II ~., :::...., . .. • ~.: : 11 . . • ...-- - . . 1 --- -- -- - . . • ! ',:: . - - I . '' . , .. . . ..:. . . . r • ..... . . ILI . . . ..-: . . • ~ - . -: - . .. . • - _ -... . . i ' '.-- . . :. . . . - , ~ -r. . . ..... _ _. . _. F •., ,_ 4 ~.. „ ...., „ _ -.-_... . . . .-...„,., ~.. r . . . • , >. 111 fl=lll :SAMUEL WEIGHT, Editor and Proprietor. VOLUME xxx, NUMBER 40.1 EVERY SATURDAY lIIORNINO , . „ - • ~,- , Ciffice in Carpgt Ifall,...Nikra-west of ''44 : o t and Locust streets. . . , Iltr sus of ascription. 'nee Copy pe eannum -I f reidin advance. • I f not paid within three ' - aionthe'rotneomineneementorthe year. 200 ev, 46. Cleaa.tes ea, Clczoico - sr. Ao-tubsieriptionieceived 10 r t. ICS. Mlle lion nix j o t ,,,oriaalb-i;';Inifloo waive. so I 1 / (DC 1.1 i•COtitilitiell ant is all ••••;,,!*eeeartigei• ire paid.unie. , at the optionof the pub , '•-+Osiedier. - , •,.„.: .h .... - doney nayite•mmitte'dbyinail a ith ep üblislo re* , pi-rink ''`ii.' • • Rates of Advertising. gt t -tlquivr , tti tne..3one week. *0 38 Oaf - • . • three ....eel.x. 75 - •.... II 1 n.eque nun serliOn. t 0 . . VS i nre...) , ,n. wee!, 50 ...i. t hie.. week... 1 00 "-^ • ...1n... I , .I=e rtion . 25 e r ki.i,t`rti , -en,nl,ln proportion ' cosi ii..ouut whine mate to ottarterly i ltalf• i iris •I V, 1.41,,,.. //0 Ilre Elriel;)l•Onftlled cDR. 11.OFFEAt, iTIST.-- OFFICE,' Front Street tilt door oiti I •cp... yeerzinylor dl•McDoottid'A nook mom rt ,eat- 11:7:Eotraoce, betty reo the l'ook two reA _Drug o•aore.- •-- [August :a, TTIONAS NvELsir, AlgE OF TILE PEACE, Columbia, Pa. OYFFIIS., -of Whopper's New Limlding, below 'stloiet, l'rent Ftreet. Pretnnt anent= riven to nil business entrusted mre. !Tuber 29,1951". M. NORTH, 'TOMEI' ND COUNSEdit 3olumbin !ctions.r.romptly made Lancaster:lnd Tod Cce innl,in.May 4,1950 J. W. FISHER, Attoratey and Counsellor at Law, calaanalcsia, 4066116 u, September 6,1656 S, Ltlee Dotkins, D. D. S. MRA,CIrICES - the Operative, Surgical and Meehan ieal Departments arDentipiry; CIEFIca I.aeu.t =I reel, lietweea be Franklin Roue and Po.t•Oflice..Columtna. Pa May 7. I s51:1. TAMAN 11113.--Extrau of TontoLoos; o caikurtie und'Eoaue. .Fur -Me at J.. D p:t.l & anklets Mortar Drug Siam Dec 3 '59 1" IA pouTED Lutnio-, ”1.0, booule I for the lotodkorchier. at It fal73r,S , R, Oppn.ile Coln. Itrific/..l , rnitl SI Feb. 10.'50 BROOMS. --•100 Doz, Brooms, at Wholesale or Krim I. at 11. ft 1.1.111'5. Dec 1F57 Lroco.o gi rem. * 4 1 *, QINE'S Compound of Syrup of 'far, Wild , Cherry:loci lloarlinuild, tar the cure al Coughs. Cold-, Whooping Cough. Croup.hr. For sale at IeCORK & DU:1.1.1.711"S Tinnily Medicine Store, Odd Fellows' I lull October .23. Ittria. Patent. Steam Wash Bolters. Tit NSF; well known Iloilo', ore Loot ronzinnily on hont!'oi II r.NIIV I'l , A 1{1..1 , ,11%,7, 1.0,11.1 !rect. opprt.ite the Frank In Colorobin.July 18, 15.57. N )als for sale by the bushel or larger (pan ., MA' F M.P01.1). Cntumnen Dee 211958, nri,iu. ii'OBACI:O and Segars of the best brands , k liolerttle J UST hi cdOre. n fr.•lr lot of liregoog J. I railliearF eelel ruled V.-gett:lc CaVie Powder. :old for gale by It- Vt'll,l,lA Nis, From glreel. Co ihruaun Sept. 17.1E59. Soap. ,tt• Boxe• of Pu/Tey Brown So ,r# on bond and for Ze) Qnin Ina• tit the corner of Third and UlllOll .1 . 111•2111.1 6.155 D Suffer no longer with Corns. AT the Golden Mortar Drug More you ran procure au uruete is hull in warranted to remove Cerns in itourn,m ithnut 'nit, or sorentrns. Fly Paper. A 717 rp article orrf ter, fzrtlerc.trt -o,°i.eeia.vet;,,ive,aitre 1)rog Store of R WILLIAMS, From .ireet ertlrsmhia July 30.1.659. Harrison's Columbian Ink rx7lllqll -uperihr nrticlr, permnhehtli. hlnek . I mid net corm hug the pen. run Ime lind m ti‘ giuttntilr. au the Vottrutly Aledirke Store. and blacker yet t. that F.:figli.ll Bow P01e..11. Co/hull/N. Juor y. 1.359 On Hand E It:rIIS.WiNSL.O I I, , s Soodpou Syrup. whielf grill 131 strewl% fueilit:ste the proves, of tee:lung. by re duelop inflAnuoloo.nanyhor PILISI..p)1.111101),C UCI /Olt, very short lime. I , or snip by R. WILLIA Front Ft rem Columbia. 1) EBBING & - CO'S Itnnia Sniventliirex- JA , ',racily popular smelly tor ihr cure of external ailment., I. mote tor .stir by R. WILLIAMS. rfOlit 51. , Co , umbin. rcpt •.2.1.15510' CZJILT by the Sark or Dohbel, and Potatoes tarp.. or -mall qu:11.1 ales. for .111. sit the Conley orriood and Union btu s '59 1:X1r evorbi.ling 111 A RILV Oppolute COlll. !fridge.. Vrn,ii Si. Del fume nt Feb 19.':x8. CISTERN PUMPS. ant , enber 11:o= n large wort, of ei‘lern nod Him, to which be Ccii. She lifies.lloBl of the rAth e . lie 1 , prepared to put thew up for use ill sultolattual and eaduring; ifinftncr. December 12.1857. FANCY TOI LET SOAPS. rniir, r,..nrtinent f V..nc) eVCr Oirered to Columbian•, et BARRY GREEN'S. Orpocite Coln. Bridge, From St rel, 19.'7,9 noLoGNE: IvArEn by the nint.qourt nr Fallon Glenn's Extrart. for the linntlke reinter by the ounce or pound, or in any quantity to t.• tut nurchostr at. GREv...q`r, Felt 19.'59. Opprotite Cohn. Midge, Croat ...±t Jain Received and For Sale, 100 . 