The American Volunteer
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|Mkal
EEMEMBEAEOES.
BY SUSAN H. UI,AISDKI,T..
Do yon remember the pleasant morn
When we'slood In yon green lane;
And oar hearts were Joyous as if thoy ne’er
Had known ono throb of pain 7
And the birds, in their heavenward fllght
Through the realms of golden light,'
Poured forth their songs, that on the air
Camo echoing back again?
And wo wore glad as thoy,
But oar Joy had a deeper tone;
’ And it found, from onr souls, Us silent way,
As we wandered there alone;
And the wind came floating by,
From. Its homo in the .southern sky,
Anda charm seemed wrought with the rising
day.
And around our spirits thrown.
A charm in each quivering leaf,
That unfolded to greet the morn; .
A charm In the Jewels that flashed beneath,
Of nature's abundance born;
And in every summer sound,
Mid the pleasant nooks around.
That bade ns forget life's olden grief
In its newly opening, dawn.
And hand In hand, we looked afar
Down the valley of the past;
Whence rose one lovely, shining star,
From the shadows around It cast,
And dark forms glided by.
81owly and silently,
And the nim train closed, at last.
But the where we dwelt,
. Was a sweet and quiet scene;
And the happiness we felt
Uprose from hearts serene;
For the beaming star shone on,
And the shadowy forms were gone,
And the clouds no jnore were seen.
Ipsatow.
ATOTMAEY'S BEONZE SPHINX.'
CHAPTER I.
ROSE AND I•
‘Bose,’ I stammered, ‘I xtiould like to
say something to you—something in
particular.-'
‘Would you?’ she answered coolly,
■then why don’t you say it?’
X colored like a child.
‘Because because —l—l I — hardly
know how-’
‘Oh ! lam very sorry, but I can’t help,
you.’
‘Yes; you can.’
‘Can I ? Ho w?’
‘By saying yes.’
‘Well, yea— although I haven’t the
least Idea what you mean,’
'Bless you,’ I exclaimed, and I em
braced her, ‘Then—you love me ?’
‘Do X lovo you? Alfred, you are a
monster! This, then, Is the explanation
of your request ?'
And I embraced her again—l, Alfred
Morris,- embraced Bose Walters, whom I.
at that moment adored with all the en
thusiasm of an ardent, susceptible young
man—not wealthy, but having great ex
pectations from bis Aunt Mary, whose
favorite he was.
’ ‘Do ynu CAally.loue me, Alfred.?* mutr
mured •Bose, giving me it searching
glance.
‘Do I We you? Oh,.Rose, can you ask
such a question?’
, ‘Yes—why hot?’
‘.Because—dp you not see how I wor
ship you ?’
‘I do see'’ that you are a very affection
ate young mac,’ she practically,
‘but it is well enough to uMftrstand mat
ters'clearly.’
'Don’t talk in that business-like tone,
One would imagine that you were bar
gaining for a—a—a—a—’
‘A goose V
'Bose!'
•No, certainly not a goose-Bose!’ That
would be an absurdity I There—there—
you know I don't mean to oitend you.—
How you take everything in earnest.
Then—you are quite sure- you love me !’
‘Quite.’
‘And when that nasty big dog comes
near me again, you will drive him off?’
‘Yes.’,
‘You may kiss me once more, then,
and I must go.'
Her dreadful matter of fact manner
drove ail sentimental thoughts out of my
bead.
I kissed her rather timidly.
X tried to feel happy but hardly suc
ceeded.
We walked along tbe quiet road until
we came near her father’s house. .
Then she stopped.
‘How labour Aunt Mary ?’
'Very well when I left her,’ I replied,
rather surprised at.her remark.
‘She has the heart disease ?’
‘Yes, the doctors say so.’
'Poor, dear old lady. She will dlesud-,
denly some day, I suppose?’
'I fear so,’l answered, hardly liking
tbe turn the conversation was taking.
‘You are a great favorite of her's, Al
fred, are you not?’
‘Yes, I believe she is very fond ot
me.’
Bose sighed, and then looked lovingly
in my face.
‘Ah, Alfred,’ she said softly, ‘you will
be very wealthy some day. When the
time comes, promise that you will not
cease to love me.
‘What folly,’ I said, ‘you know mopey
will not change me.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I am positive.’
‘lt has done stranger things than that,
she said oddly, Alfred—do yon know I,
always thought you loved Lucy Ray
mond?’
I blushed guiltily,
'She Is a charming girl,’ I, said, eva
alvely.
‘Yea, yea, I know,’ ahe peraevered,
'but confess, did'you not like her juat a
little at one time ?'
'Well, alnoe you urge me, I will con
teas that I once bad a belief that I cared
for her—but she never seeded to take
any notice of mo—and the idea passed, so
you need not be Jealous.'
'I am not,’ she answered,
good-bye.’
She gave me her band, amilled, looked
beautiful, and then withdrew the light
of her countenance by walking slowly
off, and leaving me lonely in the sunny
road.
‘X ought to be very happy,' I tried to
convince myself, but I felt miserable,
and I turned to my aunt’s cottage—for I
bad been living with her for over a year.
As I opened tbe gate a pale face from
the piazza caught my eye.
It was Lucy Baymond,
‘Mr. Morris,’ she said*
the American Dolantcer
BY JOHN B. BRATTON.
‘Lucy—what—what la the matter,’ I
said, breathlessly.
'Can you bear a dreadful blow ?’
‘Blow 7 What do you mean 7’
‘I scarcely dare tell you,’ she said, cov
ering her face with her hands.
‘Speak—in heaven’s name,’ I ex
claimed. •
‘Your aunt-*-’ she said slowly.
■Yes-’
‘Your aunt is dead.
‘Dead?’ •
'Yes. I entered the room live minutes
since. She, was seated in her arm-chair,
her band supporting her calm face, She
was quite dead.’
— * —
THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE.
Aunt Mary’s will had been read.
I sat moodily In my room, with my
share of the estate on the table at m£ el
bow, feeling—well I can hardly de
scribe how horribly I felt.
Aunt Mary was rich, but not nearly as
rich as we thought.
Eccentric people always get credit for
three or four times the wealth they pos
sess, • "
Still the property was a fair one, if it
had only come to me.
I was named one of the executors,
with the request that I should continue
'to live in the old house until the settle
ment of the estate was completed.
That privilege was my legacy ; that
and a bronze statue.
Lucy Raymond’s mother was to have
the house and furniture, and as they
were already in it, there would be no
changes.
Aunt Mary had no very near relatives,
except myself; and yet, though every
body expected that the property -would
come to me, there had been quite a gath
ering at the opening of the will.
I stooji the disappointment handsome
ly, X think ; and when old Spinster
Cousin Jemima suggested that ‘Alfred
will never have any use for that thing, I
guess I’ll take it myself,’ I replied some
what tartly:
‘No, indeed I It is the only thing sue
left me, and I intend to keep it.’
‘Mr. Morris,’ said Miss Raymond; ‘if
you ever do give it away, I speak for it,’
‘I spoke first,’ snapped out Cousin Je
mima. „
I had always liked Lucy, and had
made her my confidant about Rose, aud
I smiled in her sweet face as I answered*!
‘lt shall be yours if X ever part with
it.’
That was not likely, however, and I
only said so to spite Jemima.
I had no reason to be spiteful.
Not thatl had,been altogether mercen*
ary in my love for my aunt, but I had
brought back from the army precious
little besides my brevet, and I bad coun
ted on the will. ■
So I sat there, gazing at the fire, and
wandering what earthly assistance in
housekeeping I should ever get from that
wonderful legacy.
•Oh, Aunt Mary,’ I murmured, why
did you treat me so, after professing to
love me? Why did you leave me a
Sphinx?
My acquisition became, almost an eye
sore, as from time to time I turned and
gazed at it.
Its aspect, as it faced me that evening,
was peculiarly grim and forbidding.
It seemed to stand hopelessly between
me and Rose, and I shook my list at it.
‘Oh, you monster,’ said.l, ‘you have
done me nicely. Ain’t you ashamed of
yourself ? Answer, Sir Oracle?’
The creature stared vacantly at me with
the intelligence of a Sphinx, and spoke
not.
‘May I come in?’ said a sweet voice.
I rose hastily -thinking it was Bose—
but the door opened and Lucy entered.
‘Oh, Mr. Morris,’ she said, ‘I am so
sorry.' You really have a right to feel
disappointed. What will y.ou and Miss
Walters do?’
‘lf Bose will Wait as bravely as I did,
it won’t be so bad.'
‘She will—l know she will.’
'And if she won’t, I suppose you will
leave a corner of the house to me and
the Sphinx for a while. How often I
have seen it at Aunt Mary’s table.’
‘I tried to laugb, but sighed'lnstead.
‘Ah, Miss Lucy,’ I sighed, ‘I fear that
things won’t go any too well with me
now that Aunt Mary has treated me in
this strange way.’
‘Hope for the best Mr. Morris,’ she
said.
‘The best is not any too gobd in this
case. Bose is ambitious—’
‘lf she loves you—you need fear noth
ing. When a woman loves a man truly,
she will never desert him or give him
up.'
‘lt ut—Bose is so—so practical.'
Lucy fegarded me in a way that I
could not understand-
‘Are you sure she loves you ?’ she de
manded in a low voice.
. ‘Bure?’ Y-e-s—that is—of course.’
Lucy smiled sadly.
‘Bose is beautiful—she has plenty of
admirers. She—she —will —’
She paused.
'Go on, Lucy.’
‘She will marry the man who can
best afford to support her.’
I rose angrily.
‘Lucy,’ I said, passionately, ‘this Is un-
Kind—this is very unkind.’
She made a mute, entreating gesture.
•Forgive me,' she said, ‘Forgive me.’
And her eyes Ailed with tears,
‘You hardly deserve it,’ I said, coldly.
Her Up quivered.
‘Allred—that is, Mr. Morris—l—l am
very sorry—good evening.’
I caught her by the arm.
‘Stay, Luoy stay. Pardon my rudeness.
I »as too Impetuous. We are still
friends?'
‘Friends. Yes.’ ,
And you are not angry ?’
‘I have never been angry with you. X
do not think I could if I tried.’
‘Do you then like me us much us
that ?' I exclaimed, surprised.
She became very pale.
'and now
' ‘l.et mo go,’ and she released herself
from my grasp and fied from the room.
‘Poor child,’ I thought, 'Aunt Mary’s
death seems to have unnerved her.
She seems quite low spirited * * * *
and * * * * * I—had no idea she
liked me so much.'
I sat down and loaned my head wea
rily on my hand.
As I did so, my attention was uncon
sciously attracted towards the Sphinx,
CHAPTER 11,
which gazed steadily at me with its calm,
unfathomable eyes.
chapter in.
THE ORACLE
I rose early the nest day, feverish and
excited. Twenty times during the rest
less night I had resolved. to visit
Rose immediately in the morning, and
as many times I had resolved not to' do
so. I walked backward and forward in
a Inost miserable state of uncertainty.
‘How can I break the news to her,’ I
murmured.
The thought completely unnerved mo.
‘Yet why fear the sincerity of her
love?’ I reasoned. ‘Yet—yet—l fear she
will never listen to mo again when she
knows how.poor I am. And herfather— ’
Oh, it was too much to think of at one
time.
*1 must know my fate!’ I cried, *1 will
go to her at once,’
The tiphiuz seemed to watch me while
I was getting ready.
I paused once or twice to look at it,
and whether it was imagination or not,
the creature seemed to be shaking its
head at me in a Sphinxlike manner, and
trying to bide a cold smile*
A short walk took me to Mr. Walters’
residence. I rang the bell nervously.
Glancing at the parlor wirfdows, I was
surprised to perceive Rose seated by the
side of a young man, talking.earnestly.
‘.What can this mean,’ I exclaimed.
. Then I suddenly remembered.
She had fold me that she expected a
visit from a country cousin, of whom
she was very fond, as he had twice saved
her life.
‘God bless her!’ X cried fervently.—
‘How sincere she is in her affection!’
I was uncontrollably happy. I rang
the bell with renewed vigor. Rose must
have heard the bell. She came close to
the'window and looked out. After gaz
ing at me for an instant, and without re
cognition, she suddenly disappeared;
I was ushered into the parlor with the
remark from the servant that ‘Mr. Wal
ters was at home, and he would hand my
oard tvlitixx'lulLuodTulUly.’
I had hoped to meet Rose, and tell her
all, and while I was. thinking of the
matter aud gazing abstractedly about,
Mr. Walters entered.
I had always had a horror of this gen
tleman.
He was so stately, ao frightfully busi
ness-like, precise and solemn upon all
matters, that I always felt relieved when
an interview with him was over.
‘Sir to you, Mr. Morris.’
‘Thank you, I am quite well—that is—
I—hope you— ’
‘Ahom I Well, I can’t afford to com
plain ! Allow me to offer my condolence
on your recent bereavement. Your Aunt
left a handsome property, did she not ?’
‘Oh, yes ! Quite handsome.’
‘I am delighted to hear of it* Of course
you have nb objection to giving a rough
estimate to nu old friend like myself.’
‘Oh, no—not in the least. It’s —it’s—
H’b— about eight inches high, as near as
I can guess*’
'Bonds or greenbacks?’ he queried, ea
gerly,
‘Neither!’ I exclaimed desperately.—
‘All that my aiint leftme was her bronze
Sphinx 1’
‘Her Sphinx ? Her —What the
deuce do you mean ?’
Why, her Bronze Sphinx; a very re
markable object of virtue to wbicb she
was much attached. She would never
have given it to any one whom she did
not esteem very highly.’
'And that was all ?’ said Mr. Walters.
‘That was all.’
Mr. Walters wip.ed his broad forehead
calmly.
‘Ahe—m —m 1 Well, your Irieuds tho’t
it would be different. I should hardly
consider that much of a start in life.’
I swallowed the,anger that rose at the
insinuation his remark conveyed.
■""‘My dear sir, it is one of the most dura
ble material I assure you. It will last
me all my life. I don’ttbink I shall ever
have to buy another.’
Before the old gentleman could reply
to my savagely ironical remarks Bose
entered, and with a frown he left the
room.
I told her all.
‘Bose, my dear,’ I said dolefully,’ 'we
can never commence housekeeping with
nothing but a Sphinx.’
‘Certainly not, but we can wait.'
She said this with a placid smile that
almost reconciled me to my legacy.
‘But, Bose, what will your father say?'
‘I am afraid be is very much disappoin
ted. He has set his heart upon my mar
rying a rich man. I fear that he will
take some unpleasant course. Is it a pret
ty Sphinx 7’
‘Oh, charming.’
'I am so glad you can be so cheerful
about It, anyway.’
And so we chatted on; and I was
agreeably surprised that Bose bore up so
well under our affliction. ■
The next morning I received a letter.
It was from Mr. Walters, discarding
my pretensions to a sou-in-lawshlp, and
inclosing a letter from Bose, which, tho'
written as she stated, under her father’s
eye, was kind and affectionate.
Lucy always came in for her share of
the letters ; and when she did so that
morning, I gave her those two to read*
While she didso,abe stood andstroked
the back of the Sphinx, looking pale but
very pretty.
•Well,’ she said, ‘are you satisfied?’
'Yes, indeed | Bose is a noble girl.’
Lucy looked at the Sphinx and said
nothing.
I was sitting poring over some knotty
accounts of the estate, some days after
having received the letter from Mr. Wal
ters,. and thinking of him, too, at the
time, When the door bell rang violently
and a few moments afterward; without
the least announcement, he rushed into
my room.
Up was evidently in a towering pas
sion, and waved wildly a heavy cane.
‘Ah—ha—ha 1 You're here, are you,
you scoundrel! Where's my daughter?!
, ‘Sir. I do not know what you mean.’
Don’t lie to me I Bead that I Bead
thatl’ and the old gentleman handed
me a letter.
It was the dear au d well known hand
writing, and concluded thus
‘And as I am well aware that your
consent is impossible, I have determined
to do without It and go with the man I
love.’
Anil she had signed her name 1 . .
CARLISLE, PA., THURSDAY, JULY 11, 1873.
‘Now, sir, will you toll me that you
don’t know where she la?’ Will you
dare.
And Mr. Walter’s fairly shouted. I
was a little bewildered, but ; I answered
that I thought I could, and added In a
faltering voice: ‘Don't you know that
she speaks of him as her dear James?—
My name is not James. ‘Jim Reynolds !
Death and Satan!’ shouted the old gen
tleman. And he brought down his stick
on the table with, such force that he
knocked the Sphinx’s head off. ‘lt must
be Jim,’ I said, as I stooped to pick up
the head; but Walters was already half
way out of the house. I stood there with
the head In ray.hand, with a dim. idea
it was good luck that the head , was not
my own ; when, attracted by the noise,
Lucy came in. ‘What is it ?’ she asked.
.‘Lucy,’ said I, ‘Rose has run away with
Jim Reynolds, and her father has broken
ipy Sphinx’s head,’ Xjucy smiled and
answered, ‘what will you do ?’ I don’t
think ft.can be mended,’ said I, ‘You
seem to think more about the Sphinx
than Rose.’ ‘Ton my soul, I believe 1
do,’ said I. ‘But let's take a look at it/
So we endeavored to replace tbe bead.—
Of course the Sphinx was hollow; but
we never knew before that it bad a binge
in tbe back of its neck.
‘What a lot of papers!' exclaimed Lit
cy, peering into the cavity.
‘Let’s have them out! 1 And have
them out we nid, in short order. .
Three cheers! Hurrah for the Star
Spangled Banner and Aunt Mary ! The
Sphinx had. spoken I
United States Five-twenty bonds, large
and small bundles, packed tightly In ev
ery crevice and corner.
‘Lucy,’ said I, ‘I always said that X
would never part with that Spbipx, and
I won’t.
‘I thought you were going to give it to
me,’ answered Lucy, naively.
‘So I am ; but need it and I be separa
ted, if I do ?’
She raised her eyes in a bewildered
sort of way to mine.
‘Luoy,’, I oriod—'will yon try and love
me?’
She hesitated!
‘Will you try and love me !’
‘I will.;
'Then —I think—with a great effort, of
course, I—’
‘Weil ?’
‘I can love you—for, yea (I’m sure I
am blushing dreadfully, but you may
know it now—l have loved you always.’
So much for Aunt Mary—for her
Sphinx—for me—and for Lucy. This
was a truly happy day for Lucy and me,
and the memory of dear Aunt Mary was
ever fresh in our minds, and the good
Sphinx was always regarded as a pre
cious heir-loom.
MYSTERIOUS PORTRAIT,
BY B. O. PRANKS.
In a small hut handsomely furnished
sitting-room In a London hotel, a young
lady waa Bitting, -in an easy chair, before’
a blazing fire, one dreary November af
ternoon. Her hat and cloak lay upon
the table beside her, and from the eager,’
Impatient glances she turned toward the
door at every sound of a footstep on the
staircase outside, it was evident that she
expected a visitor.
At last the door opened, and a tail, ar
istocratic looking young man entered
the room.
'Oh, Harry, what a long time you
have been !’ she exclaimed, springing up
from her seat. ‘What does your father
say about our—our marriage?' hesitating
with the shyness of a bride, at the last
words.
‘Read for yourself, Helen,’ replied her
husband, handing her an open letter,and
standing opposite her, leaning against
the marble; mantle-piece, watohiqg in
tently th e expression of her fair young
face as she read :
‘ln marrying as you have done, you
have acted in direct deliberate opposi
tion to ray wishes; Prom this day .yon
ore no longer iny sou, and I wash my
hands of you forever.’
'Oh, Harry why did you not tell me of
tills before ?’ exclaimed Helen, as she
read the hard, cruel words, looking up
through her tears into her husband's
face.
‘My darling, what was there to tell ?
How could 1 know that my father would
act In this hard-hearted manner? I
knew that he wished ine to marry the
daughto r of a nobleman living near Man
sion Hail, and so unite the two estates,
but I had no idea that he would cast me
off for disobeying his wishes. And even
if I had known it)” he added, fondly
clasping his young bride to his heart and
kissing away the tears from her eyes, ‘I
should have acted differently. My Helen
is worth fifty estates, and as long as she
loves me, I shall never regret the loss of
Marslon Hall and its fair acres. But, my
love,’ be continued, more seriously,
‘there is an end of your promised shop
ping expedition in Regent street. You
will have to do without diamonds, now
that your husband is'a penniless outcast,
instead of the heir to fifteen thousand a
year.
‘Hush, Harry; please don't talk like
that,’ she said, hurt at this bitter tone ;
‘you know it was not of the diamonds
that I was thinking. But what are you
going to do, Harry 7 she continued,.layj
ing her hand upon his arm, and looking
up sadly into his pale sot face. ‘You can
not work for a living.
‘And why not work for a living,’ he
exclaimed, in a determined voice, ‘be
cause I happened to be the son of a no
bleman, brought up and educated with
out any knowledge or idea of business. —
But I will work for a living, and show
my wife that I am not unworthy of the
trust she reposed in me, when she placed
this little hand in mine,’ be added, stoop
ing to kiss the small while hand which
rested upon his arm.
It was while pursuing his favorite stu
dy of oil painting, among the famous
galleries of Borne, that Harry Marston
wooed and won Helen Traoy, a gover
ness in an English family residing in It
aly, and the orphan daughter of an offi
cer in the English army. Before he had
known her a month, Harry, who had
been in loye—or fancied himself so—
with at least half a dozen different young
ladies in as many months, felt that ho
had at last met bis fate.
Delighted at the idea of being loved
for himself alone, he bad not told her of
his real position, and it was not until
after the marriage ceremony—which
tobk plaoenlj. the British consulate—wae
oyer that Helen discovered she had mar
ried the eldest son of a baronet, and the
heir to fifteen thousand a year.
It was not without some inward" mis
givings that Harry tvtotato his father,
telling him of his marriage, which were
more than realized by the result, as we
have seen by the letter from Sir Philip
Marston, which awaited him at his club
on his return to Huglaud with his bride.
But full of confidence in his ability to
maintain himself and his young wife by
his own exertions, Harry troubled him
self very little about his lost inheritance;
and though their now homo—consisting
of three small, poorly furnished rooms,
in a hack street—was very different from
the grand old mansion to which he had
hoped to take his bride, he sat to work
cheerfully at his favorite iirt, and tried
hard to earn a living by painting pic
tures aud portraits.
Ruthesoon found, that it ,was not ho
easy as be thought.
It was4ill very well when he was heir
to Marstdn Hail, and studied painting
merely from love of art, but picture dea
lers, who in those days, had been all
flattery and obsequiousness toward the
young heir, now that be realjy wanted to
sell bis pictures and sketches, shook
their beads, and politely, but Qrmly, de
clined to,purchase.
At last one dreary afternoon, when
Harry was sitting in the little room be
called bis studio, trying to devise some,
new scheme to replenish his slender
*purse, tbe servant opened tbe door, and
ushered a white-haired old gentleman
Into the room.
Placing a chair by the fire for his visi
tor, Harry inquired his business.
'You are a portrait painter, I believe,
sir,’ said the old gentleman, looking at
him through his gold spectacles.
‘That is my profession, sir,’ replied
Harry, delighted at the thought of hav
ing found a commission at last.
‘Well, slr,T want you to paint the por
trait of my daughter.'
'With pleasure, sir.Lsaid Harry, eager
ly. 'When can the lady give mo the first
sitting?’
‘Alas, sir! she is dead—dead to me
these twenty years—and I killed her! I
broke her heart with my harshness and
cruelty !' exclaimed the old man, in an
excited voice.
A strange chill came over Harry, as
the idea that his mysterious visitor must
be an escaped lunatic, crossed his mind ;
but mastering with an effort, his emotion
the stranger continued :
‘Pardon me, young sir. This is of no
interest to yon. My daughter is dead,
and I want you to paint her portrait from
my description, as I remember hdr twen
ty years ago.’
‘I will do my best, sir, but it will be
no easy task, and you must be prepared
for disappointments,’ said Harry, when
having given him a long description of
the form and features of his long-lost
daughter, the old gentleman rose to de
part, and for weeks he worked incess?
antly upon the mysterious portrait of the
dead girl, making sketch after' sketch,
each of which was rejected by the re
morse stricken father, until the work be
gan to exercise a strange kind of fascina
tion over him, and be painted and
sketched face after face, as if under the
influence of a spell.
At last one evening, wearied wi th a day
of fruitless exertion, he was sitting over
the fire watching his wife, who sat op
posite, busy upon some needlework,
when an idea suddenly flashed upon
him.
‘Tali, lair, with golden hair and dark
blue eyes I Why, Helen, it is the very
picture of yourself! ho exclaimed, start
ing Rom his seat, taking his wife’s fair
face between his two hands, and gazing
intently into her eyes.
Without losing a moment, he ant down
and commenced to sketch Helen’s face
and when his strange patriot called the
nex t morning, Harry was so busily en
gaged in putting the finishing touches
upon ills portrait that he did not hear
him enter the room, and worked on for
some moments, unconscious of his pres
ence, until, with the cry of ‘Helen, my
daughter.!’ the man pushed him aside,
and stood entranced before the portrait.
After gazing for some minutes in si
lence, broken only by his own half sup
pressed sobs of remorse, the old man
turned slowly around to Harry and ask
ed him, in an eager voice, where he had
obtained the original of the picture.
‘lt is the portrait of my wife,’said he.
‘Your wife, sir! Who was she? Where
did you marry her ?' said the old man
excitedly. 'Pardon me for asking, these
questions,’ he added, 'but I have heard,
lately that my poor Helen left an orphan
daughter, and for the last six months I
have been vainly trying to find the child
of my lost daughter, so that, by kindness
an d devotion to my grand child, I might,
in part at least, atone for my harshness
toward her mother.’
Harry had commenced to tell him the
story of his meeting with Helen in Rome
and their subsequent marriage, when the
door opened, and his wife entered the
room.
Perceiving that her husband was en
gaged, she was about to retreat, when
the old gentleman stopped her, and after
iopklng her full in the face for a mo
ment, exclaimed:
‘Pardon me, madam--can you tell me
your mother’s maiden name ?’
‘Helen Trehoruo,’ replied Helen wou
deringiy.
‘I knew it i I knew it! exclaimed the
•Oldman, in an excited voice. ‘Thank
God, I have at last found the child of
my poor lost daughter.
In a few words Mr. Treherne explain
ed how he cast off his only child, on ac
count of her marriage with a poor officer,
and refused to open her letters when sho
wrote, asking for forgiveness.
‘But thank heaven !’ said he, when
he had finished his sad story, 'I can atano
in some meashro for my harshness tp
ward my Helen by taking her Helen fo
my heart and making her my daugh
ter.,
It is needless to add, that when Sir
Philip Marston heard that his sou had
married the heiress of one [of the finest
and oldest estates in the country, ho at
once wrote a letter of reconciliation to
Harry, and, after all, Helen eventually
became mistress of Marston Hall, in
whose grand old picture gallery, full of
old masters, no painting is mote valued
or treasured tlikn ‘The Mysterious Por
trait,’
II
i THE DESERTED HUSBAND.
His name it wns Skiver, it, was a
kind of a singular name, and ho wns a
kind of singular man, Ho was fat, and
he wap short; and ho had no more haur,
on his face than a baby, and very little
more on his head. Our boy came into
the back room, where I was stoning
cherries one day, and says ho: , .
‘ Airs. Entwistlo, there’s a
man.’
‘ Where ?’ says I. .
1 In the hall,’ says lie.
1 Why don’t you show him into the
parlor?’says I.
‘ Why ho won’t go,’ says ho; ‘ and
ho says ho must see you for a minute.’
* Oh,’ says 1., A bill no doubt.’
So out I walked, and there ho stood ;
and I thought, as I looked at him, ‘ If
poor Mrs. Chicory’s baby had grown
up to bo four feet throe, and otherwise
stayed just so, ho’d a been your very
image.’
‘Air you the lady of the house?*
says he.
‘I am,’, says I; ‘ but if it’s to sub
scribe to anything, with butter at the
price it is, don’t ask me. I’d like a
Holy Scripture with illustrations, and
I’d like the Fashion Magazine, as well
as another; but I caij’t afford it, and
that’s a fact. .. I had a literary taste
once, but it’s all gone, i’m nothing
but sugar and butter and coala and
kindling wood inwardly, so, don’t show
’em to nie and aggravate me by ’em;
don’t, I pray. Subscriptions to books
for them that don’t keep boarders.’
‘ Mum,’ says ho, ‘ your words go to
my heart; but it ain’t my object.’
‘ What is your object then, may I
ask, sir?’says I.
■ 1 Board mum,’ says he.
' ‘ Well,’ says I, ‘ I .have a vacancy—
but, it’s on the top floor.’
‘ Any place will do for-me. says he.—
‘ A poor, deserted critter like me.’
And two tears came Into nls eyes.
‘ Perhaps ho really i&o baby,’ says I
to myself. ‘ A giant baby.’ •
‘ Deserted!’ says I.
‘ Yes’m,’ says ho. She went off and
left me a Wednesday night without my
supper.’
‘ Your ma ?’ says I.
‘ No’m,’ says he. 1 A holier tie, if
possible. My ma’ would never have
done such a thing. My wife, mum.’
‘ The abandoned critter,’ says I.
‘ No’m,’ says he. ‘ Wirtue itself; a
most respectable woman; a lady, when
I married her, as supported herself up
right ajid noble with a sewing machine.
No names, mum, if you please.*
‘ What did she go off then for!’ says
I. ‘A married woman’s place is in her
husband’s home. Had you words ?’
. ‘ She had a few, mum; a good many,
I may say,’ said the gentleman; 1 but I
gin her none back. She had 1 her rea
sons for leaving. If I may confide in
you, mum, she was Jealous.’
‘Jealous!’ said I. ‘No doubt'you
gave her cause. Mon always do.’
;‘ As sure as my name is Skiver,’ said
the gentleman. ‘ I’m as innocent as the
babe unborn. She would set at the
winder, and her form was fine; but I
didn’t so much as mention it to Jane
Amelia, and I was only—excuse me for
alluding to it—l was only a blowing of
my nose, no more, and. she waved her
hnndkercher, and Jane Amelia says,
says she, ‘ The end has come at last,’
and left me.*
‘ For blowing your nose ?’ says I.
‘Thought it was flirting, you see,’
says he.
‘ Oh,’ says I; ‘ with the person with a
fine figure at the opposite window?’
‘ Yes’m,’ says he; ‘and I’m willing
and able to pay ; • and any hole X can
crawl into will do, for life is ended with
me, and it’s all oyer.’ >
‘ Oh, she’ 11 come back,’ says I. * Why
don’t you make her?’
1 Make Jane Amelia do anything !’
says he. ‘ You don’t know her.’
Ho he came. And he sat at my table
witli a very wretched countenance, and
Mr. Scrapples,. the comic man that
writes for the papers, he did ask me, to
be sure, ‘ if he’d been sent there to be
weaned,’ for he looked like it.
Ho eat bread and milk for his break
fast, and ho never spoke to anybody;
but I felt sorry for him, for my pafrt.—
And I 1 was just thinking that it was
hard for him to be used sO, and that
Jane Amelia ought to be ashamed of
herself, when I heard a tapping at the
window-panes.. I forgot to say that it
was eleven o’clock at night, and I was
mixing my bread in the front base
ment. 1 Tap, tap, tap,’ it came, short
and'quick—‘ tap, tap, tap.’
1 Gracious!’ says I. ‘ What’s that ?’
‘ It’s only me,’ says a veijce outslde;
* don’S’be afraid, Mrs. Entwistle. It’s
only a poor, lone lorn woman like your
self.’
X opened the door and peeped out.—
The moon was bright and there stood a
woman in a decent calico dross and a
big. apron and a little shawl and a sun
bonnet.
‘‘■(‘May I come in?’ says she.
‘ Who are you ?’ says I.
‘l’m a poor woman, ’ says she, ‘a
looking for a place, and I heard you
was a wanting a girl; and says Ito ray
self, I’ll go and offer before she gets
another.’
‘ I want a girl, to bo sure,’ says I;
1 but can you do the work?’
‘ There’s no work I can’t do,’ says she.
‘Cook, wash, Iron, sweep, scrub, wait,
odd. jobs—anything ; and your own
wages. What I want is a homo.’
‘ References ?’ says I.
With that she whips off her sun bon
net, and stands under the gas.
* You Jest look at me,’ says she, ‘ and
then see if you want reference. Don’t
I look respectable ?’
She did, and 1 hired her, and she
came next morning. And I’ll say this,
that sho was a worker.
Sho went about it in the big sun-bon
net, with a handkerchief about her face
for toothache. And the comic gentle
man asked mo if sho wasn’t somebody
in disguise. But she worked. Sho
asked questions too.
‘ Please’m, can you tell mo who that
Stoutish gentleman that sits at the bot
tom ofthe table Is?’ says sho,
1
♦
\
VOL. 59.-N0.5
Mr. Dillwin,’ says I. ‘ You mean
the one with the light .whiskers ?’
1 No'm,' says she. ‘ A kind of good
looking gentleman, with no whiskers
at all, and. pink cheeks.’
,* Oh!’ says I. ‘ That is Mr. Ski ver.
He’s now hero.’
i ‘A kind of gay Lothario, ain’t he?’
says she.
‘ As to that I don’t know,’ says I.—
1 Has he given you any impudence ?
Because if he has he goes. .
1 Never looked at me,’ says she; ‘ but
no doubt he’s looked enough at that
fixy widdbr with the lot of Jot on, and
that young Miss in blue; no doubt of
that.’ '
‘Perhaps you know something about
him?’says I.
‘No,’ says she. ‘ How should I?’
‘ He’s a gentleman that is separated
from his wife,’ says I.
‘ And came hero and talked against
her,’ says she.
, ‘ No,’says I, ‘ not a word. He’s the
Injured one, I think. He spoke high of
her.’
‘Oh,’ says she. Then she washed
away for a while. And after a while
she says:
• Spoke high, did he ? Ah I’
She didn’t speak again until dinner
time, except about the work. Then
waiting on the table in her big sun
bonnet, she came out with a saucer in
her hand.
! I want a little more pudding,’ says
she'. 1 ,
‘One help of pudding ought to do
boarders,’says I.
Says she
‘ It’s for Mr. Skiver. Hedidn’t ask
for it, but I know he’s fond of pudding,
and ho hardly eat any "meat. Poor
critter! didn’t look at the widder once;
no more he didn’t at the gal. Looks
low-spirited too. Give him my piece,
•Mrs. Entwistle, if you cant afford no
more.’
‘ Such meannoao Lm’t ia mo, Bally,-'
says 1; ‘but don’t let the other boards
ers see it, if you can help.’
That was the beginning of it. After
that it went straight on. Sally was as
well-behaved a woman as ever I met,
otherwise ; an’d she kept her face cover
ed up in her sun-bonnet, and mostly
her chin tied up in herhandkercher too,
in a way forward pieces don’t often do.
A pretty face she had too—pretty
enough for a woman of her age. But
it was as plain as a pikestaff to me
that she had fallen in love with Mr.
Skiver,
Talk about pity,! I pitied him; but
I didn’t feel as she did. She bought
things out of her own money, and took
’m up to his door on a tray—ale and
pie, add such. She made his room
windows shine* and put clean pillow
cases on four times a week. She black
ed his boots and brushed his coat, and
laid herself out to make him comforta
ble. And the fun was she never let
him get a glimpse of her face, and she
always said, ‘ Mrs. Entwistle sent you
this, sir,’ when she took him up the
trays. Other kind of conduct, I’d have
you to understand, I’d not have allow
ed beneath my roof.
So things went on for a spell, and
surely Mr. Skiver was a proper man.—
‘Never spoke to the ladies,’ so Sally
said; never seemed to know that Sally
was alive. The widow called him ‘Old
Sulks,’ and the daughter called him
‘Crossness’ —that I knew; and Mrs.
Henbane, the married lady that flirted
with all the boarders, couldn’t get a
word from him. And one day Sally
sits down on a kitchen chair, and
pushes her sun-bonnet off, and says
she :
‘Mrs. Entwistle, mum, that man is
the most particular I ever see, and a
credit to his sex. Give him shad for
dinner.’
Now shad at that season, just come
In, you know, is too deiir for boarders.’
Says I, ‘Sally, how can I afford it?’
Says she, ‘Send me for it—l’m a rare
hand to bargain,’
Says I, ‘Mortal man can’t bargain
down fresh spring shad.
Says she, ‘ Give me what you can af
ford, and I’ll see.’
And I did it. And I know that the
critter took money of her own to help
it out, for finer shad were never stuffed
and baked on any table.
When. they were all helped I saw
Sally standing peeping in at the door,
and though I .couldn’t, see her face, I
did see she was rubbing her hands in a
rejoicing sort of way; and soon she
whispered to me:
‘ An’t it nice to see him eat it? I
knew that would go down.’
And I know she meant Mr. Skiver.
And I was sort of laughing to myself,
when suddenly up jumps Mr. Skiver
and begins to stamp about the room.
‘ Qh what is it?' said I.
1 Bone in his throat,’ says Mr. Dill
win. ‘ That’s the worst of shad.’
1 Ow, wow, wow!’ coughs Mr. Skiver.
• Oh 1 oh I oh 1’ screams Sally.
‘ Take a drink,’ says I. .
‘Oh let mo beht you on the back!’
cries Sallie.
‘ He’s choking to death, I believe,’
said the widow.
‘ Let me get out before ho does,’ said
Mrs. Henbane.
And there was Mr, Skiver black in
the face.
‘ Run for a doctor,’ said Mr. Dillwin.
And one of ’em started; hut before
he was out of the room, Sally had Mr.
Skiver on a lounge, and had put her
finger into his throat, and was screech
ing
‘Gag, dear; gag I I’ll tickle your
throat I Gag, my own blessing, and It
will come up. O Lord I I cooked the
shadl O gracious 11 bought it. O goody,
goody gracious I I’ve been the death of
him I Gag, ducky diamond! Gag, and
it ’ll come up.’
And up it did come, in a minute,—
And I heard the comic man roar as ho
rushed up stairs, and I saw Sally make
tracks for the kitchen, as well she
might.
I followed her. She was sitting ott
the floor, all covered up by the big sun
bonnet as though it bad been a tent.
1 Oh, Sally 1' says I, ‘ where was your
sense of modesty V’
A\\ she dirt was to groan. And then
I i Hates of Advertising.! a
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there was another groan, and there
stood Mr. Skiver! - i ,f
. ‘ Mrs. Jlintwistle, mum,' says he, ‘l’ve
come to say a word.’
■ ‘ Well, sir,’ says I.:
- ‘ I must leave, mum, ’■ says‘hei s ■ 1
■ ‘ Why, sir ?’sayfe' l.' " i: A '' ‘
‘ It’s trying to my feelings to mention
it’ says he, ‘ but it’s the conduct of that
person.’
‘ Well, it was singular,’ says I.; ‘but
she did her best for you. You was
choking.’
“ Mum,” says he, “ I’d rather be
choked to'death than to bo called any
female’s ducksy diamonds, ’ and her
dear.”
“I registered a vow, mum, when X
was deserted by the female whose es
teem I valued, that her unjust suspi
cions should never bo made true; that
I should live so as when I met her in
Heaven I could say, * Jane Amelia true
I was and true I remained. . It was
your fatal mistake, and I was only
blowing of my nose.’ ”
" Now, behold, I am embraced, and
called duck, and dear, and ducksy dia
monds, before a table full of genteel
people, to say nothing of one of a ma
licious turn of mind that writes for pa
pers. So no offence to you. I’m go
ing, mum. Oh!”
He kinder ended off with a howl,
and he was staring at something as if
he’d seen a ghost.
I looked around. Sally had her bon
net off, and was standing up in the
middle of the kitchen.
‘Oh I’ says he again. ‘ What do I
see?’ '
‘ Your own Jane Amelia,’ says shei
and throws herself into his arms.
‘ I came here to, watch you,’ says
she. ‘I hired out here in disguise, and
I’ve tested you, and I know you.—
There whs a mistake on my side, I am
well flscured. I’ VO got the key In iny
pocket, and we’ll go home together,
and I’ll never doubt you any more,’
Then, looking, more like a baby than
ever, with the tears running .down his
face, ho looked over her shoulder at
me.
‘ This is my wife, mum,’ says he.
‘ So I should hope,’ says I, ‘and a big
fool she’s made of herself.’
She didn’t say anything, and they
went away together; hbd I believe
they’ve lived happy ever since. If
they haven’t it’s her fault, for a bettor
husband never lived, I do believe, than
poor Mr. Skiver.— ledger. .
ODDS AND ENDS.
Why,la a bad picture like weak tea?—
Because it Is not well drawn.
How long did Cain bate his brother
As lone as he was Abel.
An honest back driver has been found
in New York. He is to be killed, stuffed
and placed in Barnum’a museum. .
Why is a thief on a garret an honest
man? Because he is above doing a bad
action.
The coquette who wins and sacks lov
ers, would, If she were a military. con
queror, win and sack cities.
He who takes an eel by the toil and a"
Woman by the tongue, is sure to come
off empty handed.
O. W. Holmes says that crying wid
ows marry ffrst. There is nothing like
wet weather for transplanting.
Franklin says: “If any one tells
you that a workmen can become rich
otherwise tnan by labor and saving, do
not listen to him—he is a poisoner.”
Greeley says thers ’ will be no
doughnut crop this year. He says the
cold March weather killed the buds on
all the dough trees.'
The maqner of advertising for a hus
band in Java is by placing an empty
flower pot on the portico roof, which is
as much as .to say, “ A young lady is
in the house. Husband wanted.”
If a sweet disposition does not coine
to a lady by nature, it will come to her
by express—if the express brings her a
new bonnet.
Before hanging a man in Louisiana
they let from fifteen to forty newspaper
reporters interview him for three
weeks. The poor fellow Is then not
only willing but anxious to be hung.
The Dutchman who bad a rush of
blood to the bead, and turned himself
heels up to make it rush bach agalnj baa
since died of strabismus in his spinal
contortions.
A Minister who bad received a num
ber of calls'and could not hardly decide
which was best, asked the advice of his
faithful African servant, who :replied,
" Massa, go where de most debble.”
An editor in Ohio says he was never
happy but once, and that was one warm
day when he lay in the laps of 'two
blooming maidens, 'being fanned by a
third, and kissed by all three.
■ The Belfast Joarnal says that there is
a man in that city whose boats are so
large that he can’t tarn around In muoh
less apace than a quarter of an acre. He
got stuck on the depot grounds the other
day, and they bad to put him on the
turn-table to set him pointed right.
A Dutch woman kept a toll-gate. Oue
foggy day a traveler asked, “Madam,
how far la it to B—7’’ “ Shoost a lit
tle ways,’’ was the reply. “Yes, but
how far 7’’ again asked the traveler.
“ Madam, Is it one, two, four or five
miles?’’ The good woman ingeniously
replied, " I dinks it is I’’
,A cientleman named Dunlop remark
ed that he bad never heard bis name
punned upon, and did notbelieve it could
bo done. “ There is nothing in the world
more easy, sir’’ remarked a punster.—
" Just lop off half the name apd It is
Dun.” ■
Two eminent clergymen of Brooklyn
—the one an Episcopalian and the other
a Unitarian—met in crossing Wall street
ferry. Joking being in order, the church
man said, ‘Brother , I were not an
Episcopalian, I would bo a Unitarian.’—
‘Why so 7’ was the question. ‘Because X
always bad my mind made up to bu eith
er something or nothing,’ was the quick
reply,’
Of .Hi