F' Li bI I SAMUEL WRIGHT, Editor and Proprietor. VOLUME XXIX, NUMBER 47.] ,PUBLISRED ETERY SATURDAY MORNING Office in Carpet MU, South-west corner of :Front and Locust streets. Terms of Subscription 6.11 C Copyperannum,if paidin advance, if not paid within three .month strata commencernew of the year, 200 41. idoxt - tas .a.. 4C4=.13-sr. No subscript ion received fore 1c,.„ time than six months; and no paper will be di.continued until all surearagesare paid,unleesat the optionof the pub- '{Flier. jErAloneymay Lcrc milted b 3 mail altherublibli er's risk. Rates at Advertising, * square [6 Itnesjane wee*, three weeks. each-übsequentinsertion, IU [l2llnes] one week. three weeks, 1 00 •achsub,equenttnserllon. OS • Largeradverticetnentriu proportion. A libernidiecount made to quarterfy,lnalt: early oryearlyadverticers,who are strictl)nonfitted o their business. Nintrg. Envy He was the first always; Fortune Shone bright on his face. I fought for years: with no effort He conquered the place: We ran; toy feet were all bleeding, But he woo the race. Spite of his many successes, Men loved him the same; My one pale ray of good fortune Met scoffing and blame: When we erred, they gave him pity, But toe only AIIITC. 111 y home was still in the shadow, His lay in the sun. I long'd in ruin: what he asked for It straightway was done. Once I staked all my heart's treasure, We played---and he won. Yes; and just now I have seen him, Cold, smiling and blest, Laid in his cof f in. Cad help me! While he is at rest, I ant cursed still to live:—even Death loved him hest. Dreaming. I wandered through the summer fields All in the blue and golden morn, And like Christ's followers of old, I plucked the ear* of corn. nigh up a lark sung rapturous hymns, Low down, among the rustling .tans, ilia brown mate listened. and the clew Set round her inert with gems. I laid me down and dreamt and dreamt Of summer mornings in the I.nid Where you and I, dear love, went forth Each morning, hand to hand. I thought athwart the tremulous tears / saw your blue eyes gleaming sweet, Through golden locks; also 'twos but The conollutvera'atid the whet: [Household IVordr grirttioitz. Love's Labor Lost "Ira loves mo—he loves me not—he loves met" Very pretty is the scene where Mar garet consults the fates by such botanlman cy. Leaf after leaf the flower fhlis. Faust bends over the little head, and watches the eager fingers, and listens wonderingly to the scareo-uttered words. Then the last leaf, and the burst of wild delight, "lie loves me!" "Yes, yes, my love," says Faust, "he loves thee! lie loves thee!" In this case, however, Faust was not pres ent. Margaret sat on the smooth lawn of a trim garden, under a great elm tree—in the cool shade, while all else quivered in heat and light. Margaret pulled her flower to pieces deliberately enough. Tier little white bands were methodical and steady. She beat time with a mouse of a foot as each petal fell. No burst of rapture as she plucked the last from the stalk. Perhaps the conclusion was negative, no affirmative; so she threw the stalk away, too. Tho an swer of the fates she consulted was clearly unsatisfactory—•ambiguous, doubtless, as such answers are wont to be—therefore she took another flower from her lap, and tried again. Still an ambiguous answer. She pulled to pieces another and another. until the grass round her was covered with the debris. A gust of wind from the hot east came and scattered the flower-fragments far and wide, like Sibyline leaves. Only the stalks remained; and at these the mouse foot nibbled, giving them little petulant *deka and stamps; drawing them nearer, pushing 'them away, then deserting them wholly and retiring out of eight. Such sort .of botanomancy, it was manifest, was of lit- Ale avail. Our Margaret had a harder flues lion wherewith to pose the fates than, "Does 'he love me?" She could answer that her self, being wiser in her generation than a dove-sick peasant girl. tWhen a young lady has ascertained, not ..oply that he loves her, but that a dozen he's !love k.er, a much more difficult question arises, namely—" Whom shall I love?" or, , rather, "Whom shall I marry?" Julia dis , cusses the question with her soubrette Lu ..cetta; , Portia with her soubrette Norissa.