300 bus. Ground Alum Salt, by NEW CROP SEEDLESS RAISINS. • q lIR bent for Uses, Pudding, xc —n .fresh supply at 11 MU IrW,lif l / 4 4 Grocery Store, Corner rrontund Union sta. r. N. 18. Ifida. March 26, ~'"A Celebrated Black and Greta Teas,, 131.1.er'4 Cocoa mid Clupeolate, at Corm. r oI Tlitrd and U mon r l reelx. [Nov, r.BMIAN, or, Bond's Boston Crackers, for Dpopeptid.. and Armw Root Clorkem. for in . valido and rhilMen—tinw a nieles in Colombia, at the Family atm:beim Store. Arllll6. 1830. Seedless - Raisins! A, A •LOT of very choscc Seedle-s Rnipin4,jt recei ret at S.F. EBERL Os EIN'S Noir.l9, '59. -Grocery Store, No. 71, Locurt et. _- - - SHAKER •OARN. a jUST recei red, a firsr.rate lot of Shaker Corn a 'MU Art..l Grocery Store, corner Trout and Un M ion at. Nov. MIAs: SPALDING'S PREPARtD wool of ~ucu anertiche u akin every faintly, and now u can be Papp:led; for mending .forniture china ;:: nays. 4 " ware, ornamental wort, ys ' &c there is . .. nothing superior. We have arctird•it useful in repairing man) a riiv les which have been UriCie for raoadir. _You can 'chitin It lithe • Jan td. TA MILT MED/CLNE STORE. - SI 50 The night train was about to start from the Ring's Cross Station. It was a dark winter's night, just before Christmas. Snow had been almost incessantly falling for the last two days, and it was falling still—vilutening the tops of the cabs, whitening the bats and um brellas of passers-by ; even whitening tire whiskers of the drivers, and settling in long lines and ridges on their great coal's. Such cold looking, blue, pinched faces as one me: on every side; seen red eyes; such a chorus of nose blowing and coughing and hoarse voices claiming carpet-bags and port-man teausl Here arid there rushed the porters; now a cry of ~ Make way !" and the pa•saga ofa lugzagc.-ttllek, C3f1 , 111.j th, 11114S , r1Vr5 to fall t,,,t our side, or rush aie,plardt.iy the van, in hopes of discovering Forms onseing possession. The gas flickered and blazed arid flickered again as the draught penetrated into the station ; and every now and then one caught the whiff ora cigar, and a su,pictott. smell of bad tobacco, that inizat find en trance from the door where the cabmen were Staggering in and out with their heavy bur dens, The five minutes' bell rang. The passen gers bundled into the carriages ; the runless stowed in the packages; the newspaper-hej, held up their baskets to the windows, and screamed ; Times—Even ing Star—Globe—Bell's Life !—" An old gentleman was already comfortably ensconced in the corner of a first-class car riage. His umbrella and stick:were tidily ar ranged above his head, his hat replaced by a black velvet skull cap, that nestled very warmly on his bald crown, and his feet cross ed on the opposite seat, and covered with a crimson and black raika ay-rug. The open Punch, and the fresh-smelling book with a paper-knife sticking, out from its uncut pages, seemed to premise not so unpleasant a journey after all ; for the lamp was burning bravely, the oil swinging from side to side of the glass, and the window already dulled over in that pleasant manner which makes - one congratu late one's self on being so warm and comforta ble inside. Just at the last moment the door was hastily opened, and a porter thrust in a carpct.bag.— The old gentleman—clergyman though his dress bespoke him—was beginning a not very pleasant imprecation that had some connection with his last attack of lumbago, when his eye caught sight of a female figure blocking up the er.trance. She had a young child in her arms, and common civility obliged him to offer her the assistance of his hand, and remove some of the lumbering parcels with which he had covered the seats. =I The lady was all alone, neither nurse nor companion with her; and she had hardly set tled in the farther seat opposite, and pulled the thiek veil from her face, before the train started. A lone whistle—a few lights shining like stars through the misty night— then darkness on either side and unbroken stillness. The old gentleman looked across at his com panion. She was unloosening the child's wrap pings, removing the little bonnet from the small head, smoothing the rings of brown hair with a delicate white hand—a band which proclaimed her a lady at first sight. By and by she was looking for something in a leathern bag, and presently the child turned round on her knee, with one biscuit - disappearing into its mouth and another pressed tight to its little bosom, and carefully hidden by a fat band, as though it feared the old gentleman was going to ask for the nicest piece. The mother was very busy, and as her bead came full under the lamp light, the old gentle man had ample opportunity to observe her.