01; DM Pel ANNUM, INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE. TOWANDA: Satnrfcan flljntinn, fUarcl) 22. ISofj. YES, WE MISS THEE AT HOME. y e a, we n:i-s thee at home: yes, we miss thee ; The hours sfliito slowly away, With fond dreams of thee, as thou roamcst, And weary regrets at thy stay. The fire->ii!c circle is broken, H- me pleasures are mingled with pain. As orer the past, we still linger, And long Dr thy presence again. Ye 3, we miss thee at lmmc, r.nd how lonely Tue evening-, that onec were so gay ; Tit m'i#ic has lost half its gladness— The melody gone from the lay. ihwh heart still remembers the absent, J - with thee, in joy and in enre, Jn, ->-irit. we wander to meet thee— [a spirit thy pilgrimage share. Y< we miss thee at home ; yes, we miss thee, At morning, at noon, and at night; At m ruing, we waft thee a blessing ; At evening, a tender good-night. And, oh! in thy wanderings far distant, Though joyous where'er tlion dost roam, Doth uot memory recall scenes of pleasure And dreams of the loved ones at home. Jit let hi Cult. ill-ATIiICE LANCASTER DY MIRIAM F. HAMILTON". CHATTER I. It V.T.S late in the afternoon. A long row of irirls and boys stood in a regular line be ;■ their teacher, in the little red sehoolhou.se, r„ . i tr their spelling lesson, while the remain uerof the pupils fidgeted in their seats, piled and re-piled tlair books on their desks, and cast r--tlcss, eager glances out at the open and then at the teacher's face, for it was • ;,:!v time for dismissal, and, weary of a long afternoon's confinement, the children could •:-ir.i!v wait for the tinkle of the bell—thesig *ii'-ir release. At last the spelling-class • : t'.-ir seats, the bell sounded, and instant 'nere was a scene of confusion—boys rush edoofu f of tim door, and gave vent to their : -T;t-iip spirits in whoops, yells and somersets ; id girls more quietly, but not less gaily, ran it into the open air. Soon merry voices died aw a v in the distance, and the teacher was left a! ■in that just now crowded school-room. She wn-- a young and striking-looking girl. Her form was erect, her step stately, and her • i'.'os, though irregular, were pleasing ; her abundant raven hair was wound in a sort of c canal around her head, in a singular but • ■ unlu'coining fashion ; her complexion was a clear olive, and her mouth firm in it" expres - MI. almost unpleasantly so when closed, but when -h ■ sniil-'d she was positively beautiful ; • '-a lx r whole countenance chauged ; her large. (L>ry eyes grew -oft and tender, and the [•ride and hauteur that spoke in her every lin eament, marring her otherwise almost perfect beauty, disapj 'aired. Just n>w on of those beaming smiles light "d no her countenance : site stood bv her desk, in her n-::al erect position, holding a note, yet unopened, in her hand. It had been brought t" ti." -ehool-room during the session, and now ' at -dm was alone, she prepared to read it.— -"cnu'd in no haste to break the seal. She -i at the bold firm hand-writing, and press "l it to her lips ; then, slowly unfolding it, sae read: i umetirno past, Beatrice, I have been d'l'f- . vou have observed it, and to your in- T', ri'-> as to its cause, I have given false and ■ vp replies, but I can deceive myself and pi no longer. 1 sought you last night with the determination to lull you all, but 1 could "•' at r the words that would, I felt, give ton so much pain. But I must do it. What try tongue refused to tell, I must intrust my P'n. I* is useless to hesitate: the sooner all "knoiv-i the better for us both. Beatrice, I •■•■•'■ at I have mistaken the nature of my rigs towards you As (rod is my witness, n \v-wi re betrothed I thought I loved 1 ' ! I still appreciate your rare loveliness, ' " r longer love yon. At first I deter never to acquaint you with the change : iibim 11. but I shrank from a lifetime •veit. 1 could not at the altar perjure '''•' ! .'• taking those solemn vows, and I • " •v. too. that you would spurn the ottered 1!ll l w.diout the heart accompanied it. I i •, ry wrong in hastily entering upon •'"('Bwajr, ment without a proper knowledge L.i feelings towards you. I was ' ■•r::iP(i hv your beauty, dazzled by your wit, "'"acted by your virtue ; I mistook the " loi emotions I felt for love. But it is ""■ r h>r nie lo acknowledge my fault, than "'iiait a sin iu leading you lo the altar !v 'mart is another's. Forgive me and - t me. Farewell, and may you soon find more worthy of your love than your you will still allow me to claim that Loir? MEREDITH." rv particle of color forsook Beatrice's •s- us dip read—her lips were white, her to-milled so violently she could scarcely ■l'tter, a death-like faintness stole : " and she sank into a chair and buried r • 1,- e in her hands. 1 n tnr. not a moan escaped her • she " re ''l silence, motionless as a statue, liut !) e rt w "at a whirlwind of emotions was A ; Ibiw long she sat there she hardly f • when at last she looked up. the twi £'' ,la ''vppening, and she rose with a start •"r seal j i cr countenance bore the tra '• ! 'T suffering— looked haggard and >:.r' those few hours had chang •'l 'by, but her eves flashed with n 1 their usual fire, and her lips were firmly com pressed together. She drew herself up proud ly, as if she despised herself for her weakness, crushed the letter, which had fallen from her trembling finger", contemptuously under her foot, ami then picked it up with a look of dis gust, as if it had been some loathsome thing, and putting on her hot and shawl, she walked out of the room. She went rapidly on till she readied a low, white cottage ; she entered it, und passed quickly through the little sitting-room to her own apartment. Here she took from an in luid box a package of letters, and adding that she had last received to the number, she hasti ly collected every memento, however trifling, which had beeu the gilt of Louis Meredith, and placed thorn securely together in readiness to return to him. Then carefully arranging her toilet, she returned to the sitting-room An old lady dressed with scrupulous nicety, was its ouly occupant ; she was quieTv knit ting. The table was spread for the evening's meal, and she had evidently been waiting i'or her daughter's return. "You are late to night, Beatrice," she said, " but I suppose Louis came for you to go to walk. It is so foolish to take such unreasona ble hours for his walks. Tea has beeu waiting this half-hour." " I am sorry to have kept you waiting, mother," returned her daughter's silvery voice; " but those long walks will trouble you no lon ger. Louis Meredith and I are parted forev or ** The old lady dropped her knitting work in her lap, and looked at her daughter in aston ishment ; at length she spoke : " Oh, 1 see ; a lover's quarrel. But you will make it up in a nay or two, and be all the happier for it. Well, well—better disagree before than after marriage." " Mother," said Beatrice, " listen to me. I shall never marry Louis Meredith. .Nothing on earth could induce me lo do so. As I said we are parted forever; and now let me beg you never agaiu mention his name to me ; let the subject never again be alluded to between us ;—let all be as if we had never known him." Her voice softened. " You will not be sorry, mother dear, 10 have your Beatrice again all your own ?" And she took her parent's shriv eled hand fondlv between her own. Mrs. Lancaster was touched by this expres sion of tenderness ; for Beatrice, though a most devoted daughter, in fact the only sup port of her poor and widowed mother, rarely inade any demonstration of her attachment, and this caress, slight as it was, filled the mother's heart with joy. She drew her child to her side, and kissed'her tenderly, but Bea trice escaped from her embrace, and saying cheerfully, " Are we never going to have sup per ?" led the way to the table. She talked gaily during the meal, and, though she ate little, succeeded in withdrawing her mother's attention from her want of appetite Not the most watchful eye could have de tected a shade of sadness in her face or man ner that evening ; indeed, she wns gayer than usual. No wonder that her mother—good, unobservant soul—believed that she was hap py in her release from the tie that had bound her. A few evenings had passed, and Beatrice stood in the little sitting-room, dressed for a party. Never had she looked more beautiful than now, in her simple white dress, with its crimson ribbons, and a red rose-bud in her hair. Mrs. Lancaster looked at her in admiration ; nor was she alone in her appreciation of her child's loveliness. .She was the belle of the evening at -Nlrdt Mercer's, and not even the youthful heiress, in honor of whom the party had been made, and to whom Louis Meredith was said to be affi anced, could divide the honors of be lie-ship with her. It hail been well known throughout the village that Beatrice and Louis had beeu en gaged, and the fact of their separation was equally well understood ; bnt, though she was narrowly watched, no look or gesture betrayed that she had beeu moved by the sundering of the tie. She was surrounded by admirers ; she had a smile for this one, a command for a second, and merry words for others ; and, as if attracted by some irresistible charm, Louis Meredith hoveici near her—even when talking with his affianced bride, Therese Benedict, lie heard every word that fell from Beatrice's lips, and saw her every motion. His eyes flashed angrily as he saw her smil ingly receiving the attentions off'-red her, and contrasted her mariner towards all with the careless "Good evening" with which she met him ; her cheek had not flushed at his greet ing, her hand had not trembled in his grasp, and he wns piqued by h< r evident indifference; he was jealous, too, and almost gnashed his teeth with rage when he saw her apparently listening with the deepest attention lo the half whispered words of Ralph Mercer, the only son of their host—the wealthiest man in the village. Louis looked at Beatrice, and then at The rese—the one a poor village school belcher, and the other the wealthy daughter of a dis tinguished lawyer —ami he conld but acknowl edge how far superior, in beauty, grace and talent, was the humble teacher he had discard ed to his affianced bride. His eyes were opened. He knew that lie still loved Beatrice, and that without her mon ey Therese would have been utterly indifferent to him. He could bear it no longer. He stole as soon as possible, to Beatrice's side, and said a few words ou her coquetry and heartlm-Miess. She turned her 'urge flashing eyes full upon him with a look of contempt. " Mr. Meredith forgets himself," she replied, coldly ; " liis opinion is utterly indifferent to me. What right has he to criticise my con duct ?" She waved her hand in token of dismissal ; and he left her, with a strange mixture of love and anger in his heart as he saw her again— j the centre of a circle of admirers —full of life ; and animation. Tiia hours flew rapidly, and | when at Ia t the gay < ompany departed, f.ou.s PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY AT TOIVANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA.. BY E. O'MEARA GOODRICH. saw, with bitter jealousy, that Ralph Mercer was the devoted attendant of his discarded Beatrice ; and lie sought his home, aogry with himself and the world. The excitement of the evening was over, and alone in her chamber Beatrice thought of all that had passed. She had triumphed ; but alas ! what an aeiiing heart had been hidden under that gav exterior ! She had loved Louis Meredith with ail the ardor of her passionate, but reserved, nature, I ft "d not so easily could she thrust him from her heart, 'ihe struggle to appear happy to deceive all about her ' with a show of indiifl'er j euoe, was too much lor her. She louged to be j away, and right gladly she accepted a lucra tive offer to take charge of a school in the large town of Mont ford, where she might escape the sight of Louis, the reports of his approaching marriage, and the Argus eyes of . a whole village. Mrs. Lancaster made no objections to the proposed removal, and ere long Beatrice and her mother left Langdon forever. CHAPTER 11. Is Mr. Irving in ?" asked a young man, evidently a stranger, entering the large estab- i lishment of Messrs. Irving