— •,The young lady under the elm tree was ,more discreet; she conEned the services of :her maid to hairdressing, and revolved such matters,in her own little head—a wise and cool head, not Busch plagued by heart-throb binge. She ceased to pull flowers to pieces, and began to slip a tiny ring up .and down a tiny anger. (The ring was "a peek too wide.") Dactyloranney might succeed where botanomancy failed. A young man came rapidly across the lawn and stood before her. "Oh, how you have frightened mer she said, in the calmest manner. "Will you sit down?" She made room beside her. "What a hot day?" lie sat down silent for ,fully a minute.— ills voice died in Lis throat, trembled, and st:ugglcd, and choked. Ili9 eyes were wild and moist: —a foolish young man. "Margaret," he cried at length, "for God's sake tell me if what I hear is true! Is it really true-0 my God!—is it really true that you are—that you are—" "What?" she interrupted, in innocent sur prise, "what have you heard?" "That—that—it is a lie, I know it is—you are engaged to be married to Mr. Bowring?" She was silent. Her eyelids drooped.— The foot nearest to him came out, and be gan to beat the devil's tattoo close to his foot. One band glided over the other, and hid the ring with which she had been play ing. $l5O URI "Do you think that it is a proper question for you to ask?" she said, mildly. "Ought I to answer it?" "It is true, then?" he cried, passionately. "You have deceived me! You have played with me!" This and much more. Then there was a lull in the storm, and his mood changed. "Oh, forgive me, Margaret, forgive me! I am mad, and do not know what I say. Perhaps it is not true. You said it was not? Tell me—only one word—yes or no. Oh, darling, we have known each other so long —we are such old friends—let me know the worst, and I will go and never see you again." "She did not lift her eyelids. Her foot still beat its regular tap close to his. lie could feel the vibration. She neither re sented his reproaches, nor compassionated his humility. "Do you think it is a proper question for you to ask?" she repeated in precisely the same tone. There was another storm of passion from him; reproaches ungentle and unwise—ac cusations, sarcasms, denunciations. Ho spoke of Mr. Bowring's age; that ho was old enough to be her father; that it was im possible she could love him. "The excess of age would be on the right side," she said, raising her eyes to his for a moment. "You would not have the wife older than the husband!" Ile (the young man now tearing a passion to tatters) was younger than she by two years. "You never referred to my youth before," he said, with a bitter laugh; "it did not suit your purpose." She smiled faintly. It had not suited her purpose. He descanted, much after the fashion of the soliloquizer in "Locksley-hall," on Mr. Bowring's grossness of intellect: Is it welt to wish thee happy'—having known me— to decline On a range of rower feelings and a narrower heart than otter! Yet it shall be: thou shalt lower to his level, day by clay. What is hue within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay." "I never pretended to be clever," she re plied, with a shrug of her pretty shoulders. "You, who are so clever yourself, must have despised me long ago." lie got up, and stood before her. Stand ing in the hot sun, he cast a cooler shade over the lady. Her foot followed his, and still vibrated on the grass in closest prox- In.ity. "You cannot lore this man," he said; "it is impossible. Oh, Margaret, you cannot mean to sell yourself for money; to sell your beauty—your beauty—Oh, it drives me mad! to soil your soul; tocontarninate your purity; to barter your flesh and blood; to put a price upon your kisses—" "You forget you are speaking to a lady," she interrupted, in a tone more soothing than angry. "You will think more wisely on these matters when you are older. Love in a cottage reads very prettily in your poets, but this world is sadly practical." Both were silent. Margaret suppressed a yawn, "flow is your father?" she asked after a time, willing to change the conver sation. Ile had been thinking; recalling all the past—remembering many a lore-passage known only to him and her. "Margaret," he said at last, not noticing her question, "either you have lied to me deliberately for years, or you love me. Ei• ther you have not the sense of modest shame, or you love me. You do love me," he broke out more passionately; "you do love met" Again she shrugged her shoulders. "I have always had a great regard for you as a friend—l always shall hare a great re gard for you. I hope we shall always be friends." "Friends!" he cried, laughing. "You had better sit down," she said.— "The sun must be very hot." Love conversations—whether in the way of billing and cooing or of pecking and claw ing—are stupid. Robert Seaton (the Faust to our Margaret) continued to ring the same changes as before. Love and anger, jeal ousy and trust, pride and humility alter nated. Now he begged fur a definite an swer to his first question; now he took for granted that the engagement was a fact; now that it was not so. lie referred to the past—he prophesied of the future. He ex aggerated the past by reason of hie vivid re mem branoes, and the future by reason of his vivid hopes and fears, Meanwhile, Marga ret remained calm and impassive. Sometimes we see young ladies of forty who have the hearts and heads of twenty. Margaret at twenty-two had the heart and head of forty. She was/ram blooded, cold hearted. Her cool, clear reason would have had a sinecure if its sole office .bad been to overrule the heart inclinations. It had "NO ENTERTAINMENT IS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING." COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, JUNE 18, 1859 other work to do. She was a consummate coquette, and, as with all coquettes, her temperament was ardent. She had a bound less appetite for passionate admiration.— Like Cleopatra itt the mood, she said to every man, "Come here, that I may look on thee." This instinctive plea sure, primr.rily natural, was wisely gov erned by reason. Sho knew how far, to what extreme limit, she might indulge this pleasure. She knew how to systematize this natural instinct into an art, and to make it a means towards advantageous ends. She had what is called a good temper—a su premely good temper; so good, in her case, that it ceased to be temper at all. The iras cible was undeveloped in her disposition. As she had not the power of love, so neither had she that of anger. What rudiments of a heart she possessed were inclined towards Seaton. She took herself to task for ac knowledging a vague regret that circum stances prevented her from marrying him. "If Bowring," she thought, "had not fallen in love with me, the other would not have been so bad a match." And then, accord ing to the promptings of her conventional religion, she chided herself for being un grateful to Providence for the benefits which it threw in her way. Even now, while she listened to the vio lent, the unmanly reproaches of Seaton, she experienced from them a sort of pleasure. "Hew much he loves me!" she thought, won deringly. TllO storm of his passion was a mystery to her. She could comprehend a momentary tumult of the blood when eye met eye or hand pressed hand; but such an guish of the heart was like a tragic scene spoken before her in an unknown tongue. Her limited imagination tried to realize what it all meant; how such things could be; and she drew what feeble sketch it was possible fur her to draw. Of a surety, in our own eyes is what we see; in our own fancy are the objects which we love and hate. It was not for the man whe stood before her that Margaret felt her feeble preference; it was not this veritable Margaret whom Seaton loved. Even apart from his passion, he looked upon this dreaded union as it were an union between a Cali ban and a Mirandi—something loathsome and unnatural, which would people the whole earth with monstrous shapes; whereas Margaret was no Mirandi, nor Bowring a Caliban. Bowring—an honest country gen tleman of good blood, great fortune, bad taste, and small wit—deserved a far better wife than Margaret. He was a man having much more self-command and common sense than the would-be Ferdinand. How many a comedy, or tragedy, or farce of Errors en acts itself daily! Robert Seaton was by nature too sensi tive; and he had not lived long enough to discover and to guard against this super seasitiveness. lie was jealous—as all sen sitive men aro in love matters. Ile would long ago have wearied out any temper but that of Margaret. He saw with the eyes of a Leontes, and detected "paddling palms and pinching fingers" where none such were. In like manner he over-estimated any tri flinglove favors granted to himself. Mar garet, however, it must be confessed, bad given him sufficient cause for both jealousy and self-deception. There had never been any engagement between them. Seaton was dependent on his father, and, though an only son, had no great expectations. Margaret had carefully avoided bringing matters to a crisis. There was plenty of time—she was but twenty-two: he was only twenty. She had valued her beauty at a fair price, and knew that it was worth more than Seaton could give for it. Even suppos ing no better suitor offered, ho