— She did not look more than twenty, possibly not so much, rather under the ordinary stature; with a small oval face of pure, white coloring, very pale about the lips, almost faultless in feature, but with such listed expression that the old gentleman felt at once that his fellow traveller was in trouble. Ht was sorry for her, she looked so pretty and interesting; and Le made a feeble attempt to draw her into conversation about the child. But she looked up at him with her serious, dark eyes full of tears, and answered so sadly and with such low tones, that tie was discouraged, and took refuge behind his newspaper. The next time be looked up the • child was asleep, with its head against its mother's breast, its round arm tossed over its pelisse, and its little fat fingers grasped a half eaten biscuit, from which the motion of the train shook down a number of crumbs on the moth er's dress. The old gentleman made a mental reservation to the effect that he should not have liked those crumbs on his new carpet at Hoverham. Kates had never let his child be half so untidy. But a little low sigh from the mother at tracted him. He looked up, and saw her read ing a closely written letter on foreign paper, holding the thin sheet as far under the light as she could, while her other hand supported the baby's head. Something very like a smoth ered sob caught his ear, and be fancied he saw I a tear fall on the open sheet. He was afraid that his presence was a restraint to her grief, and crouching into the corner, pretended to be asleep. • She-gave a quick glance tip; showing a very r tear-stained, pale fate ; then apparently re assured, turned over the page and went on reading. . PrA TILER, Lovt,l 4.lre,t 13. P. OPPOI.D. No 1 and 2 Canal llama By and by, she , seemed to be forming some grave resolutions, for she propped up the child's head, ieleaied her arm, and deliberate ly tore the Utter intominote pieces. She held them irresolutely, crushed in her hand; at if at 'Toes bow to dispo'se of theni; the wiridoW was fast shut, and at last she drew the leathern gasttimu. ttNE. EMEXII "NO ENTERTAININIENT IS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING." COLITDIBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, MAX 5, 1860. bag towards her, and pushed them down in a little heap to the bottom. The old gentleman was really growing drowsy, and but once opened his eye ere he fell asleep. Then his companion was leaning over her baby—crying over it, he thought.— Hesaw her bend down more than once and press a long, clinging kiss on its soft fore. head; afterwards she drew her veil over her face, and lent back, and be remembered no more. He had a long, calm sleep and pleasant dreams. His last thought was about his Rate and the little one at home, and they two reign• ed in his dreams—reigned with the new dress he was Imaging as a Christman gift for his wile, and the parcel of books lot his daughter, that he had had , ueti d•lficiitty in packing They were in fa.ley tar him undei the snow-covered, tioneystickl , il pouch; a bright smile of welcome on comely cheek, and their darling standing h-r, with the wait bluwitte b»u td tole, A'di ad. •C1•11 , 110'...4 w.Vb ho,id in dug cart, carry tilt to• carp' bal, and its treasures; sad th, sots , .1; Mao Wa; holdmg tb.• horse's M•dd and shaking the snow olf hi- great coat. Rose el. U.. ant, child, and he was looking. at tier. 'atic Was 111 ,- child 01 his old age, and he might be excu ed for the fond, loving partiality with which he regarded her; for she WAs to good, so gentle, so tender in hem i itti..itte, Noone folded his newspaper as Rose did; no one knew so exactly where 4, fin,l his books of reference, or a missing ser. min, or the spectac es he always mislaid and always wanted. And she was Kate's child— the wile who had loved him in her first youth —given up so much for his sake—waited for Min mad loved through long, weary years, when every use else had d , spaired of the liv ing that was so long in coming. It had come at last, however, and they had "married; but by that time he was a bald-headed man, and though she was still beaotiful in his eyes, she had lost her fresh bloom and showed more than one wrinkle in her forehead, more than one gray line in her hair. Yet, perhaps, during their fifteen years of married life no couple could have been happier. He might have gm into old bachelor habits and she have grown fidgety about trifles; but they were so firm in their mutual love, so assured of each other's sympathy, that they had a constant fund of happiness in their own hands; and when Rose came she seemed to revive youth and love and beauty in a new life—they grew young again in her young love. The old man slept till a faint hue of day bght was dawning in the horizon, and then he Was awakened by a child's cry. He roused himself, rubbed his eyes, put on his spectacles, and thought how soundly the mother must be sleeping that she did not wake. The child cried louder, and he felt uneasy. It raised itself up with au eflurt, and, tugging with its little might at her cloak, called. "Mamma! mamma!" But she did nut rouse. It was the first time her ear had been sealed to her child's cry—the first time that "Mamma! mamma!" had pas•- ed unheeded. Still louder the child cried, and a strange shudder passed over the old man's form. He waited—she was still motionless ; and at last, with choking breath, he came nearer and touched the hand that was lying on the attn• rest. ft was cold,chill, clammy, and the child, frightened by his approach, pulled harder at her cloak and screamed "Mamma!" But it called in va:n ; its poor mother could no longer comfort or be comforted. The old man raised the veil from her face—it was as he feared; the eyes were open and glazed, a slight moisture resting on the cold lip. She was dead. She was dead. She had died white he slept —unknown, uncomforted- with no one near even to wipe her lips or hold her band ; with the slumbering babe on her lap her spirit had passed to rest. The old man thought of that last kiss on the child's brow, and large tears rolled down from his eyes. It was in vain to attempt to attract atten tion in that silent night train. He let down the window, and, while the wind and snow. Hakes swept over his thin, white hair and bald. head, called loudly for assitance. But no one replied—only the sound of the wheels on the line and the whistling of the wind. He drew up the window and tried to quiet the child. It was too late to attempt any( hing for the mother; he just untied the strings of her bonnet, and for a few moments chafed her hands; but they were already beginning to stiffen and the pupils of the eyes were dilated, the whites discolored. and he dropped the veil again oyes the face. She must have been dead hours—no one could help her now. At first the child refused to leave her, and battled and cried as if its heart were breaking; but when she found that she did not answer, and no tugging at her dress attracted her at tentionot gave way, consented to be lifted across the old man's knee, and, laying its little head close to him, sobbed itself to sleep. He sat and watched it, longing impatiently for the next station; and one by one he looked at the mother's things and the leathern bag, to see if he could find a direction ticket. But in vain there was no name, no address; and he did not venture to examine farther. Ile held the child to him, and with his other hand made notes of the time and circumstances on the back or an old letter. The train could not be far from and he strained his eyes eagerly into the darkness. There was a whistle; the train went slower —they seemed to be letting off the steam.— They were getting near the station ; he saw the outline of some trucks at the aide. An engine passed with its-gleansing lights, and the black,fignre of its driver standing out- before the fire—again he let down the window, and called. The night wind rushed-by—he called again : there was an answering voice, the flash of a lantern, the flicker of gas, and they were inside the station. Bow strangely sounded the old man's voice, as he leant forward and told of the presence of death where it was so little anticipated! There was a groan of horror: and every one gathered round the carriage. A doctor was hastily summoned: the policeman stood with his hand on the carriage door, and emphatical ly bade the by-standers to "move off!" They were carrying the body to the wait ing-room, and all rushed forward to get a sight of the face—so pale, with its long, dark lashes resting on the cheek. More than one noticed the little, white, lady's hand, and told after wards Thar there was a wedding•ring on the third finger. Poor thing! who could she be? and where was her husband ? A. murmur of compassion greeted the sleep ing child! then every eye turned to watch the closed door through which the doctor had dis appeared. He came out at last; but inquiry was scarcely needed, for he shook his bead gravely, and already "Heart complaint" was a ti) word In the crowd. l'ne iiaw had gone on, but the old man was left behind. He was the only witness, and had to stay for the coroner's inquest; besides, he could not leave that little clinging child, who, since her mother's death, had crept so !aridly to his side, and refused to leave him. So that winter morning Kate and the bright. faced Rose watched in vain for his home-com ing; and when the late post brought his bur. ried excuse, the parsonage at Hoverham was one scene of confusion and bustle. His wife packed a change of linen in her carpet-bag ai set out to join him. "John would want a %%o men to help him," she said; "and besides, they must see about getting the child to its own people." Hot this last was more easily spoken of than done. The dead woman's small lugg igs threw no light on her destination or name. The few articles of her own, and the child's clothing, were of good, and even rich material; but they were unmarked, save by the letter U.— There were no books or letter with directions. She seemed to have been making a hurried jaw Del', with small preparation. In her pock. wasel a small poi trtiontldle, with about t , a en ty sovereigns and a nandiut of small coin— she had riot been in want. A little slip of paper was in one of the cases, whereupon a women's hand hail traced the proportions of some simple decoction tor the nursery; a very small, well-worn testament, that had lost its Hy.leaf; a large bunch or bright keys, an ivo ry pencil case, and a cambric handkerchief, in the corner of which was embroidered one sin. gte word—•'Usti." This was the only clue by which she could be recognized. Was it Lei name I Her linen and the child's were al,ke mai keel by that letter U. And at the bottom of the leathern bag were found pieces of the torn letter. But they were so small that it was impossible to arrange them. Only one little morsel showed the words "Dearest tine;" and the handwriting was apparently a I he authorities of the town came forward and made the matter as public as they could, in the hope of bringing it to the ears of those concerned: but days passed, end no one made any claim A week latei, and the beautiful stranger we. lying in a crowded town church yaid ; and Baby line, as they had learnt to rail her, was traveling with the old clergyman and his wife to their northern home. Kate had at first objected to her husband's proposal of adoption, saying truly that their fortune was and they must think of Rose. But when little fine looked up at her so lovingly with her innocent eyes, and learnt to say. "Papa" and ' , Mamma" in her childish voice, her prudence melted away, and she was sure that Rose was not so unselfish she would be first to share her little with the orphan. So tine nestled at once to their hearts ; and Rose met her with a kiss, and called het her sister 1311:1:12 Four years after there was another death and another burial, but afar different one.— The olil clergyman died in his bed, in the par sonage room, where the jessamine peeped,in at the window.; and his faithful Kate watched beside him, and moistened his lips; and Rose and Line knelt by his bedside with clasped bands. He died as a Christian—in that sure hope of a glorious resurrection which robs 'the grave of its horror; and light came to Kate's tear ful eyes as she stood by that lowly tomb; and Un- pointed her childish finger to the heavens, and said: "He is there, mother." The funeral was over, and they went Wick to the home they must so soon leave forever.— Their faces were very sad, for they were go ing home for the first time, without him: Kate crept to her own room and cried long and drearily! poor thing! till now she had never realized her loss. But that dreadful vacant room, with the tenantless fresh-made bed, and such 'a lonely look about those cold, new washed hangings—she covered her face with her hands, and sobbed as if her heart would break. And in the chamber below, with Une on her lap, Rose sat over the fire—:sat dreaming grave dreams; for her father in dying, bad bade her take her mother's hand and bold it through life, and she was revolving in her nn selfish young heart how to work out her prom ise in its fullest meaning. She was eighteen now, with a fund of common sense in that small, well-formed head of hers, handy fingers, and a blithe, buoyant spirit that could brave and endure much when urged by love. She sit and thought. All that her father had been Ale to:risers made a very- small in. come—e.mere pittance; her mother bad never been accustomed to privation, and' fine was too young to face suffering. Sire mutt 'work; she must-keep herself, and add to their 'little. Une fell asleep with her hand on Rose's shoulder, and the fire-light shining on her tear stained rice; and Rose's thoughts and plans in that drowsy twilight 'were diluted into dreams. She built up a bright castle in the air—some• thin: about a home of her own, with her mother restirg comfortably by the blazing hearth, and Une provided with all that can make childhood happy. There was another figure too, prominent in the foreground, indefi nite, but to which memory happily supplied name features, and she gave the reins to her fancy till she had brought it quite near, given it the chief place by her borne fireside. The servant brought in the tea-things; she started up, with a ell II y blush mantling hea, cheek, and, with an effort recalling herself to the present, drew out her desk, and began to write to a friend, whom •he thought would assist her in finding a desirable situation. But the dream has given us an insight into Rose's heart which needs explanation. Rose rived. It was two yearsstnce the yelling squire of the parish had succeeded to his uncle's es tates, and since that time he had been a con stant visitor at the parsonage. Ile was not popular in the neighborticiod. He was cold and taciturn, and, people said, had led a wild life before coming in for the property. But, if so, he was reformed now. Ile was always grave and quiet, mixing with none of the county families, and shunning society. It was thought that he found the parson's pretty Rose an attraction to the parsonage, and it may be that Rose's silly heart was flattered by the suggestion, for her great interest in the absent, unhappy-looking stranger had unconsciously deepened into something warmer, thutigh she would not allow it, even to herself. Certainly he came very often, and took a great deal of interest in Rose's flowers and studies, and even showed a sort of good-natured kindness to the little Shaft', that he supposed Une to be—for the old parson, in adopting Cne, bad made tier as another daughter; and though the strange particulars of the case at first caused much conversation and guise, time had worn the edge ofl the romance; and in the quiet country side, "Tiny," as they called her, was merged unto a member of the parsonage family, was coupled with Rose Milburne in the villagers' "our young ladies." So week after week, and month after month, the us.ially reserved Mr. Maxwell made his appearance in the parsonage drawing-room, generally choosing the se.it near the sofa where Rose sat with her work basket; and dur ing the time of her father's illness lie bad come almost every day to bring papers, or make in quiries, sharing so- eAllv to the 'rev hter's grief and anxiety that that foolish little heart beat taster, and insensibly leant on his sympathising stronger spirit for rest and encouragement,— But it was all over now. He had breathed not one ward of love; he had been very kind, but it was a brotherly sort oi noth ing more. Hose said so herself to her mother, a week later, when Mr. Maxwell had been to wish them "good-bye," before leaving home on some troublesome business that might de tain him beyond the six weeks that they were yet to remain at Hoverharn. She sail that if she had indulged silly fancies, it was her own fault; he had done and said nothing to war rant them,she alone was to blame, her mother must not say a word against him. flow the woman's heart spoke out in those few words, condemning itself to ward even a shade of blame from its beloved one! And when she ran up to her own room a few minutes after, how plainly again spoke the heart in the midst of her suffering, dwelling on his words of fare well, even to the expression of his eyes as he bent over her, holding her band as though it grieved him to part. Something whispered in her spirit,.‘lle loves you;" but she put away the thought, and set about positive work—she could no longer afford to dream. Mrs. Milburne found a small lodging in a neighboring rown, to which she removed with Tiny ; and Rose's applications having proved successful, she at once started for her new home, to be companion to an invalid lady, in one of the southern counties. A long day's journey brought her to -, where she was met by a servant and pony-carriage, for it was a three•miles' drive to Atherstone, and the November day was darkening fast. The coachman stowed her small luggage into the back seat, touched the pony with his whip and they started! Rose leaning back, with her crape veil hiding her heavy eyes, and a sad weight on her young heart. She was still thinking of her mother and Tiny. As a sweep of the road brought the gray turrets of Atherstone into view, her compan ion slightly attracted her attention, and she roused and looked with greater interest on the scene. They had passed the ivy-covered lodge, and were in the private grounds, the pony stepping briskly over the damp, decay. ing leaves that strewed the drive. A l ittle to the right •Atherstone Towers frowned above them—a huge, vererable pile of buildings, with cornet turrets and narrow windows; one wing at the side, that looked incongruolis with the rest. They drew up before a side entrance, and while the coachman took out the boxes, a venerable-looking butler came forward, and proposed to show Miss Milburns the way to the drawing room. Rose laid down bet bag, and followed with a nervous feeling of trepidation, on through a long, low, carpeted passage; skirted with dark oak, crimson curtains shading the deep, nar row windows; thence to a large hall, hung with family portraits, at the farther end of which was a handsome double staircase; but instead of mounting this, they turned off into an ante-room, and the butler, going before, drew up the blinds in the drawing-room, arid asked Miss Milburne to be seated. Rose glanced round the chamber as best she could by the dying daylight. It was reold and handsome, with a very uninhabited ap• pearance ; but one arm chair, moved a little from its angle, and a half finished piece• of fancy work on the table, to tell it was ever used. The butler had gone to nequaint the lady's maid with her arrival. His lady would be lying down, he thought; and Rose waited a full half-hour in dreary solitude. When the door opened at last, at was the lady's maid $1,50 PEE. YEAR IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IF NOT IN ADVANCE who entered, an cgcd, respectable...looking woman, with a kind face and cordial voice.— Her mistress was not so well thin evening, she said, and was sorry she could not rec.,. e Miss Milburne ; -he hoped to do so in an hour's time. Meanwhile, would Miss borne like to I,l:Lye tea served up in her own room. Rose thanked and gladly followed her up stairs. Her ma i m was in the new part of the building, freshly furnished, with a bright, glancing fire, which her companion at once re• plenished. "We must do our best to give you a warm welcome," she said with a smile ; .but I fear you will find it a dreary home. Forgive me if I am too bold, Miss ; but it is a rare plea. ure to look on a young face nott•.a•dsys. She tut ned to the door, leaving Hose shyly thinking that she ought to have made some reply to the kind greeting, yet unlade ito do so. Presently came a maid with the tes.t hings, and servants carrying her boxes ; and One was so well occupied, that she felt almost surprised when Mrs. Jones appeared, saying the mistress was in the library, and would he happy to see her. The library was a room on the first floor, lined with book shelves, and lighted by an oriel window of slanted glass, Miss Drummond was seated, in an arm chair, over the fire, supported by two pillows. She was a pale, emaciated woman, arparently aged by et. er than by years...— When Rose entered she greeted her kindly, and bade her be seated. There was a haw chair placed temptingly on the hearth rug and Rose moved towards It ; but a little exclama tion of terror from Miss Druminood arrested her half.way, while the maid hastily touched her arm, and pointed to a seat hear het um. tress. Rose felt very uncoollort.ili le, wnhm•t b .ng able to till why, and could hardly sum mon courage to answer the few low inquil re about the journey I but it was better when Miss Drummond said kindly she hoped she would be happy, and Unit very little wdu .1 be required of her. nose cheered at the sound of a kind voice, and said brightly, that she had no doubt she would be nappy, arid would try to do her best. Looking up eagerly, ►be saw that Miss Drummond had turned away her face, and was hiding it among the pillows. There was a long pause, and Rose fancied she heard her sobbing. Catching a sign from Mrs. Jones, she ro-e and quietly left the room. She wondered what she had dote or said to upset her, and was relieved when the maid followed and said her niisstress was better.— She often had these attacks ; she would be more accustomed to Miss Ilfilburne in a few days. But Rose did not see her again for more than a week, and then It was only for a short time each morning, when she was sent for into her bed-room to read aloud. Those first dreary days, she found the stillness and quiet of the house almost insupportable. Miss Drummond lived entirely in her own room, and no stran• ger came near the house. The change from the bright, cheerful parsonage at floverham struck Rose with a sail chill. She felt so dull and lonesome; she wished and pined for the familiar faces. It was better when she saw more of Mrs. Jones. The motherly old woman was so anx ious about her comforts that Rose's heart warmed to her, and insensibly she told her, little by little, of her own home and trials; of her mothers, and her father's death ; of Tiny, and the dear old parsonage. And Mrs. Jones listened with such evident interest and plea sure that she was tempted to tell more and more, and to look forward to the old woman's hearty sympathy and words of comfort- Some times Rose tried to persuade her to talk about herself and mistress, liar the lonely life of the rich old lady had excited the young girl's pity and curiosity, but rarely with any effect. Mrs. Jones was willing enorgli to relate her strug gles in the farm-house at home, when she was an unruly child with a. step-mother ; bet she had gono into service at an early age, and of Mi•s Drurnmond's afisirs she would say noth ing- Day Ind night she watched and waited on her, always naming her with almost raver• cot atfeelion; but the mystery, that Rose was convinced existed somewhere, was frozen on her lips, She only sighed and shook her head sadly when Rose approached the subject. Three days before Christmas, Rose was sit ting in her lonic.) , room, when Mrs. Jones brought her an invitation to pass the evening with Miss Drummond in the library. Any change trom the monotony of her present life was agreeable, and hastily arranging her hair, she took her work and ran down stairs. The library door was ajar. Miss Drummond had not yet left her own room. It was the first time Rose had entered it since the even ing of her first arrival, and glancing curiously round, she examined the titles of the books on the shelves, WA ornaments on the mantlepiece. When she seated herself without thought, in the little low chair on the hearth-rug. A small table was near covered with a green cloth, on'which were en ivory inlaid box and a few books. She stretched out ber hand and took one up. It was a handsome edition of Tupper's "Proverbial Philosophy," with many pened marks on the margin. She read a few of the marked passages, and a curious feeling about the last reader 'made her turn to the Ay-leaf, to find the name. It was there; but not the Portia Drummond she had expected, only one little word—line. She jumped up with an exclamation—an ex clamation that was answered by a louder cry and a heavy fall. In the doorway lay the in seniible form of f,t.iss Drummond,3olltlbend ing over ber with an - agonised face. .40„ Miss!" she cried, ssßose came forward to assist her; •how could you do it? You've killed her." gAV hat have I doieV' Ingolied poor Rose more than ever perptexed; "what have I mr?" [WHOLE NUMBER 1,550. flow could you sit in that chair; She saw you, and thought it was her. Oh, my poor, poor mistress!" There wee no time for inquiries and exile nations, Roie ran to call assistance, and dis patch a messenger for the doctor; bat when she was back again in her room, and the quiet of night resting over the household, the watcb„ era around the insensible sufferer, she cat and thought painfully over the occurrences of the day. "What had that chair to do with the mys tery? Woom did Jones mean by her?" Thrn as she remembered the book, "Was It rue? and if so, couht it. might it have anything to do with our lgne?" Miss Drummond recovered consciousness, but one side was completely paralysed, and Jones told Rose, with tears in her eyes, that she would never again be able to leave her bed. The days passed very slowly to poor Rose's feverish anxiety. She bad been again in the library and examined the books. An on the little table had the same name "Tine," and in one, "one Drummond: from bee affectionate aunt, Portia." So there had been a niece in this dreary house, though Rose had never heard of FAIT Where was she now? She resolved to brave all, and ask Jones. The old woman looked into the library while Miss Drummond was sleeping, and seemed astonished to find it tenanted. Rose held up one of the books. "Whose is this?" she said. , Who, end where is Unel" "Put it down, put it down, Miss," aneg in a choked voice; "don't speak of it; you have done encugh harm already." "But I moat know," said floee, lrmly "Jones, I have a reason in asking. Will )0,1 not !PIl me where is Uric Drummond—Miss Portia's niece?" 0 1 cannot—l tis•on't—don't ask me. 0 Nf.ss Rose! what are you doing here? what it it to you about het7 Go away, go away." Rose came m•arrr anti look her hand gilt is not nacre curiosity that makes me ask, Jones, it is duty. You have heard me speak of Tiny—of the little sister at home. Her name is Une; we have reason to think it was her mother's name before her; but who that moth er was we cannot tell. Listen—" not Roe., with heightening color, told the story of her father's Christmas journey, and the untended deetb•bed. Undeterred by Jones' tears and exclamations, she went on to the very end. Then she paused and knelt down by the weeping woman, "Jones can ou tnrnw any fight on this strange history?" she said; "f have told you of my Une—who was yours?" nit was her; you have told me of he, viry ■elf. I mind the ivory pencil, and the very clothes, and thk child's dark eyclithey . are her mother's; but how she came to die like that, or be away from her husband, I cannot think. 0 One'. tine: to think that you are dead. whom we laved so dearly in i.pite of all —that you died in this way. 0 any lambi my lamb. At! von a•k me about her mother's history: I will tell you all I can. °Mass Portia had a brother, of whom her father was fond and proud, and for whom Is destined this fine old place and his great rid et. But, somehow, the young man dlepleated him—it was only in a alight matter; but the old man had a very fierce temper, and he swore that if he did not at once submit he would dis inherit him. Ile refused, and the 'old man died shortly alter, leaving every farthing he possessed to his daughter, Miss Portia. Now, my mistress has a fine grand nature, end had been much grieved • by the quarrel between her father and brother; arid when the fortune came to her, she thought to make it all straight again by giving it-up to Mr. Archi bald. But that dreadful pride! Mr. Xgehtbalif refused to take it as his sister's gift, and vial smarting under his father's injustice, set out to make a fortune in the Indies. They never met again. Ile married, and died; his wife died ton; and Miss Portia sent for their little orphan. and adopted it as her own. That teas our child—our Miss tine. She grew up in this olinsuse, and we all loved her; but 1 don't think there ever was a right understand ing beta•eerrber and her aunt. Anse Drum mond in those days had a haughty temper, and hid her feelings under an sppearamte of harsh ness; and little Une was very loving, and shrank from her fancied coldness, Sometimes she would put her little arms around me, and kiss me, as she never did her aunt; and as she grew still older, I think she pored yet more for affection and sympathy, for many - times I have found her crying and wailing in her own little room, or detected the marks of tear! on her cheeks when I looked in to say lgoodmight' at bedtime. But, cold as she seemed, Miss Por tia was right proud of bar. I've seen her sit, hour after hour, watching her as *Le sat on her low chair by the file reading her' books—for Une liked reading and was always at it. flat the girl didn't know it, and kept fancying she was oncaree for and unloved. It was worse still when she grew np. Miss Portia did not like her to mix with ary young people, and this was a lonely place for- a bright young thing like her. I can't think bow ye supposed she could bear it. At one time ale cried and rebelled very much when elle was not snowed to go here and there; bat, by sod by, she gave up asking, and grew very thoughtful, ,si lent, and look long walks in,lise gtoends.- We trusted bar quiet; we did not• think else -would deceive us. The blow- fell very heavily she left her home with a young officer, who was stationed at thirteen miles ofi. ) thought Mies Drainmand venuld,lisve . gon'e wild when we told lies of Cue's flight. Sha tote op and down like a Mad woman, and sent right and loft to overtake her. It was not until there was a nate from One herself, dated Lomden, saying that eber was married to one who loved her, and whom she loved—who would give ba the affection she had lung craved for in vain— Mies Drummond froze back into herself, and
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers