thc little wooden barred win¬ dow, nickering on her hair and makiug a gleam of light aud shadow on the wall before her. The white day-lilies in the bit of garden bed by the door, sent in a bieath of fragrance, and a merry cricket piped to his fellows under tlie hearth¬ stone.
Tlie day and place made a quiet pic¬ ture of clieerful peace, if only it had beeu filled by a heart at rest. But to Eliza Orange the sky above and the September landscape it shone upon were covered with a thin veil of green. To her tho sun was clouded and the sweet flowers were scented with the odor of decay. Even the homely sights of home about her—the egg-beater, the skimmer, the flour-scoop hanging on tlieir nails, filled her with loathing and despair.
" I cannot bear it! I cannot bear it! I shall die. Oh, no, I shan't die. I cau't die; and I must endure wlmt I cannot bear," she moaned, deep iu her Iieart.
There w.as a distant whirling whir of her mother's spinning-wheel, far away in tlie garret, the water dripped with a ceaseless flow iu the tub under theshed, the hemlockstickaiu the atove crackled and sputtered in disgust at their fate, and somewhere somebody called out to oxeu tliat dragged a creaking cart.
By and by a door opened and ahut, and thero waa a sound of footsteps com¬ ing across the uucarpeted floor.
Eliza turued, with a sudden impulse to shut the door upou herself and her misery; and then came a quick feeling of thanlcfulKesa for anytliing and any¬ body that might help her to escape for a while from her thoughts.
At the same time a girl's voice called,
" Zay, where are you ?"
" Hero."
" Where are you at?"
"Here in the pantry," replied Eliza, turning a little to put a .spice-box upou a shelf, that she might hide the marks of tears on her face.
A young girl in a wood-colored cali¬ co dress and a pink sun-bonnet eame in and seated herself on a higii sugar-tub.
" Oh, Milly, is it you'! 1 ara glad you have corae. Take an apjile, will you ? There are some real nice Porters on the shelf behind you," said Zay, in aquick, animated voice, still keeping licr back towards the new comer.
iNIilly took an apple and began eating it, not speaking at Iirst, but looking with great searching eyes at the droop¬ ing figure before her.
If Milly Bergen had not been born in the quietest, most stagnant apot in the Avorld, aud a woman besides, she would inevitably have become a detective of¬ ficer; fbr not so much tia a mouse could scamper behind the wainscot butshe knew by ready intuition what it was scampering after.
Ami now she said, directly.
"Whatis it, Z.'iy? -'Vnythingaboul Frederic?   Tell me"
Zay replieil by the downfall ofa tear upon the pie she still held, and a suil¬ den shaking of her whole fraine that she quieted as suddenly, .ind, with an evident ellbrt to steady her voice, she replied:
" Frederic .iiid I are through, Milly."
" What do you mean?" gasped Miily, throwing down her applo and stretch¬ ing open her eyes still wider. * "Itis true," rejilied Eliza, in calm despair. " I shall never seo him again. Ifhe were going by the wiudowlahould not look out, aud he would not look in. W'e are nothing to eaeh other any more."
"Zay Orange, I don't believe it! Tell meall aboutit, quick," cried out Milly, ill ready syrajialhy.
" It was ouly last night," replied Zay, mournfully, "but it seems a year—il seems a lifetime. Frederic came in as he always does from Dorset. He had not been home for more than a iiiouth, and I hadn't soen him in all that time. It.seenied like a great while; but, Milly, it was not like always. Now I am go¬ ing to see him never again!" sobbed Jioor Zay, breaking down for a moment.
Then, swallowing very hard, she went ou again :
" He seemed natural enough—just as he always did; till, finally, belay down on the sofa and put hia head into my lap, and then he said he didn't know liow I looked at our acquaintance, and he thought we ought to have an under¬ standing. And so I said I had ever thought of friendship for him. Wc had been sehoolniates and I should always prize him as a friend—almost like a brother. You know, Milly, I could not have him think Iwas dying for him; aud if ho luul not looked upon us an lovers I would not have him supjiose I had. You know I am very proud," suid Eliza, with agleam of consolation. " You are very much of a fool, that is what you are!" retorted Milly, jiieking up her apple and biting it ferociously. "I never heird of ayouiigmanjiuttiug his head on a girl's lap for the purpose of telling her he didn't love her," she conlinued, looking as experienced as Queeii Elizabeth.
" He said he didn't kuow how I had understood our acquaintance, and of course I would not have him think I understood more than he meant. I talked a long time, and I don't.think I ever talked better in my life. I quoted from Emerson aud from Tupper, aud I talked as easy ns jiossible, and could think of everything to say just as I wanted to say it, but I felt as though my heart was breaking. Afterwards I brought that new chene dress of mine to show him. just as I have always showed liiin my thing, so he needn't notice anything dill'ereut; nnd he look¬ ed at it and then he looked up so re- proachfnlly and with so much meaning and said, "changeable!" and nothing more. Oh, Milly, I loved him. His hair, his liatiil, and everything, and I sball never, never see him agaiu. Nev er, Iiever!"
At this miserable thought Eliza sauk ou a basket of apples all in a bunch and began to cry, while her friend looked on aud pitied her. I'resenlly Jlilly spoke. " Don't feel so, Zay! I have a pre¬ sentiment that you will see Fred again. Aud I am perfeelly sure it is a true preseiitiment. Fred loves you, 1 know that, for I have seen you together too much to doubt it, aud if he loves you of course he is not going to let this be tho last. You know, Zay, I have seen a good deal of such things at one time and another. There was Sarah Liscoin aud Maud Vershire—I know all ojbout their love afiiiirs; and both my mkrried sis¬ ters raade a confidante of me. And I know men do not give up a girl so easy ifthey reilly love her," she continued, shaking her wise bead.
"But I do nut think yon did right. You know what wo have said so many times:
1)0 to thy own self true.
And it ilolh follow as the nlghl lo day
Thou canst uot then be false lo any man.
And, Zay, you were not true to your self, and of course you were false to Frederic."
" Your friend Zay is very proud," re¬ peated Eliza, hopelessly. " And, Milly, I was not going to ailmit I had thought ftirtber than he had."
" Elizay! Eli-zay! It is lime to hang on the pot aud put in the jiork," calleil down Mrs. Oraugo from the stairway. " Ifyou will start the dinner I needn't come down till I get my skein off, do you hear."
"Yes, ma'am," called back Eliza. "Dinner pots, pies, and stocking yarn! That is all I have to look forward to in life," she.added.
And so it seemed to prove. Days and weeka and even months weut on, and Milly's -cheerful prophecies were not fulfilled.
One day Jlilly Bergen's half aunt Betsey, from Dorset, who wasa talking old woman and took anull", came over to pay a visit to her half brother's fam¬ ily. While she was there Eliza Orange came in, and presently iMilly said of a sudden:
" Do you know Frederic Cheshunt, AuntBetaey? He is a book-keeper in the cutlery establiahraen tat Dorset, and boards at Mias Halaey'a or uaed to."
Eliza stooped over to stroke a seven toed kitten lying asleep on thehearth, stopping her breath to listen for the reply.
But Aunt Betsey was never in haste to begin tsilking, or to leave off .after she had begun. She shook up her chair cushiona, counted the stitches on her seam needle, took a jiiiich of snuil', and then said, deliberately:
"Frederic Cheshunt? Yes I know him. Why you see—Jliss Halsey lives the very house but one to me, aud we are great kiiit-ups, ami are out aud iu together like own folks, her and rae. So I alwavs know who she has for board¬ ers, and Oheshunt isone of her oldest boai'dei-s, quite a stand by, and I know hiiu as well as I do this young lady here. I don't know anything against him neither, nor nobody else. He is just as nice a. young roau as there is in the town of Dorset, now that is so. Ami he is paying attention now to a girl over there at Dorset."
" Who is she. Aunt Betsey, wli.it is her name," exclaimed Milly.
"A Dudgeon giri, and I and Miss Halsey are not over pleased with the match."
" Why, Aunt Betsey."
"Because she isn't more than half good enough for hira."
" I thought ahe belonged to a respect¬ able family."
" Well, slie ia a likely girl; and bo- longs lo a respectable family and all that. But I consider her a piece of lazy furniter, and so does Miss Halsey."
Eliza had lifted her face from tho kit¬ ten, and was listening, white and eager, greedy to lose nothing, not even the pain every word brought her.
" But do you think theywill marry," asked Milly moving her chair to bring it before Eliza's excited face.
" I understand he has taken her liomo to see his folks, and see how they like her."
" Oh, did you know weare expecting Augusta and the baby in a few days," she addeil, aa though with a audden change of thought.
It made uo dittereuce to Aunt Betsey wliat the subject—she was at liome on any; and taking a pinch of snutf she chatted away just as readily ou the next theme put iu lier way with such adroit carelessness.
When Eliza weut horae'soon after, Milly ivent to the gate, and finally aloug the road as far as the third raajile tree.
" I tliought you were my friend, Milly," aaid she bitterly. " But you knew how I longed to hear whatever else your Auut Betsey could tell."
"SoIamyourfriend,yourtrue friend; but you looked as though there was a dagger sticking in your heart, and I was not going to let her go back to Dorset with auy story about you to tell Miss Halsey. Besides, she had told all she knew, and some she guessed, al¬ ready. Don't cry, Zay. I have a pre¬ sentiment it will corae out right yet."
" Right" meant to these young giris the way most desirable, in tlieir finite eyes, they see such a little way into life ami the great beyond.
So Milly went back to the gossiping aunt, and Eliza went forwanl to take up the burden ofa life from which the suu was darkened, and the moon with¬ held her light.   But
"Thed.arkcsldny, I-lvc till to-morrow, will Have passed .iwny."
And already the word had been spoken that sliould turn the color of her face.
Auut Betsey was right about a great many things; and at the very moment she was taking a jiincli of snufi; and unconsciously thrusting poisoned ar¬ rows into theheartof Eliza Orange, Ihe same subject was being dLscussed by Freileric Cheshunt's father and mother in the clem, airy Ijitchen of their farm¬ house.
"Did you giveFredericahintof how you felt, mother?" asked Mr. Cheshunt, anxiously. " Not aword for nnragaiuat. I wouldn't. I treated the girl juat as well as I knew how Ihough I never could staml it with the Dudgeon blood. I alwaya did feel aa though I wasapor- cupine with my quills out whenever I saw one of the family, even as long ago as when they and we were yoiiiig to¬ gether, though 1 doii'tknow any reason why replied Mrs. Cheshunt, stopping a moment to meditate upon tlie raulii- pliysical siile of the question. Well, so it is," she resumed eheerfuUy, after an unavailing pause; "some folks can't bear cheese, and I never took to the Dudgeons. But, nevertheless, I shall try to treat Freddy's wife like a daugh¬ ter, wlioever she may be; so I showed hor my cheeses, and took her out tosee the gai'ilen and the pig, and never breathed a lireath for nor against to Freddy. Only as she was off putting ou her thinga in the real Dudgeon way, dawdling and dowdy, I just said to Freddy, aort of aside, said I, " Next lime you come, bring Eliza." And he never said a word, and I never said a word.   I wouldn't for anything."
All, kind-hearted Mother Cheshunt! Unconscious Influence ia sometimes mightiest; and a word spoken iu due season how good is it!
"Frederic didn't tell you, I.sujijiose," asked Mr. Cheshunt, " anything about what made tlie trouble betwixt him and Eliza Orange? Or w.isn't there ever anything to it only our surmisings, after ;dl?"
" Well, I don't know," rejilied Mrs. Cheshunt all the more cheerfully to balanco the gloom of her husband, " I guess they liked each other, uo mistake about that; but they are both prelty proud and pretty atufly, and I mistrust somethiug has gone wrong that thev won't either one of theni come back of. But, then, nobody can tell thebetwixts and betweens ofa coujile of young folks, aud tbemselvea aa little as anybody. Young folks don't know more than a couple of rabbits what they waut and what they ought to want, and they are just as apt to stumble on the wrong thing :i3 the right thing," pursued Mrs. Cheshunt, wilh the wisdom of experi¬ ence aud of long observation slirri ng i n her brain. " Why, I can't positively say there was any certain engagement, or the like of that, but I supposed it was an nnderstood thing. Well, I don't know, father, it will come out right, one way or theother, and talking won't feed the pig, or jiick the jieaafor break¬ fast to-morrow morning."
So saying. Mother Cheshunt put on her aunbounet and weut briakly out, with a pail of milk iu one hand and an empty basket iu thu other. It was not her lieart that w.m on the anvil, aud ao ahe could comfort heraelf for her disaji- poiuleil exjiectationaby the homely du¬ ties of her homely life.
JMcaulime, at the same moment, I'^red- eriek Cheshunt, alone in his counting- room, triiUed his foot aud thought.
Since that one black day, so long passed now, he htid been in a whirl of wounded self-love, suspicion and des¬ pair. Uns'atislied and restless, he had been tossed from one mood lo another, sure of nothing but of rejieuting what¬ ever he did in oue stage of feeling as soon ;is he had pttssed into the next.
Ah, if he eould be wise enough to wait till the tide of jiassion had gone down, and he finds which is shifting sandaud which is solid rock! Butyouth is so wise, and ila wisdom is .itleh fool¬ ishness!
At last, jusl when Molher Cheshunt went out with her pig's jiail, and Eliza Orange parted from her friend Milly, under the maple tree, and walked along the quiet eouutry road with wetohceks and a sunbeatiug weight tit her heart, Frederic Cheshunt juinped up, threw on his hat, aud went out with his hamla in his jiockets, like a man re- .solved.
The next day he went out again at thesanie time-juat afler the closo of olHce hours—and the next day, and the next. Then the look of dogged deter- inination that had beeu clouding his face cleared away like a fog before sun¬ shine, and he got to whistling at his work and buying new neckties.
" Do you know. Aunt Betsey," said his landlady, JHias Halsey, " that I am confident young Cheshunt is really in love thia tune?"
Miss Hal.sey wasaapruce litlie spin¬ ster, with as many wrinkles as a loaf of bread just ready to go iuto the oven, and beard euough to quitesetupayouth ofmoderateambiliou. Shewasasgreat a snuff-laker, and as great a talker as Aunt Belsey herself; aud she trotted in, puckered and spry, ujion thia morn¬ ing, with her snuff-box uud her tongue, to talk over things.
" There is one certain aure sign. Aunt Betsey; dou't you know it?   Writing
po'try. Dr. Watts wrote beautiful poe¬ try, and he couldn't have done it if he hadn't been in love. It was a Miss Rowe, I've got a book, and it tells all about it, said she, solemnly, and with a dive inlo her deep pocket for lier suutt- bo-x, corresponding with the impres- siveness of her toue. " Love is very inspiring, aud they are apt to write it when they are in love.- I saw it when I went to neat up Cheshunt's room this morning. Po'try, sure, enough, capi¬ tals and all; thero it lay on his table, wrote out in a scholarly hand, with beautiful flourishes, and hia name ou the end in full, handsome as jiriiit. So I sujipose I have as good as lost a boarder, and a first-rate one.
Miss Halsey, snufled, and nodded, and winked, and sighed, and snuffed ; divided between regret at her own loss and maidenly delight over a love story.
The same day Father Cheshunt, after followiug up stairs aud down stairs, in my lady's chamber, found my lady at the pen of Iier pet pig, with a pail of water and sliingle washing hia  face.
" Well, mother, I have got news for you," said he, throwing out liia words all in a heap. " Got aletter from Fred¬ eric, and he says he is coming horae to spend the week end wilh hia wife. Wbat do you think of tli.it?"
"You don't!" ejaculated Mother Cheshunt, dropping her shingle just when the pig had laid his head in the most convenient position, shutting his eyes and putting back his ears in luxu- rioua satisfaction. A new shingle too, nicely smoothed and sharpened.
" Yes I do," allirnied Father Ches¬ hunt, doubtfully. " That is wh.it Fred¬ erick says—his wife. What do you suppose he has gotfor a wife, mother?"
"Well, the Dudgeon girl, raost liko¬ ly," returned Jlother Cheshunt, with a weak attempt at cheerfulness. "But whcever ahe may be, father, she will be Freddy's wife, and we must treat her like a daughter."
Then she went in and jiutsome yeast rising for an electiou cako that should be fuller of raisins thau of flour; and frosted like iMoiint Wasliington iu win¬ ter.
" Week-end" came, and just at coun¬ try tea time a covered buggy drove up to the farm Iiouse with a floating of stone brown drapery ribbon ends, and the light folds of a veil, showing at tlic side.
Molher Cheshunt sighed, swallowed, smiled, and came to tho open door with wide-open arms, ready to take Freddy's wife, whoever she may be, closo to her warm heart.
" Here we are, mother. Here ara I and here is my wife," said Freddy, joy¬ fully, as a bridegroom should, jumping from the carriage, and holding his hand to his mother.
Then he turned back Avilh a tenderer touch to take out his wife. There was a flutter, a soft ruflle, aud a little spring, and then throwing luside her veil, there stood Eliza Orange, smiling and blush¬ iug like a whole garden of roses.
"You dearcreeter!" exclaimed Moth¬ er Cheshunt, catching hold of lier and beginning to cry.
" I was tryiug lo bring my mind to that Dudgeon girl, Freddy, and Eliza's face was such a blessed surprise," said she, following him lo the barn, pres¬ ently.
She spoke with an air of apology, but with such eviilent relief that Freilily laughed the light-hearted laugh of a happy man to whom every tliiiigisoile drop more in a cup of joy.
" It might have been "that Dudgeon girl, mother, only for you," he replied.
"Me,Freddy! I didii'tsayasyllable I wouldn't. I never believed i'n med¬ dling in such mailers," she replied, in¬ dignantly.
" Oh niolher! You said, 'Bring Eliza noxtlinic,'you know, you did;! And .so, just to plea.se you, I have brought her," returned Frederic,gayly; "and, niiilli- er," .said lie, coining closer, and siieak¬ ing lower, " ]';iiza and I are very I liank- ful to you for lieljiing us over a fool's briilge we should never have crosaed alone.
The mother smiled npon her son as they went back to the liouse to the glad-faced briile, while al the self-same nionient Miss lltdsey, in .-i^unt Betsey's cheerful kitchen, tried lo console her¬ self for the loss of her best boarder. " I tohl you so," cliiickleil she " I knew it was a balliit of verses the first minute I saw the cajiitals, and I knew what lhat nieaiit. I,ove is ver.v inspiring, and tliey most generally write jio'tryat such times."
MIGHT AND EIGHT.
Nearly every country village ha.s ila bravo. We tlo mean an "assassin," nor " a man who murders for hire, as Worcester expUuns the word; but we mean the king of the village tavern— thc man who ctm" whip anybody iu town"—thc great animal who thinks his position enviable, and who is envi¬ ed by men of puny bodiea and little brains.
Our village had ila bravo, at all eveuls, and a jierfect type of his class ho waa, too, :i great lover of the 'ardent' and ever ready lo lift his hoarse voice, and exert his rude strength, in ojijiosi- tiou to all good.
His name was .Tiinathan Burke, though I never heard liiiii ealleti .Toua- thaii but once, and that wtis before a justice's court. Jack Burke was his " name the world over," as he often saiil. He was a big, burly fellow, six feet and two inches tall, with broad, massive .shoulders, great long arms, ami •a held like asmall pumpkin. His face was characteristic. A low, receding forehead, small jiug-nnse, thick, heavy lijis, a broad chin, and ull blotched and patched with whiskey-flowers. His eyes ofa light grey, verging on gieeii, his hair, coar.sB and erisji, was burnt and .sun dried, ueither red, flaxen, nor yet of a dark hue Tho only features iu the whole man which tended lo tie- tract from his herculean jirojiortions was the flat, or rather hollow, ajijiear- ance of his breast. To one skilled iu analoniy or physiology it would have been at once ajiparent that he hatl but litlie of wliat is generally tieuominated "bottom," and that a long-continued physical effort would have reduced hia " wind."
From his youtli up .fack Burke liad been at once shunned and feared. He took little pleasure in society, but chuckled, wilh brute delight, at the timid, tiembling, shrinking way with whicii the village girls, and even many of the weaker boys, passed hitn.
As he grew old he became more in¬ solent and coarse, and when lo his na¬ turally wolfish nature wtis adiled the ferocity <tf drunkenness, he became thc terror of the village. At the time of this writing he was twent.v-two, and fast forgetting tlie little u.se'ful knowl¬ edge lie had acquiretl at school.
Among the recent accession to the jiojiulatiou of our village was ayoung man by tile name of Alfred Maltby. He was asmall man, not over five feet ten inches iu height, and quite slender; bnt the man who sludied him clo.sely, would have soen that the paleness was the reault of long confiueinent, and waa more, afler all, a tlolicate fairness of skin than a lack of health. And iteould also have been seen that his slight frame was atlmirably inoultled ami bouml firmly together.
Alfred Maltby was what the girla of our village, and esjiecially our lodge, (Live-fni'-ever, 200) ealleil a handsome man, and, moreover, the young men voted him a "good fellow," and the little fellows—why, if you had dared call him " a miift','' or an "old snufly," the boys would have thrown stones at your windows, and stolen your ajiples, auil iuflictetl their direct vengeance, as only suiiUl boya can.
Anil Maltby was equally successful with the " old folks;" he was respect¬ ful, W'ithout stupidity, aud knew just what to s.iy, and when to say it. Not even our good domicile had so many friends and so few enemies aa the schoolmaster. So it was not airange lhat when we had our next election he should be chosen W. C. T., of the " Live-for-ever," receiving all tho la¬ dies' votesand two-thirds cf the gentle¬ meu'*.
One day some of us went to his study —he was unmarried—we were invitetl In as we went by his boarding jilace, aud we were pleased to accept his invi¬ tation. His stuily was a gem ofa place for comfort, and among other things uot absolutely necessary in teaching a school, we detected a rifle, a set of bo.x- ing gloves, a pair of foils, and a pair of heavy broadswords, while upou the floor was a pair of weighty dumb-bells. I womlered what theae last were for. Surely not for the teacher's use, fori could do nothing with them save to swing them around at an angle of forty degrees, and I was much heavier thau he was.
"Mr. Maltby," I asked, "what are theae for?"
" Oh, I exercise my muscle on them,"
he replied, smiling and taking them up. I''irst he raised at arms' length and held them there some moments, his breast swelling out like a Roman cui¬ rass. Theu he threw up and out, and around, handling them ns tho' they had been mere toys. It seemed impos¬ sible thatso small a body should contain 30 much atrength, but he assured ua he had gained it all by praetice. He had labored for years to develope hia mua- eular syatem, which had been very de¬ ficient in hia childhood. He also said that his exercise enabled him easily to bear the confinement of the school¬ room.
Our lodge were niaking arrangements for a grand iiic-iiic excursion to San- qiioit. The lailies were making pies and cakes of all sort and shapes; the giris were coaxing dollara out trom un¬ willing pocket-books, in lieu of which tliey left ticketa bearing tho legend:
I. O. OfG. T. Live-for-ever, No. 209,
Pic-nic,
Sanquoit Grove, July 10.
Admit the Bearer.
We young mon, moantirae, -n'ero act¬ ing on all kinda of co'mmitteea, to pro¬ cure tables to provide ice-waters, to ad¬ vertise—a busy time, I assure you.
The day at leugth came and the sun smiled upon a cloudless sky; a fresh breeze came wanderiiig through the grove, bearing ou its bosom a refresh¬ ing coolness from the west. Only one thing camo to mar the pleasure of the occasion. Jack Burke made his ap¬ pearance on the ground, clad iu g.iu(ly apparel, whicii w.is never bought tit Kingsley's, and glorified by a constella¬ tion of brass jewelry. A chill rail through the whole crowd. Mauy ofus would gladly have heljied hitn away, but we shrank fnmi meddling with one who was so strong ami gigantic, and withal .so reckless and merciless ill Iiis wrath. Wo saw the thin lips of our W. C. T. quiver as he noticed the inso¬ lent fellow swaggering about, but he said notliing. We all knew that Jack had sworn to make trouble with the Good Templars and felt that he was sure to fulfill his vow.
One of our party was a youth "named Harry Sanford. He was a quiet, pious, good-hearted fellow, and -was beloved by all. He had waited upon Jfary Dar¬ ling to the pic-nic. Jlary was a prelty blue eyed inaiden of eighteen, and that she loved Harry fondly we all knew, just as well as we knew that Harry lov¬ ed her.
Jack Burke had frequently offered to wait upou Mary, and so often had beeu mittened. He liad professed to like her, and had mado his boasts that if "Harry Sanford dared to put his arm in the way he would drop him." Ou the present occasion, Jack was not long in finding his way to Mary'saide. Har¬ ry Wits nervous antl uneasy; he waa sniall and light antl dreaded tho giant who sought to annoy bolh him and hia comjianion.
Mary aaked Jack to go away from her, and aa she spoke, turued shudder¬ ing away to escape his wliisky-Iaden breath.
" I shan't go awaj'," replied the sur¬ ly brute, " and if you don't like it you may Iniiiji it."
"Come, Mary," said Sanford, trem¬ bling, "let us leave him."
"You will, eh I" cried Burke,seizing Mary by the arm, and drawing her back, " let's soe you."
The frightened giri uttered a cry of alarm, aud Sanford started to his feet, hia fear all consumed in his anger.
" You mi.serablc cur," he exclaimed, "let her go."
Burke tiropped her arm anil atarted for the boy, swearing " he would whip him to within an inch of his life."
In a secoml all was ahirni anil confu¬ sion, butin the midst of the clamor rose a clear calm, riiigiiig tone.
"Stand back! staml baek! all of you and let me through." The way was quickly clear, and our W. C. T. stejiped inlo the open space, his eyes burning like fire, his lips compressetl and his form erect .as a soldier's.
"Fellow," he thundered, "leave here at ouce! Do you hear? Whatacoward, to iusult a girl! Shame! Shame!"
For a moment Burke w.is completely taken aback ; there was .something iu tlio lone anil bearing of the man before him, anil in the strangely burning eye darting ils glances al him, that awed him for a while. But he measured everything liy size ami weight, aud his brute courage soon returned. iij,
" Who are you ?" was the first' re¬ mark, accompanied with a meaning shake of the head.
" I am the man who ordered you to le.ive thia place. Your jirescnce here is oU'en.sive. You were not invited, and i f you hail auy decency you would leave at onee."
"Look here,'my fine dtindy "' hol¬ lowed the bravo, "jast you say X ain't decent again, and I'll spile vour prellv doll face for you."
There was a quiet smile on the " doll face," as our champion replied:
" Your present conductshowsyou de¬ void of all decency. A decent man would notsLiy where not wanted, nor make himself unniannerly in presence of the ladies."
With a fierce oath Burke raised his liuge flat, and darted forward. We would have interferetl, but Maltby mo¬ tioned lis back. iStill we were fearful. What eould our gentlemanly chief do against auch a giant?
We aoon hail an answer. Upon Burke's flrat advance, JMaltby stepped nimbly to one side, and with a quick moliou of his foot, caught the giant's toes and laid him sprawling on the ground. Like-a mad bull, Burke spraug to his feet, and with a volley of cursesstarted towards Jlaltby as though he would annihilate him at ouce. Calm and serene stood the young scliool- luaster, aud as the bully came up he raised his left elbow, ptissing the dirty fiat over his shoulder, and at the same monient jilanted hia own fiat npon Burke's face with a blow that aounded like the rejiort of a jii.stol, and lifted the giant completely oil" his feet. That blow was struck by a man Avho knew just how to throw hia jiower to the beat advautage whenever he wished to use it".'
Jack Burke rose like one bewildered, and so he waa; but in a few momenta he recovered hia senses and leaned to¬ wards Maltby again. This time the schoolmaster performed a feat that waa assurpriaiugas it waa effective. Like a thing of ateol wire and fluely temjier- ed sjirings, he jumped up and forward, and planted both his feet npon the giant's breast. Burke fell like a log, but his breiuit wtis heavily boned, and he was soon on his feet again.
" Look ye," cried Maltby, sternly, "you have seen enough to know that I am not to he trifleil witli. Now ao away, and you shall go un harmetl, save that one black eye: butif you trouble me more, Ishall most assuredly hurl you.   I have given you warning."
"I will lick you before I go. If I dou't—" the remainder of the senlence was mixed wilh terrible oaths and iiu- jireeation, ami with thera yet quiver¬ ing UJIOU his lijis, he oncomoreassailed the cool Wortliy Chief.
This lime the schoolmaster received him in a new fashion. He stopped every blow aimed at hira, and begaii to rat¬ tle in a shower of knocks upon his face and head, and bre.ist and arms, and botly, tlmt completely stunned his op¬ ponent. Heavier, and thicker, and faster, resounding like the strokes of a flail, the blows fell, each sounding louder, and each striking wliere aimed. There was no escape, no resjiite, uutll Burke ivas entirely exhaustetl, his faco fltittoued outof all semblance to human¬ ity, and he bellowed for mercy, like a calf.
" WMll you leave the ground alouee?" deinanded Jlaltby.
" Yes! Ah ! Oh Lord, yes !"
" And never molest Miss Darling again ?"
Oh! Ah! Never!   Oh, Lord!"
"Then go, and remember, hence¬ forth, that however weak or unprotect¬ ed a Goml Temjilar may apjiear, she is never alone."
Like a whipjied cur he was, he left the ground ; and after hewas gone, the W. C. T., who li.id not received even a scratcli, said :
" We aro now .about to open—I raein ain't it almost dinner time? Let inc go and wash my hands, ami then for dinner. Iam hungry .is a bear. Don't let thia trouble us nor spoil our enjoy¬ ment."
The day ended as pleasantly .is though no discijile of Bacchus htid endeavored tomarourhtirraony. Everybody might have been jealous, for everybody's girl flirted witli the W. C. T., all day long; but everybody loved aud honored him —.so everybody was not jealous.
Within a month, the n.iine of Jack Burke was proposed in our lodge. Af¬ ter hia initiation he said : "If there is any secret about the way the school¬ master fights I want to know it."
He has learned that there aro more
noble victories to be achieved than the victories of brute strength; he has learned to conquer his own appetites and jiassion. His eye is grown clearer, his face has lost its whisky colors and is ruddy with health; and to-day he bids fair to make as respectable a citi¬ zen as we havo.
Ono thing more, all our young men are provided with dumb-bells, and every morning the yards down our vil¬ lage street are alivo with swinging arms, long before tbe sun is up; and their bright healthy faces, and robust forms make them almost worth the name of our Lodge—" Livo forever."
JOHN WALTON'S EEVENGE.
" Be off from here you little beggars !" aaid Oacar Ronalda, imperioualy.
The speaker was a well-dressed boy of fourteen, and the words were ad¬ dressed to a boy about his own ago and his sister of eight. Tho contrast be¬ lween their outward appearance was striking. Oscar w.is of a light com¬ plexion, and looked like a petted child of the aristocracy. He held a club in his hand, which it might be judged frora his scowling face, ho would not be unwilling to use.
John Walton, who confronted him without fear, was a stouter boy than Os¬ car. His coinjilexiou waa dark, his hair, black as a raven's wing, hung over hia forehead. His clothing waa coarse and well worn; his panta were tuekeil up nearly to his kuees, and shoes and stockings were luxuries whicli he tlisjienaed with. His little sister terri¬ fied by Oscar's rude manner, clung to hor brother in affright.
" Dou't be scared of him, Lizzie," said John.   " He won't dare to touch you."
" Won't I though ?" said Oscar, cliilchiug his stick tighter.
"Not if you know what is best for yourself," said John, looking fixedly at him.
" You liave no bUBiiic.s3 here, you beg¬ gars," said Oacar, furiously.
" I'm no beggar," said tho barefooted boy, proudly.
•' This is my father's laud. Can you deny that?" demande.l Oscar.
" I know it is, and I suppose it will be yours some day."
" Then why have you intruded here?"
" I did not suppose it woultl do any harm to pick a few berries, which would otherwise decay ou the vines."
" Then you kuow it now. I don't care for the berries, but I don't want any beggar's brats ou ray father's place.
"Stop there, young master," said Joliu, firmly. " You called me a beg¬ gar, iind 1 did not care much ; but if you call my molher by that name, you will bo sorry."
" I ?'; said Oscar very conlemplously. "What will you do?"
" I'll beat you with that slick you hold in your hand."
"Then I do call her a beggar," said Oscar, furiously. " What are you going to do about it?"
" You'll see"
John Walton left his alater's hand fall, and springing upon Oacar, he wrenched the stick from his hand, laid it over his back with sharp emphasis three times, aud then threw il into thc pool uear by.
Leaving his young enemy jiroslrate, he took his terrifled sister by the haudj saying:
" We'll go home now Lizzie."
Oscar picked himself np, mortified and furious. He would have pursued John and wreaked instant vengeance upou him if he had dared, but in the hanils of the young savage, as he men¬ tally characterized him he had felt his owu u^ter inability to cojie with him, and resolved that vengeance should come iu another form.
" j\ly fatlier shall turn the beggars outof house and home," he muttered. " I wish they might starve."
The father of Oscar Ronalda was the proprietor of a hantlBome houae and large landetl estnte, including several tenenients which he rented out. In the poorest of these lived John Walton and hia mother. They llveil poorlj- euough, how, it would be hard to tell, but atall eveuls they lived and never sought hclji.
When John lold the story of his en¬ counter to Ills mother, she was disturb¬ ed, fearing that trouble might come of il.   .So, indeed it did.
The uext morning Squire Ronalds with his stifl', erect figure, was seen aji- proaching the willow's cottage.
Mrs. Walton opened the door.
"AVon't you come in. Squire Ro¬ nalds," she said, nervously.
"No, madam, 1 have but a word to .say, and that is soon said. Are you aware that your boy grossly insulted my son, yesterday?''
•' He tohl me that Oscar called him names, aud lie knocked liim down. He liaa a baaty teiujier."
" Your son is a rufliau, ma'am."
" Not so bad as that. He is a good boy to me, Squire Ronalds."
" It is a pity that he cannot tre.it others with respect."
"Do you think he.w.ia wholly to blame?"
" Certainly, he was. My aon caught hira treajiassiiig on ray land, aud he very properly Ordered hiin ofl'. I don't care lo urge the matter. If he will apologize to Oscar. I will let it pass. Otherwise, as your month ia up to-day, I shall require you to leave this teue- ment."
John, who had been inside and heard what had been said, came forward, looking resolute and self-sustained.
" I shall uot ajiologize to Jlaster Os¬ car, sir," hesaid, "Itia ho who ahould apologize to me."
"Apologize to you ! That would look well; would it not'?" said the Squire scornfullj-.
" It would bo right," aaid Johu firralj'.
"You are an impudent young rascal."
" Jlother, saitl John, quielly, tliere is uo nae liateiiing further. I shall not apologize and ara ready to take the consequences. Do not bealarmetl. I will tako care of j'ou."
" You rauat leave Ihia houae to-mor¬ row," roared the .Squire in very undig¬ nified rage, stamping hia gold-headed caiie upon the grouud.
" Very well, said John. Goojl day, sir, and Johu closed the door, le.iving the Squire under a vague impression that he had got the worat of the en¬ counter:
" What ahall we do, John'?" said Jlrs. Walton dismally.
"I'll tellyou, mother. Thero is noth¬ iug for me to do here. We'll go to Brandon, where thereare woolen mills. There I can get a chance lo work, aud I'll rise, never fear. It is best for us to go-
The next daj' Jlrs. AV.ilton's tene¬ ment was einptj', and no one kuew where the family had gone. Oscir ex¬ ulted in what he regarded as his tri¬ umph.
Twenty years passed. To tho bare footetl. boy they brought wonderful changes. At twenty-four he found him¬ self superintendent of the mill where ho had entered as a poor operative, earning a salary of flve thousaiul ilol¬ lars a year. Hehad built a handsome house, over which his mother presided wilh matronly dignity. His sister Liz¬ zie was the wifeof ayoung phy.sician in successful practice in the same town.
One winter evening they were ali sealed in a luxuriously furnished room, before a glorioua fire. His slater liad come to spend the afternoon, but was prevented by the violent alorm from re¬ turning to her own home.
" What astorni it is!" she exclaimed, wontleriuglj'. " X pity those who are out in it."
"Yea," s.iid her'brother, "itis the most violent storm of the year. The snow must be two feet deep at least. But we need not feel troubled. It ia summer in-doors."
" Who would have thought, Jobn, that we should come to live in such comfort?" said his mother. " Twenty years ago we were poorly ofl'."
" X well remember. It was a lucky thing we came to Brandon.
"So it lias turned out. But I was alarmed whenyouquarreledwithyoung Oscar BoniUds.
" I havo forgiven hira. The harm he intended has ouly done ua gootl.
" Have you heard of him lately, she inquired.
" Not lately. His father did ten years ago, and I'm told Oscar is very extrav¬ agant.   That is all."
The storm increased in violence, sha¬ king the house, firm aud atrong as it was. AU ut once the door bell rang sharply.
"I'll go myself," snid John. The servant may not be ablo to close the donr again."
He opened the front door and a sharp cutting wind entered with a flurry of snow.
" Will you give .me shelter?" said a faint voice.
Xt was a man who apoke, still young.
He stepped iu quite exhausted, John Walton closed the door.
"You have had a hard struggle iu the storm, have you not?"
" X have indeed. I am chilled to the bone."
" Come in to the fire," and John threw open the door of the sitting-room.
He perceived that the stranger had no overcoat and appeared thoroughly chilled. Warm briek were onlered, and in half an hour he was more comforta¬ ble. He looked thin and haggard; hia face bore the impress of dissipation.
He had more than onee looked earn¬ estly at John Walton. Finally he said abruptly:
"Will you tell me your name? "Your face looks familiar."
"Jly name is John Walton."
"What?" said the other, with a.start. " Did you live when a boy, in the town ofM?"
" Yes, but I don't remember you."
" I am Oscar Ronalds" said the other, in a low voice.
" Is it possible?" exclaimed the threo and they involuntarily glanced at tho ill-clad stranger.
" I see whut you are thinking of. I do not look much like the boy you used to know. I h.ive been wild and ex¬ travagant, and lost and squandered all my Jiroperty. I have gone down hill— you have gone uji."
" I am sorry fiir your misfortunes," said John, kiudly. " If X cm be of aer¬ vice to you, I will."
" I came here hoping to get the post of clerk, which X nntleratood w.is- va¬ cant. If I had knowii that .you wero here, I would not have come."
" And why ?"
" Becauao you cannot have forgotten my ill-treatment ofyon."
" It is not forgotten, hut quito for¬ given," said John Walton, kindly. " Unconsciously you dirt me n service. The clerkship you seek is mine to be¬ stow. You shall have it, and X will guarantee your gond conduct. The salary will be small—only eight hun¬ dred dollars."
" It will be a fortune to rae, who am penniless. God bless you, .Tohn Wal¬ ton, for your generosity. You shail not flnd your confldence ill-bestowed."
" X have no more to tell, except that then and there bo^au a new and better life of Oscar, who was after a wliile pro- inotcd, and now has a inodestand cheer¬ ful horae of his own, with agood wife lo add to his liappineas. And this was John Walton's revenge-a noble and chrlstiau revenge, the only one worth takiug for inquiry.
A STOEY FOE THE LITTIE FOLKS. THE PRAIUIE-HOMK ON FIUK.
A little brown log-house, on a great, wide stretching prairie, was the home of JIainie and Kitty Clayton. Mamie was seven aud Kitty a liltle over four, and they were as sweet a litlie pair as ever you saw. They had never seen a coun¬ try with hills aud valleys, rocks and rivera. AU the landseajie they knew anything about waa llie wide plain reaching afar to the horizon, where it aeemed to blend with the aky, ouly doi¬ ted here anil there with acluaterof oak trees, which were called "oak open¬ ings."
One quiet Sunday afternoon iu win¬ ter the two liltle girls were sjieiiding al home with their motlier. Their father and brother John had gono to church in tho little log meeting-house, three miles distant; but Jtrs. Clayton had not felt well enough to go, so the little girls had been keeping very quiet at home. It W!i3 a cold afternoon, and the snow, thick anil while, covered the face of the prairie.
JIamie sat by the open fireplace, whero the oak logs burnt brightly, reading aloud frora her little Testa¬ ment ; and Kitty was listening e.igerly to tho story of the teinjiest on the wa¬ ter whicii grew calm when Jesus said unto it, "Peace, be still." The twi¬ light was deejienlng so rapidly that Mamie was obliged to stooji forward, lhat the flre-light might fall on the pages of her book. Suddenly she stop¬ ped reading, anil seenied to listen.
" JIamma," she said, " I ainell some¬ thing burning, aud the room ia all auioky."
" Doesn't the firesnioke?" asked her mother, raising her head a little aii.v- lously from the louuge whore she w.is lying.
" No, tho fire doesn't smoke, I think," answered JIainie. "I'll go out inthe kitchen, niamnia, and see if there is any fire in the slovo whieii can make a amoke."
A fire on lho prairie was something they had all learned to fear. Even the children were taught early to dread it. Tliey knew if ouce a lire broke ont there iviis no means to check it; and they had all heard many aad stories of families audilenly driven out of doors bj' tlie flamea, who had found tlieni- aelvea hoinelesa and deatitute in a few houra.
Jfamie ran out inlo the kitchen, and a moment aftcrwanl rushed back, with her eyea wild with horror.
"O, raarama, mamma!" ahe cried, "our ahed iaall on fire!"
Forgeltiug in that moment the blind¬ ing headaciie which had been torturiug her all daj-, Jlrs. Clayton aprang from the lounge and ran into the kitchen, whoae liltle window looked out upon the shed where the grain and 8tr.iiv for the Ciiltle were storetl. What JIamie had said was too true. Great curls of smoke were wrealliingout through the cracks, and now and then a little sharp jet of flame was iilaiiily seen.
Both the shed and liouse were built of dry loga, whicii burned .is rapidly as firewood, and the two buildings stood close together. Jlra. Claj'ton looked about her almost distractedlj-, ami tried lo think what could be done Theehil¬ dren were her first thought. They must be put in a safe place, and thu nearest neighbor's hoiise was a mile and ahalf awaj'—too fiir to trust them logo alone over the snowy, trackless prairie Hastily takiiiL-their little wool¬ en hoods and cloaks from the jieg on which they hung, she wrapjied the two chihlren warmly. Then she took a feather-bed frora the high-jiosl beil- steaii in the front room, and begaii dragging it out the fnmt door.
"Corae, children," alio called: " come after mc aa fiist as you can, and mind to do exactly as I tell you."
The children followed her to a con¬ siderable distance from the house—fur enough to be safe from all danger of fire. Then she threw down the bed, and phiced the children on it.
"Slay here till X come back," she said.
Then,  returning  to   the house, slic^ seized another bed;  and, dragging it afler her, in the stiine way, she came back to the children again.
"Now, JIamie and Kitlj-," shesaid, laying them down in the soft feathers, I shall cover j-ou all over with this other bed; and yon must not get u|> till I come for you, else you might freeze to dciith this cold night. So lie still, and X will try and put the fire out"
The children, who were filled with awe at the situation of afiiiirs, lay down obedientlj-, iind their mother covered them suiiglj-, even to the tijis of their noses. Then she ran baek to the burn¬ ing Iiouse.
By this lime the sparks from the shed had fiillen on the inof and side of the house, and it had begun to take fire. Jlrs. Clayton ran in-doors, and laking a chest, whicii contained many of her most valuiible jiossessions, she drew itout into usnow-bank. She ran to her cupboaril and took a little tray of silver spoons and placed theni be¬ side the chest. Then she seized her water-pail frora the kitclien, to see if she could do anylhlug toward stopping the flames.
The place for drawing wator was sev eral yarda from the Iiouae; but, dashing over the smoking logs thc contents of her pail, she ran to the well, tlrew one paUful, and running round the house dashed it on the flamea. They seemeil to be checketi for a moment, and she hastened to rejicattbe deluge. So back and forth, unconscious of fatigue, or headache, or the piercing cold, ahe worked against the fire. Butthestrong element baflled her weak, unaided ef- lorla, and ahe aaw the flames constantly gaining on Iier. In herexcitementshe had'forgotleu to put on eilher hood or shawl. Her long, thick hair had fidlen from ita fasteninga, and, drenched with the water which had frozen on her dress and person, it hung a aheetcti mass of ice over her shoulders. Insensible to all this, she was preparing to ilash oue last pailful on what was now little more than a amoking ruin, when she heard a voice close behind her. It was her hus¬ band, returned from chnrch; and, over¬ come now by the terrible excitement of the last hour, Jlrs. Clayton fell into his arms perfectly insensible.
When the afternoon meeting was over, the flrst thing Jlr. Clayton had seen, on coming out of the church door
was a bright light glowing in the d lg. tance across the prairie.
" I fear the prairie is on fire," lie said, turning to his nearest neighbor; "and my wife and children are all alone at home."
" That isn't a prairie fire," an.swered Jlr. Harkins. It don't spread rounil enough. It is a house a-lire. In the direction of your houae, too, isn't it Brother Clayton? I reckon three or four ofus will drive round wilhj-ou, and aee if anything is the matter."
Jlr. Clayton and John jumped into their alaigli, autl half-a-dozen otlier stout men and boj-s prepared to follow hia road. Every man in thia country stood ready to lielji hia neighbor, for be knew not how aoon he might need lieli> himaelf.
Aa they drew nearer .mil nearer, tliey could aee it waa Jlr. Clayton's house which the flames were devouring. Only one thought possessed hira—to fiutl if his wife and childreuwere safe; anil when, jumping from his sleigh and running around the house, he saw his wife apparently unharmed, his heart was too thankful fur worda.
Jlrs. Clayton was immeiliatelj-wrap¬ ped in overcoats and muHlers, which all the men were ready lo lake off their own persona to shield her from the cold; and, slill almost insensible, she was lifted into a aleigh and ilriven raji- idly to the shelter and warmth of the nearest house. Then Jlr. Clayton be¬ gan to look eagerly for JIamie and Kit¬ ty. He ran from one sitle to the other of tlie house, wliich now lay flat, a con¬ fused ni.iss of burnt and cbarretl logs, st^arching wildly for tiie cliildren ; while John, the oldest, liardly less anxious than his fatlier, aided in liis search.
"JIamie! Kitty!" they both cried again and again.
One of the neighbors at that moment caught sightof a confused mass of .some¬ thing a rod or two distant from the ruins, and pointed it out to the father. Jlr. Clayton ran hastily to the jilace, and found the feather-beds piled one on the other. Just above the edge of the upper oue peeped the scarlet border of a tiny liood.
Turniug down the bed, he beheld the two liltle girls cudtlletl close to each other and fast asleep, in thc midst ofall the noise and confusion.
Never did father clasp his children more joyfully in hia arms than tlitl Jlr. Clayton tlltit monient. The loss of house and of his stock of worldly goods seemed notliing in comparison with thc joy of fluding all his dear ones alive anil safe Getting into the sleigh, lliej- all drove to join Jlrs. Clayton rounil their friendly neighbor's warm fireside; and that night thej- all thaiiked God with full lieartj that their lives had been spared.
Now a pretty white cottage, sur¬ rounded bya blooming garden, staiiils in the place of the lillle log house. JIamie and Kitty are growing to be young ladies; but thej-will never for¬ get that night wiien their prairie-honie look fire.—jV. Y. Independent.
LEGAL   NOTICES.
A»WISI.STR,VTOIlS- SOTICE:
Estate  of JIartin Herr,   late of West Lampeter townshij), deceased.
I' ErrKIW of adinlnlslraliou on saiil eslalo J having beeu graulci! to liie iindcrsigiieii. all persous indebteil thereto arc rcriuested lo make liumeUiale payinenl, and tiiose having clalhis or demnnds against llic .same will pre¬ sent tliem for scILleineiitlo the unilcr.sigiicil residing in snid townsliip.
JOHN- KENDIG, OAUltlliL WKNGER, npll0-fit*-2i Atliiiiiiisliators.
.vn.iii.vi.vrK.vroif.s xotice.
Estale of Cieorge D.  Thoinas, lale of Warwick township, dec'il.
LKTTKiis of adiulnlstalion on said estate h.nv- ing been granted lo the uiidersigued, all |iei-.sons ludebted Ihcrelonre rci|Uesleillo liialie luiiuedlale paynient, and Ihose liavingchtiiiis or deiniindsngalust tliesame will pri'seiitlli«rm wllIioutdelayriM-seIth-iiii.-iilloth,.iiiiii|.|-sigu- cd. UEOKGl!: W. llEl'l", l.iliz.
-iiiayiy-f:t*::7 Admluislrator.
AD.wi.vi.s'rit,v'r«K.s' xo'ri«:K.
Estateof John Kuhus, lale of the cilj-
of Lancaster, dec'd. r ETTEItS of adminlstral lon ou snid eslnle I 1 hnviug been granted loliie undersigned, nil persons indebted tlierelo are reiiuesteil lo mnke Immcdinle scllleiiieiil.and those having cinlms or deiiianils against tlie same, will pre¬ sent them without delny for selllenient to the uuderslgiied.
LIZZIE KUIINS. JO.-iEl'II .'iA.M.'SO.V. April 21. 'Oil. Ctt-Z\ Admiiilslralors.
.lO.HI.MST.l.lTOlt.S-' .VOTICE.
Estate  of  Christian Harnisli,  late of Pequea towushiji, ileceased.
LETTEllM of ndiulnislration on said estate having been granted lo the undersigned, nil persons indebied thereloare reiinesled tomake Iniiiiedlalepnyincnl.and those hnvingclnims or demands agaiiislllic same wiiip resent I iieiii forsetlleuieiil to llic undersigned, resiiling in snid lownsliip.
ANnllEW MEHAFFEY, J.VUOUlC. HAUNISH. nitty V.l-C,l.*'^ Adiiiiuislraloi-s.
EXECCTOB.S' XOl'ICE.
Estate of Samuel Lehman, late of Ila-
Ijibo twp., Lancister co., titc'il. E-lTEIt.S'1'eslanienlaryou said estnle hav- Jiiig been grained lo the niidcrsigncd, nil persons indeliled tlierelo are requested to niaiti' immediate payiueiit, and those havin-g cliiims or demands ngainst tlie snme will present them wltliont delny forsetllement lo the un¬ dersigned.
.•S.VMUEL Ii. T.EIIM.VN. U.VVIU UEl'K. Ji:.. apr:lS-(it'2l E.':ri*in<irs.
EXECDTOltS' XO'l'ICE.
Estate of Jlichael Hess, lale of C'oiioj- town.ship, deceased.
LETTEits leslamenlary on said eslnle hav¬ ingbeen granted to liie unacrsigneti.ail persons indebleti thereloare requested to make immediateselllement,and those Iiaviugeiaims ordelilnlidsngnillstthe.snme will present tiu-iii for setllemenl lo the undersigned, residing iu said townslilp.
SIWAN TIES.S. JIENKY W. HESS, apt :S.|lt*2l Kxeeulors.
EXECIITOK.S' XOTICE.
Estate of Leah Cariienter (widow), lale of Lancaster City, deceased.
IETTEUS lestameutary ou said estate yhnvlng.been gnuited to the nudci-sigiu-d,all pel-soils indeliled lliereto. are n-quested to mnke Inimediale payiueiit.and those Iinving cluims or demands againsi the same, will pre- -eilllhem witiiont ilehiy for sirttleliieul lo lhe aniiei-sigiii.d Kx,s*nIors.
l.Sll.\EI. l.'Alti'ENTEK. Ilummelslowu. FIIEIIKIIICIC SMITH, I.Miii-asler. liAKL'rON rillC'E, Newville. aprlT Ct '11
Al'OirOlW XOTICE.
Eslate of Jlary Ilrcucinan, late of East
Doui!gal township, Lancaster cii.,
deceaseil.
I IIIE undersigned .Vudltors, a]ipoiiilcd toilis- Iriliutt; tile linlanee remaining in'the imnds of .Ineobs. Hershey,ndininistr.-ilor of lhe es¬ lale above named, lo and among iliose legally eutitled to thesanie. will sit for thai piirpos,. on .SATUlvHAY, .M.-VY '2!IMl. KSIKI. at ill o'eloek. A. M..iii tile Library UfKiiii of the Court House, ill the l.'ity of l/iucaster. wiiere nil per-sons in¬ terested 111 -said dislrihulioii may niteiid.
A. si.AV.\iAKi-:i;,
IIKO. NAU.MAN. , U. \V. sllENK.
liiayS-lt-i> Auditors.
.VUDITOIf.S XOI'ICE.
Estate of Thoniits Jloderwell, lato of Drumore twp., Laiicaslerco., dec'd.
IllIE uudersigneil Andllor, appoinled to ilis- Iribute tile baianee reoiaiiilngiii tlic lotnds ofHenry E. .ICaub. lulniliiistrator of liic csiate tif said ileceaM'd, to and nliiong Ihose legaliv eiitilh.-d lo the sume. will sit f,»rliial nin-pose on Fill ll.VY. .MAY is. ISIlO. nt HI o-.M.iek, a. iii.. ill tiieLilirnry Uoom ofthe Court Hons,.. intlie eity of Laiieiister. where nil persons iiileres:'.-d ill said liistributioii inny alli'iid. maj.ill] \V. A. W1L.-5UN. .Vudilor.
.vi'iiiToifs xorit'i:.
Assigned estate of Cyrus U. Miilin, of the Borough of .\ilaiiistnwii.
THEundersigned .vudltor.a|ip.,liileil todls- Iribulelhe baianee reliiaiiiiiig in Iliel,anils of Uieliald fi. Mohn ami .lerfiiliali ti. .Mohn, assignees, lo and aoioiig llio-si; legally enlllli-it IO thesanie. Kill sit for llial piliposu ou s.vi'-
UUn.VY. .lUNE jth, ISIKI. al III o'elock. a. in
the Library llooiii of the Court Ilouse, in tho eity of L-iiii-jiNler. where nil persons Interested in said dislribillioii may attend. iiial.5-:lt 2ilJ GEO. .11. KLINE, Audllor.
.viToiroR'.H xoricE.
M. M. STUicKl.EU ., Ill the Court of I'om, PIcis
vs. (     of Laneasler Co.   Fi. Ka.
IL B. IvACFFilAN. I    lo .lan'y 'I'.. ISt'J.   No. iAI,
> E.-t'il Docki-l, rpHE undersigned Andllor. appointed lo dis- llribulelhe money paid into Court on the above execnllnii. will sit for that purpose on WEDNESDAY, .lUNE 'Jd. Iiru. at lOo'clock, a. 111., in the Library Itoom of tbe i;oiirl Ilouse, at Lancaster. A.SL.VYJI.IKKlt.
iiiayl-J-lt ::ii Auditor.
A.S.SI(i>'EC-.S XOTICE.
Assigned Eslate of N. H. Gillespie ami Wife, of Colerain lwp., Lanc'r co.
NIL GILLE.'-II'IE and Wife, of Colei-ain , townsliip. having by deed of voIiiiitar,v assignmeul. dated Al'ftI 1.22, IWiil, assigned and transferred nil Ihelr eslate and el|-eels tothe undersigned, for the benefltof the credltorsof the said N. 11. Gillespie, he therefore gives no¬ tice to all persons Indebted to .said nssignor. to mnko payment lo the undersigned wllhont delay, nnd those hnviug elnims lo present Iheiu to cUOMWELLBLACKnUUN,
Assignee. npr-iS-lit-'JI Colenaln 1*. O., Lnneaster co.
ASSIUXEE'.S XOTICE.
Assigned Estate of John B. Gish and
wife, of West Donegal township,
Lancaster county.
WHEREAS. John ll.Olsh nnd wife, of West Ilonegul lwp.. baving by deed of volunia¬ ry iLssIgnmeul. dated April 'A, ISUU. lussigucd and transferred all their estale and eirecls to the undersigned, for the beneflt of the credi¬ tors of the said John B. Gish, he therefore gives notice to all per.sons Indebted to snld as¬ signor to make paynient lo the undersigned without delay, aud thoso hnviug cinlms lo
present them to 	
PHILIP OLDWEILER, Assignee, Residing lu "NVest Donegal twp., Lancaster eo. ap "I 0t-3j'