was not yet sufficiently settled in the world to marry; and there could be no use in binding her self to him too soon. She was not afraid of his escaping her. The skilful angler plays with his fish with no uncertainty of landing it at last. While ' Margaret felt herself perfectly free, Robert felt that they were bound to each other by I a tacit engagement. This vow of Robert's ' Margaret knew; bat of course she could not help what be chose to think. Thus while she accepted all his devotion of passionate love as mere gallantry, he believed that by her very acceptance, by the evident plea-! sure she had in receiving this devotion, she acknowledged a love in return. It 'was in his eyes an honorable compact between them, which he would as soon have broken him self as have thought that she could break. He was waiting only until his worldly af fairs were in a more certain condition to consummate hie love in marriage. In a year ho would become a partner in a mer cantile house which traded to India, in place of his father, who retired. Only one year, and he could marry. Such was the state of things when Mr. Bowring came upon the scene. Margaret could not waver between them. What pru dent young person could hesitate between landed estates, worth ten thousand a year, and a probable competency arising from trade with India! The one was immediate and certain; the other was liable to all the accidents of the future and of fortune. The rank of the country gentleman was prefera ble to that of the merchant. Bowring was his own master, while, as yet, Seaton was totally dependent on his father. • As we have said, Margaret felt at first that vague sort of regret amounting to little more than that the could have been satisfied had it been otherwise. This regret occurred to her as she passed from the old lover to the new; there was no hesitation of choice. Bowring's superior claims being once ad mitted, the possibility of her ever having thought of marrying Seaton was discarded from her mind. This was really virtuous in her. She felt that self-approbation which only 'virtue can bring. The advantages on the scorn of age, of intellect, of personal ap pearance, which Seaton had over Bowring, sufficed to mingle just that spice of self-sac rifice which every virtuous act must pos sess. Margaret had expected a scene with Sea- ton, and she was prepared for it. She was armed at all points, intrenched on all sides. She had promised nothing; she had never dreamed of Seaton as anything but a friend. If he had seen reason to gather more than that from her conduct she was grieved. Had she known that her conduct would have been so interpreted, she would have been much more careful; but any mistakes that had arisen must bo imputed to her in nocence, and to misconception thereof.— Seaton, as a friend, had no right to inquire into her present or future intentions. This was her line of defence should she be hard pressed, but her chief tactics consisted in saying as little as possible. To her impassibility Seaton vainly op posed his passion. Vainly he begged or de. mended a definite answer. Vainly he re ferred to the past, which Margaret had con scientiously discarded from her mind. lle believed against belief, and clung to his phantom Margaret in desperation. It was difficult to conceive the fall of an angel. All his life, past and to come, must be swept away with her. There was not a thought, or sensation, or feeling, in which she had not a part; there was no hope or expecta tion of which she was not the essence; he could not picture to himself a life apart.from her. He flung himself on his knees, and seized her hand, and burst into a passion of tears over it. She did not take it from him. It was the prettiest hand in the world. Shakespere might have lavished all his marvelous epithets upon It;—"white won der," "flower soft,"--what was it not? Suddenly he espied the ring, which she had hitherto concealed. She wore other rings—many of them, (one pitied the small fingers so burdened) but he knew the oth ors by heart—this was new. "Where did you get this ring?" he demanded, starting to his feet. She hesitated a moment and then an swered quietly, "Mr. Bowring gave it to me." He threw the hand from him and wont Poor little hand. It fell heavily on the the back of the garden seat; it was brui.•ed and cut with the ring. The blood mounted to her checks; she bit her lips, and stifled a cry; tears filled her eyes. She could feel physical pain. She did not resent even this. After a moment she examined the wounded hand, and saw with concern that it wes red and swollen; she examined the ring and found that it was bent. She got up and went towards the house. - Before she reached the open window Bowriog mot her. "I have hurt nay band," ehe said. "Pity met" Ho tried to take it in hie. "No," ahe said; "not that one, tho other." She gave him her other hand, and hid the wounded one behind her; she was ashamed of the defect in its beauty. Soon after this, Robert Seaton went to India. He was sick at heart, and longed for change. Margaret was to be married to Bowrinic; the affair was decided. All that he bad to du waste forget. He applied to business with ten-fold ardor; not with the thought of Margaret as his inctntive now, but in the endeavor to drive away re membrance of her. Ile sailed full of schemes for the extension and improvement of the India branch of the mercantile house into which he was to be admitted as a partner. Little as the sameness of the long weary voyage was calculated to make him forgot, he bad recovered his heart, or the most part of it, before he reached India. Violent passions are always the least lasting; they burn themselves out when the supply of fuel ceases, and leave but a few ashes which, by and by, a chance wind blows away. * * * * * Twenty years had passed, and on the same garden scat Margaret eat again. It was a summer day, as it had been before. There was but little change in the garden. Some few young trees had grown mature; there was a thicker covering of ivy on the trunk of the old elm, and one of its huge branches had been carried away by a storm, so that Margaret's favorite seat was less shaded than it used to be. Tbe lawn was coated with soft moss, which had spread among the grass roots year by year. Twenty years—which snake little change in an elm tree—are a third of ordinary human life. Twenty years change the child into the blooming woman, and again deprive the woman of her bloom. Time, however, had passed lightly over Margaret. At a little distance one could detect no change from the Margaret of tweaty-two. She was pretty still. She had lost her first bloom and freshness; she was a little thin ner; her hair was leas luxuriant; there were faint lines upon her forehead. But she re- tained much of her old charms; her eyes were as fine as ever, her bands and feet as pretty, her shape scarcely less symmetrical, her manner as fascinating. A critical oh- I server might perceive a greater elaboration of toilette than of old. Art did all that I could be done for failing nature. A hat' (not too juvenile) shaded her face, and she kept her gloves on scrupulously, even in'. the shade--gloves with gauntlet., which made her hands look smaller than they • wore. She was careful to preserve what' yet remained to her of beauty. To look at her, and to dream of the age of forty, seemed preposterous. And yet Margaret had had her disappointments. She was unmarried still. A quarrel had arisen between her and Bowring. There were censorious tongues in the neighbor. hood, edged yet more keenly by the know ledge that the tones they uttered were less sweet than Margaret's. Mamma's who bad plain daughters; and the plain daugh ters themselves, called her flirt, and pro nounced those fascinations disgraceful which were impossible to therm Bowring was a plain man, who, in buy ing a wife, looked to have a warranty with her. He inquired unpleasantly about the past; he demanded more present devotion than it was possible for her to give. Mar garet had not the power to resist that de sire of pleasing which was natural to her. Because Bowring was to be her husband, that was no reason NV b y she should cease to be attractive to all other men. The rat tlesnake (it is dpopularly supposed) gains its daily food by the process of charming. Margaret deprived of her faculty of charm ing Fould have died of inanition. So the engagement was gradually broken through —worn away by a series of small disagree ments. Margaret, in the midst of her sor row, had a vague sense of relief, just as she had a vague sense of regret in passing over from Seaton to Bowring. Time pass ed; Margaret had always plenty of admir ers, but no declared lover. The men were fascinated by her, and feared her. "The greatest success a woman can achieve," somedody has said, "is, that she should not be talked about." Men did talk about Margaret. Time passed on; her sisters were married one after the other, and she, the eldest, and by far the most beautiful, remained single. Her father died; she and her mother were let. With the father's death much of their income, arising from an entailed estate, passed away from them. She and her mother, who was aged and infirm, were left in straitened circumstances. She nursed her mother diligently, paying her all the out ward observances of a good and affection ate daughter. What degree of real love sho had it would be impossible to discover. They were much alike, and so had a mutu al sympathy at all events. From her mother Margaret lied inherited her feeble heart, and by means of her mother's early lessons this feeble heart had been crushed more and more. From her she had learned to estimate her beauty as the price where with to purchase a good settlement in life; had learned to preserve this beauty, to en hance it and adorn it as her most precious possession. Even now, in their narrow cir cumstances, the most expensive item of their household economy was the wages of Margaret's maid. The pretty daughter had always been the mother's favorite, as , being the one who was to marry the first and to marry the best- All the mother's hopes had been disappointed: Margaret had often to bear querulous comrlainings and reproaches. That one impulse of her na ture, namely, appetite for indiscriminate admiration, to which Margai et had given rein, had ruined everything. If she had but been content to express all the feelings • and soneationa born with her—to become wholly a machine! Margaret had had her disappointments, and for some time now her life had been but a weary repetition of itself from day to day. Nevertheless, the change in her was marvellously small. Tier lack of strong feeling, her lack of the irascible, bad kept her• forehead smooth and her oomplexion fresh. She had still her amusements, still a small court of admirers, who whiled away' the heavy time. Ninon do L'Enclos, say the biography books, was the object of a violent attachment at seventy. At forty Margaret did not fipd it dificult to retain the allegiance of her court, though young girls sneered at her, and pronounced that it was time for her to give place. She had cased to rival thorn openly; she no longerdis ' puted their regality in the ballroom, but some men found the quiet gaislen-seat a very pleasant spot, and left the rising beauties to pay homage there. There was the lean doctor, and the fat curate, and a country 'squire or two who bad been in love with her long ago, and who kept up their fealty as • a remembrance of their youth. There was the vicar's eon, when at home from college, who was young enough to be her own child, and whose honest lunacy reminded her of Seaton. Even officers quartered at the neighboring town discovered that slab was a pleasant person to flirt with; and clergymen, of opinions high or low, for miles round, found their ambling nags car rying them, they scarce knew why, towards her place of audience. She was not likely to die of inanition yet, though such a pros pect was beginning to force itself on her as what might be—a dreary prospect? The man of letters, whose failing eyesight warns him to lay aside his books; the musician, *1,50 PER YEAR IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IP NOT IN ADVANCE. whose failing ear begins to play him false; the man of deeds, whose failing strength forces him to quit the arena—all have re membrance of worthy success accomplished Margaret had achieved nothing. She felt that her beauty was departing from bor. and that it had done nothing. She had no triumphs stored up to hold in remembrance when triumphs should be no longer possible —a dreary prospect! She would not meet the evil half way; she would enjoy what she could in the present; and then, let the worst come. On this summer afternoon, when we again introduce Margaret, a new hope had unex pectedly dawned upon her—a hope vague and uncertain, but still a hope. We must promise that Mr. Bowring, her husband that was to have been, had lately died; his estates had descended to a spendthrift heir, and were now for sale. The fat curate had vaoated the half of the garden seat just be fore we withdrew the curtain; and the fat curate had related the last piece of news current in the neighborhood. Bowring-hall, with all the demesnes pertaining thereto. was sold; the purchaser's name was Seaton. Re was some Indian merchant, it was re ported; enormously rich, related, the curate surmised, to the old Mr. Seaton whom he had buried some five years before. Did Margaret know? "Seaton?" she asked—" Robert Seaton?" "Yes, Robert Seaton—that is the name." Oh, yes, Margaret knew him—had known him, rather. He had left England twenty, that is to say, many years ago. And so he bad bought Bowring-hall? He must be very richl Was he coming to live there?— Was he in England? The curate elated at having such acurate intelligence, proceeded to relate that he was in England: that orders had been given fur the fitting up of the house; that Mr. Seaton was expected immediately. It was reportel that he was unmarried, and that his benifi cence was princely. Re had endowed a church at Bundecund; and the curate hoped that now, at length, they stood a fair chance of getting their own little village church restored. Margaret joined in his gratulations on that subject. The fat curate had a hanker ing after medieevalisms. He dressed in a long coat without collar, and affected dis jointed attitudes; but his plumpness was a thorn in his flesh, and ho looked more like a person of the old echool)han of the new. ' Ile practised confession, unknown to his vi car. Margaret used to enumerate a list of little pseudo-sins to him with the most poni tential air. It was a good. thing that she had none of consequence to confess; for the curate, poor fool, could not keep his own I counsel, far less other people's. He had I more than once given her to understand, in the most delicate manner, that it was only his stern sense of duty, as touching the ce libacy of the priesthood, that prevented him from wishing to enter into more tender relations with her. The curate's news had Ia nearer interest for Margaret than its pos- sible influence on the restoration of tho vil lage church. but nevertheless she talked with him on that favorite topic until he left, as if she had nothing else upon her mind. She was glad when he had gone.— She sat thinking over the news, "Robert Seaton coming to settle in the neighbor hood; Robert Seaton the proprietor of Bow ring Hall; Robert Seaton still unmarried! How that man did love me!" she thought. She smiled at the recollertion of the last scene with him. She was not of a sanguine turn of mind, she was accustomed to look at matters reasonably, leaning neither to the dark nor to the light side. There seemoi some hope. Supposing him to be unmar ried, as rumor wont, there was some hope. There was the faintest palpitation about her heat t; she felt a vague gladness at the news—a gladness which did not spring so much from the fresh prospect opened to her, (that was yet too uncertain) as from an in voluntary feeling—the counterpart of the vague regret she had experienced in giving him op. She entered the - house through the open window; she gave her mother her medicine and rearranged the pillows of her easy chair. As she did so she said: "Mamma, Mr. Seaton has purchased Bowring.hall." "Who?" asked the old lady, querulously, "Mr. Seaton? Why Mr. Seaton hay been dead for ages!" "Robert Seaton, mamma," she said.— "He that went to India years ago." "ih!" cried the old lady, raising herself, as her eyes brightened—"ah, my dear, you will be mistress of Bowring-hall after all!" "He will change the name of it," Mar garet said, simply. She went up stairs to her own room, dis missed her maid from thence, and sat down opposite the glass. With her forefinger she traced the incipient lines, scarcely per ceptible, on her forehead. Her face looked dark against the whiteness of her hand.— "Forty," she was thinking to herself—"forty and he is two years younger. But he can not look younger than I do. Men age sooner than women; and besides, there is the climate. Surely. there is not so much difference in me since he left! .1 know ray face by heart, and I can see but little change. lam glad mamma looks on his purchasing Bowring-hall in that light-- wilts! this is very foolish! How do I know that he is not married!" She drew offs ring, and, turning her band, narrowly inspected the inger. There [WHOLE NUMBERI,SO4. was a little blue mark upon it like a ye's% It was the scar where the bent ring had ct t into her finger twenty years before. Alvin she smiled as she remembered that last scene. It seemed but yesterday. She felt triumphant—only fur a moment, however, then she determined not to give way in dreams and hopes; to expect nothing; to fear nothing. Time would prove. The lean doctor was seated beside lur mother when she came down; he told h. r the same story; Robert Seaton the purcha ser of Dowring-hall; coining there immedi ately; and—no wife: She walked with him up and down the lawn before he left, u was her custom. She was as calm and amiable as ever. The lean doctor felt as he had of• ten felt before—half disposed to :nuke a for• mai love-declaration! Would she have PC cepted him? I think she would. It war too late to throw awey a sober certainty f r the most brilliant chance. However, the trial was spared her. Had the lean doctor walked the lawn with her forever, Le would never have been more than half-disposed to go on his knees. As the time approached fur Sexton's ar rival, the main point of interest about him became, unhappily, more uncertain. it was asserted clearly by some that he was married. Servants—already arrived at Bowring-hall—bad been heard to talk ; "their mistress!" Undoubtedly some of the rooms were being furnished far ladies' use. Still, others persisted in the first story—that he was unmarried. Margaret ceased to hope With a wise kindness, however, she kept the after-rumors from her mother's kneed. edge, and suffered her to enjoy her first be lief. Poor old lady! the expectation of what was to come revivified her. She was more than ever critical about Margaret's dress, and scolded the maid roundly for fancied neglect. Seaton arrived on the Saturday, and ap- peared at church on the Sunday. The mo mentous question was rettled at once. There was a lady with him, young and beautiful, with a rich, dark beauty that spoke of an Indian climate. Margaret as she caught a glimpse of the girlish face, thought of her own forty years. It was the bitterest pang she had ever known. The painful feeling surprised and alarmed her. It vas what she had never experienced before. Her reason had failed her for the first time; she had believed against belief, and hoped against hope. She sat in her accustomed corner which faced the curate, and did not command a view of Seaton's seat, Her discomfiture did not, even in the first mo- ment show itself outwardly, and it soon passed away, and left her comparatively at her ease. She felt humbled. Her step was loss elastic as she walked home, and her eyes were bent on the ground. She had no auger against Seaton, no envy of his wife. Her chief sorrow was at her;own want of self-command. She acknowledged her fool ishness, ller mother asked eagerly whether Mr. Seaton had been at church. "Yes," she answered, pouring out the medicine with a steady hand; "Mr. Seaton was there, and his wife." "Ilis wife!" The old lady burg into fretful tears; "et her daughter's disappointment," she said— not at her own. She railed against Seaton for being married; she pitied and railed against Margaret in the same breath. AU the old reproaches came up again. If Mar• garet had been but commonly prudent; if she had not wilfully thrown away the good fortune that was at one time in her Lauds. There is nothing more wearisome than to hare ancient faults and follies called up again and again from the dead—faults which one has acknowledged and repeated of—follies on account of which one has undergone due mood of shame years ago. Repentance and shame seem to be fre4lese the sins aro perennial. :Slfirgaret kept out of her rnotherl sight, arranging the pillows at her back. A few tears fell from her eyes silently as the old lady became more and more querulous.— "Mamma, dear," she said at length, "do not scold me to-day. I am not quite my self. Please du not scold me." She went out into the garden, and passed over the lawn into a long shaded walk be yond it. There she walked up arid down, and cried as she had not cried since she was a little child. This walk skirted the vicar's garden. from which it was separated by a low wall. Soon a theory voice shouted, "May I come over!" And without waiting for au answar the vicar's son vaulted over the wall and landed by Margaret's side. Margaret liked him; liked his honest, half-bashful admira• tip; liked, while she smiled at, his stead fast trust and belief in her, lie always re minded her of Seaton. She wished be had not come to-day; but, according to her cus tom, she made the best of what could not be helped, and wiped her eyes, and began to talk with him. "You—you have been crying!" the boy blurted. out in surprise and horror. Heaven knows what he would have said. in his foolish unreasoning sympathy, and what she would have answered. had not they been interrupted by Margaret's maid. There were visitors. "I must go in," she said. "Are my eyes very red? Conte with me." They took one more turn down the shady walk. "You are very kind to me," she said, in answer to his protestations of sorrow one sympathy " Whit ern you ind
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers