OHE D3LLAR PER ANNUM INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE. XOWANDA: Thursday Morning, January 23,1862. Original |)oetrg. (For the Bradford Importer.) TRUST IN GOD. Jcsrs wilt lend a listening ear. Unto the sufft-r'a cry— Although no earthly frieud i aw. Or human aid be nigh. To those who put their truat in Him He is a friend in deep ; Though the light of hope shines faint and dim, He'll givn Hiein a " tht ' y noe< '' His promises are always sure, If we believe His word To endless ages they 11 endure, Theu let us truit the Lord. He hears the helpless ravens cry, And gives the sparrow food ; His children's wants he will supply Our Goo is ever good. But yet our faith is very weak, Increase it, Heavenly Friend ! And when we hear our Saviour speak, May all our doubtingsend. speak geatly to our torubled souls. And whis(>er " l'eaee, be still I'' Thy hand can make the wounded whole, Thy voice can peace instill. Theu, though our web of life is dyed, With sorrow's sable hue— We'll trust in Christ, these r.torms untried, He holds our crown in view. We'll count all earthly things as naught, If we but win the crown ; For s the prize was dearly bought, Wlieu Christ his life laid down. For us he suffered on the tree, Aud then arose to Ileaveu— And there is pleading still that we May freely be forgiven. Then let us trust the Saviour's powers, Aud lean upon his word In deep affliction's darkest hour, 0 ■ let us trust the Lod. Towasn\.TA- • g ; UT Itlctlcb £ a 1 e. ft"win the St. James Magazine.] cousiisr iTTTXui^isr. Cousio Julian ! Dear Cousin Julian ! What a vixiu 1 was to be sure ! How 1 used to pro v ike him, merrily, earnestly, passionately, while he, with his kindly smile and good-humored eves, would uever turu, never retort, on bis cousin Natty. Natalie, that was my name —my name to cousin Amelia uud Georgiana, Augustus and Roderick —bu* " cousin Julian I was Natty, " Little Nattj Pretty Natrv" —while to me he was a treasure —very preci ous. I will picture Cousin Julian—with the sha dows, half-lints, aud semi-trenspareucies of a truthful colorist Bright, agile, full of the tirst flush of youthful health and buoyancy— with restless kindly eyes ; a small, ever twich ii.ir mouth, that bespoke merriment and insta bility ; a laugh that made hearts laugh even more than lips ; and an ever-living sympathy that drew young aud old, wise aud fooiish to love Lira. 1 do not say that respect mingled ninch iu our emotions towards him We did not go to h.K fur advice, nor trust his judgment, nor his theories of right and wrong—but to expand in his generosity, to laugh at bis heartiness, to ware the joyousnesa of his nature, the happi ness ut living ; thus was he to us a healthlv itimulent to dispel the weariness and (nnui that sometimes sadden youth. We were dull enough, sister lleB3y and my self, mother and father —not " mamma" und "papa"— that was one of Julian's crotchets.— " If they're your mother and father, call them w, Natty. ; never be ashamed of the dearest *ords in our mother-toogae, but treasure them talismans that chase away all outer wrong, and invite a healthful flow of right within.— They are the passwords of the human race, from the beggar to the prince." Cousin Julian w s an orphan ; perhaps that was why be so treasured the relics of a tie he could never re alize iu all its living beauty. From the one (treen spot in a quiet valley where two lay side by side sprang the many sweet flowers that h.ossomedin his heart. Hessy and I were twin-bora ; yet we were 'erry different—she dark —I fair ; the links tut should have joined our whole being seem- in oue relation, and that was Cousin Julian. Mother &Dd father were un acquainted with our inner life in this particu ' ar i did not owu it to each other ;so grew up side by side, reading the same bo °ks, singing the same songs, loved by the same food parents, and each, thoogh unknown t0 the other, waichiug the rising of the same t-arai the rising of a great hope. We lived - a quiet, pretty village, with the usual •mount of picturesque scenery about us—bills " '1 hollows, broad corn fields, shady woud ane, I w i'd flowers, ferus and heather ; and o,r daily rambles made us acquainted with the Hasant Hook 0 f Mature, whose leaves, tho' varied form and color, are alike impressed "•th oue great teaching—" from Xaturt up to Matures God." r ars w as a qneer, rambling old house—with piloted windows looking out upon nothing, 'trow staircases leading no where, and corri ■r* terminating with blank walls. Aged iw , ov tr the exterior, knocking its heavy * a, t against the rattling windows in the rcooulight nights, and throwing moving, ghost ly shadows over the waxed floors. It was the ' lanor House, and the villagers told won 'j erlui sl °ries of goings on in the old place— dad, some good. The bad had ghostly to keep up its evil report ; and many have I shnddered over the tales of our • house as the fire light flickered on the great THE BRADFORD REPORTER. hearth and the night wind moaned through the trees. What a passionate fellow Julian was, to be 6ure ! How the red blood would well up into his cheek, aud the tire dance in his eyes, at a very small provocation ! But his was a gen erous passion ; he would stand boldly up for oe as well us friend, if he thought an unjust ctiou or suspicion fell upon him or her. How he loved pets ! Horses, dogs, birds —everything living claimed love and protec tion from him ; yet 1 would not have been his favorite horse, if the spirit of wilfulness or tem per came npon me. He would be master— and when 1 witnessed, as I sometimes did, a struggle betweeu his horso and him—heard the cruel blows dccend, and saw the fury and de termination to conquer swelling his every vein and muscle, I have stolen away, awed and sor rowful. What if I were to thwart him ? would he turn on me 'I But no 1 that could never be. I would do his bidding ; I would work, obey, humble ray owu proud nature, sub due its every desire, to have his lips smile on me, and keep his love unchaoged. He should never turu on me, for 1 WL uld uever thwart nor anger him. Hessy and I were fifteen—Julian, seventeen —we weut ou living in the present—the hap | py, beautiful present ; careless (being young) we seldom looked beyond But Julian must go out into the world—nor waste his youth buried in an out-of-the way village, with a sim pie hearted uncle and aunt, and two girls. He had another uncle—his mother's brother, a merchant in Loudon—who took a fancy to the boy, and offered him a stool in bis count ing house; ho would take him without any pre mium, aud trial him as a son, for his dead sister's sake; and when competent, he might even make him a junior partner. He must live, of course, in Loudon —spend the whole bright day iu a dusty, gloomy room, sitting ou a high chair, with a pen behind his ear (that was tho picture he and I drew,) and eternally counting up hundreds, thousauds, and teus of thousands. It was a capital offer for one who had neither money uor iaterest to push him on; aud father aud mother-held maiiy discus sions with their nephew ou the advantages thus as it were thrown liberally iu his way, which he had nothing to do but pick up aud say, " Thank you." But such as the elders might diiateon these worldly goods, we youngsters formed a differ ent opinion, and spoke out our opiuious lreely. Julian vowed he'd never settle down to such a life. " He'd rather die first!" Never! We ail agreed upon the point, that is, we three aud Nurse. Jler dar' ng to he cooped up air tight iu a city fog! \\ as it for this she had nursed, watched, and fostered his body aud mind? Jhs beautiful agile limbs, indeed, to be crossed for eight or nine hours a day under a stool! His beautiful merry eyes to be dark ened by the shadow and endless maze of fig ures and business ot a counting-house. She knew clerks were starved; she never saw one that hadn't as thin a look us the bill-hook he hung his accounts upou, aud fingers as long and bony as the scratch steel-pen he rested so knowingly behind his ear. llow we loved the old nurse, though she did put uway everything out of its place, aud then declare—" Ah, Miss, it isn't I who have set eyes on it this blessed mouth and more!" We kissed and hugged her; and though Julian was less demonstrative in his notions of a city life, yet he would torn to the window,away from us, and brush his sleeve across his misty eyes, now for the first time clouded. The end of it was that Julian consented, with an assumed indifference that surpried ns all; and up he went to London, ladeu with blessings from the old home. Where uow were the pleasures and joys of bouutry rambles ? All gone. We no longer aounded over the broad, sunny fields, singing ci we went the glad songs of childhood; no longer came home laden with the spoils of our searches down river banks, throuirh wooded paths, and over rugged hills. We walked qnietiy aud indifferently along the smoothest roads; we aid not start to chase the butterfly, nor clap oar bauds at the timid squirrels that leaped from tree to tree. The servants said the life had gone out of the old bouse, the sap from the old trees; whilj Hessy and I left our oatdoor pleasures and fouud new occupation in reading, working, and—fretting. We did more of the latter thao of aught else; and even father and mother, I believe, were inwardly sorry they had pressed the matter so fur; they did not know how dear he had become to them, i The first three weeks we heard regularly from him, but the letters said little " Uucle was well; the weather gloomy; he hoped Natty and Hessy were well, and took care of Ponto (his pet dog.) He hoped the sun shone at Oaktield —it didn't coudescend to do so in Lion Street; but there was plenty of gas, a very fair substitute." And then he got letters from my parents —earnest letters, full of hints as to his good fortune, and how he would be a rich man if he would but tame down his spirit—how glad they were to hear that he got on comfortably with his uncle, and was recouciled to a city atmosphere 1 The fourth week the postman came with letters in neat, untidy, formed and unformed hands—but no letter from Lion Street. He might be unwell ; or, more Hkely, business was pressing and time short. We all said nothing was more likely than a letter had gone astray, and we should have the pleasure of receiving two next week. Vet we did wish the dear letter had reached its destination on the day it was due. It was October, and the days were beginning to be cold,the nights stor my ; my old winter fears were returning grad ually, as the recesses in the long corridors be came more glocmy in the twilight, and the wind knocked about the ivy before my win dow-panes. We had spent the Sunday in our new war. We had not takeu our usual ram ble in the wood as far as a pet tree that Julian had erected a seat under : it held us three with difficulty—that made it all the pleasant er. The leaves would keep drop, dropping on our bare beads, aud we called them kisses the dear old tree sent us ; and than we'd blow them back again and laugh, iu our innoceut PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., BY E. 0. UOODRICH. enjoyment. This Sunday bad been spent as many others had been. We sat and read un til Hessy grew fretful and uneasy. At last, 1 persuaded her to go early to bed, while I remained in the room to write. She soon fell asleep, and I softly stole to my little desk, to eujoy the dearest treat I now had. One by one I unfolded and laid on my lap some crum pled sheets of paper,with their straggling lines, up and down, an occasional blots and eras ures. I spread them out, and placed the lamp beside me, determined to hate an hour's entire delight reading the words bis mind had con ceived aud lingers written, and kiss them over and over again in my wild affection. People seldom thiuk, when they are away, how dear a letter is—how it is treasured, the words con ned over—or letters home would be more care fully traced : the heart's best thoughts would be poured out, and words of affection and en dearment tlow more frequently from the pen. The letter is a dim reflection of the writer's being—or ought to be. How the widow broods over tho Last letter from the dear one who died far uwuy ! Can anything be dearer ? If thousands were poured iuto her lap—if all the luxuries that money or rank cuu buy were spread before her—would her eyes moisten, would her Dps quiver, would her heart so yearn, as they do over that scrap of paper—yellow and faded—seared with many tears, but hal lowed by many prayers ? I read them over—l had but three—and then my miDd wandered from them to him. I wondered what he was doing—whether he was thinking of us, aud had missed the Sunday's rambles ; next Sun day I would go to the wood and gather a little wild flower and a leaf of our old tree,and send them to him. Mother and father had gone to bed ; I heard their bedroom door close, aud I had heard the last servant go up the back staircase behind our room ; llessy was asleep ; and I sat on, not hoediug how the timo went, wrapt up in my musing. The clock below had struck eleven—that was late for us—and 1 had just placed the precious letters on my dressing tablo, ready to take op when 1 was undressed und hide them under my pillow, when a faint sound outside the wiudow uttructed ine. I waseasily alarm ed ; ghosts or thieves were uppermost in my mind ; I must listen. Again the noise—loa der and more determined. There's something in the ivy, I thought—or, perhaps it's u bird, or some creature moviug the leaves. Again, and a clear soft whisper struck like familiar music on my ear. " Natty ! I know you're awake ; dou't be frightened ; it's Cousin Julian ! Don't wake Hessy, or any one ; but come round quietly to the studdy wiudow, aud open it. Not a word, for your life aud mine, Natty I" I felt no fear ; I did not seem to think it strange that he should be there, and at such a time. Breathless, I stole out of the room, down the staircase, and into the ptuddy. He was outside the window before I could open it, which I did softly and quickly. A stifled cry of joy, a wild embrace, aud we both 6tood in the cold uight air ! " Don't be frightened, Natty I" he said, with an attempt at u langh ; " I'm no ghost, but your own cousin, come to bid you fare well—perhaps for ever 1" I felt myself getting cold and rigid ; I saw his face with a new expression, a fixed look I had never seen there before ; his eyes were wild, and his hair thrown back in disordered curls. " How did yon come ?" I gasped. " Never mind that, now. I dare not stay many minutes ; to-morrow many ftiiles will be between us ; and the deep 6ea —the glorious sea beneath me, Natty ! I conld not bear the new life, it was killing me,killing me by iaches; so I determined to run away. Uncle thinks I've beeu the last two days down here, and won't expect me for a week to come ; so I shall have time to escape unsanght. Yon must be my friend, Natty. I could not go without a word from you, and a 6ight of the old place again. I come for a blessing from you, and a kiss to hallow it, darling 1 and to assure ycu I'll never forget you ; you'll be the one wee thing treasured in my wayward heart, Natty ; it's a strong and loving one, Natty ; though they'll abuse me, and perhaps curse me, dou't you turn from me, my darling ! I go. Don't tell any one of my visit—it wa? to you ; don't teli Hessy ; don't tell any hnman being. If 1 prosper yon shall hear from me ; if not —if years pass and I give no sign, theD, Natty, forget me for another, but not till then Wait for a time, darling 1 the sea that bears me from you may bring me back again ; and what if I find the nest deserted ? He was cru el, Natty—he goaded me with, my father's carelessness and instability—he spoke slightly of my dead mother, Natty, I bore it all—but I will never see his face again !" All this time I lay in his arms like a little child. I bad no reason, no feeling, but that he was there, and I drank in bis words with a painful effort. I remember the last farewell— thestraining to his brest—the hot tears (not rniuc) on my face—the emphatic "Bless you, my darling "for ever, for ever !" and then, the quick receding footsteps—the pushing back of crisp branches —the hurried rushing sound over the long aviuue ; and then I shut the wiudow calmly, stole up stairs softly, closed the door, and stood beside my Bister's bed, gazing upon her sleeping form. T mnst have remained so a long, dreary time, for the dying out of the lamp recalled me, aDd I sank upon the floor with a wild and bitter cry. That cry awoke my sister and my parents. They found me returning slowly to conscions ness—pale and rigid. " What could be the matter —Had I seen a ghost ? Had I heard or seen auy thiog to alarm me ?" I gave DO answer ; there seemed a weight on my heart and mind that I could not dispel—no voice would come. They searched the room—the house ; and Nurse said she had heard strange noises in her room—whisperings and moanings among the trees, tbat always came before an evil to the bouse ; that she had heard foot steps distinctly pacing to and fro the corridor as far as her young lady's room, and then stop ping. Aud she took me in her arms, and "REGARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER." rocked me as If I were a baby, mattering ' Poor child !! poor child ! it wouldn't let her alone !" It is beat,l thoagbt, that they sho'd believe me frightened by a ghost ; "it will prevent their questioning me." So I was left at last—quiet outwardly, bat with agonizing restlessness within. The next two days they were so kind ly taken up with nursing, amus ing me, aod trying to remove my melancholy, that the noc.-appearance of any letter from Ju lian passed unnoticed. At last, about the fonrth day, came one from Uncle Richard, hoping we bad not found his strange nephew much aged in looks by the hard work be bad done. It was to my parents and Hessy like a death-blow " What could it mean ? Where was he ?" Father wrote np Immediately to explain he had never arrived— we bad heard nothing of or from him ; aud then we walked and talked as in a dream —a wild uncertain dream—-our thoughts fell like shadows upon our own souls. Then came a stormy, bitter answer from my ancle. He had been deceived, by one he had befriended aod tmsted. He had never liked the boy ; there was a wild uncertainty about him that had annoyed him from the lirst ; but he bad tried to overcome the feeling, and had more than once borne with outbursts of passion such as no son of his could have been so uudutiful as to exhibit. The end was as the beginning—" He was, for the future, no relation ; he discarded him.' My father aud mother bore the blow as only Christians can. Tbey never said a hard word of him. How I blessed them 1 I could have kuelt and kissed their feet, as each even ing, the large well-worn Bible lyiug open be fore thera, they would speak lowly of the self exiled wanderer,and pray GOD keep him, wher ever he was. Poor Hessy ! It seemed to have turned her heart to stone She did not weep, uor pray, nor speak her sorrow out to any of us. She would sit aud work her daily task, silently and without complaint. I tried at times to get her to speak ot him ; bnt my ef forts were always met with a soft repulse. I evln brought out one of my hidden treasures and gave it to her ;but she pushed it from her saving, " I have no right to it, Natty ; tho letter is none of miue." So I left her to her sorrow, and it brought resignation to my heart, for wan I not the happier of the two ? I had tho knowledge, the blessed avowal of his love, ringing ever in my ears like a wild, beautiful melody ; each night brought back the strange sceno vrith its parting words, " Bless you, my darling, for ever !" Then I had his letters above all his secret. Had I not kept it well ? A year passed, marked in oar home by the trifling signs that only loving, watchful eyes could detect. My pareuts' steps were more faltering and slow ; there was more silver mixed with the gray hairs Iso loved. Hessy was febler, and less amible ; she was fretful, aud nothing interested her. Bat what could be done ? We all knew no doctor's art could avail her. It was a settled melancholv ; claiming no sympathv.and rejecting it if offered No lettpr for me. Yet 1 hoped, on. We now seldom Bpoke of him—rarely aloud. Some times, when alone with my mother, if the rest were out and we waudering together, she wo'd point to some tree or shrub, as one Julian planted when quite a little boy : it would be a great tree by the time he returned." Or we would come upon some book with a boyish handwriting on the page, crumpled and dir.y, and she would put it by on a little book-shelf, and Bay : " Don't forget Natty, all his books are safe in my room ; and the chemicles and instruments he was so found of, —when he re turns he'll find them all safe. Don't forget, dear, if I am not here to welcome him—which I may not he, my child, if he does not couse soon, for lam very weak and ailing. You'll be quite a woman, Natty"—she'd continue, unconscious of tht emotions she was stir ring up within my breast—" be was very fond of you ; I wonder he did not tell you, even if he feared to tell us. But GOD knows best., aud HE will bless him, wherever he is." Then she would creep back to her arm chair, and muse for an hour, till father and Hessy re turned, and I rush back to my room and weep and pray. Three years, and no letter 1 "If I prosper you shall hear from me." My sister faded daily—hourly; the summer brought no color to her cheek; and at last the doctor advised change of air. So we left the old home for a time. To the sea we must go, suggesting painful, bitter thoughts to me; to her, a needful exercise of resignation. How it bounded and boiled—that beautiful, faith less sea! I sat and watched its play from the overhanging rocks, as one woald watch the gambols of a beautiful panther, fearing,yet admiring, its graceful strength and ponderous agility. I could see the vesr°ls from foreign lands come iDto pc r t. Some day he would re turn; he would come to me—if not, I should go to him; one was possible, the other a cer tainty. Yet I set my thoughts oa neither; the future was becoming daily more distant. I lived so much in the past. We sat for hours on the sea shore with our sick charge. I read to her; we worked together,when her strength allowed, frocks and uuder-clotbing for poor children. It seemed ber only interest now— working, silently for the poor! and as she re clined, with her heavy lidded eyes fixed so un ceasingly upon her work, her wan finger ply ing the needle—her thoughts—God kuows wherel but more worthily occupied than mine —I felt her very existence so calm, so unsel fish, a reproach to my warmer and, often, un sanctified impulses. I looked back in those silent hours to my own years. How wasted they seemed to me! I had ventured my alloa one cast—and if it failed me, where had I a resting place? But I had not said a word— and now his silence had broken her heart. She died! her end calm, as ber life had been. Dy iug, she said, " Sister, all is well!" and with out a sigh—without a sign—her spirit left us. And the quietness of the "going out" was so iutense, that we did not speak nor weepl " We thought br dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died!" I pass over another year. Nearly four years bad passed since" our boy" had left as; and we were changed—onr circle changed. The little easy-chair by the bay window was vacant. Hessy was sleeping very calmly in a darker, yet quieter place. My mother seldom left her room, and my father hardly ever quitted her. Ponto was getting grey; he had long become a steady, weli-conducted dog—he had given np playing with very young kittens, and birds might even hop within a few feet of his long pointed nose withont endangering their lives. He was considered my dog now; and we would sit for hoars in the window of the study thai looked apon the long avenne. The birds sang on every tree in the old place—but a dearer voice than all seemed ever ringing along that shady walk, and I was never tired of listening. I was constantly muking resolves of forcing myself out of that dreamy life of mine. Ever looking back, was not my soul in danger of passing by, unheeded, the chances, the oppor tunities, the present ever affords? One eveniug as I lay half dreaming, a ser vant entered aud told me that a womau want ed to speak to mo. " She asked for yon or poor Miss Hester, Miss. She looks like a lady, bnt poorly dressed, Mis!" I told him to show j her into the room, and my thoughts wandered ' again. In a few moments she entered—a pale, : dark yoong woman. She trembeld violently, and the blackness of her dress, the tears well ! iog into her large eyes, struck me with a strange sorrow. What could she want with me? I motioned her to a seat, and stood; my son], unconsciously to myself, awaited a trial ; that would require the nerves braced up, the ! whole being firui and self-sustained. Tho staff was about to be broken at ray feet by another's baud, therefore my soul prepared the uncon scious limbs aud made them self-reliant " Could I get her auythiug? Was she ill?" " No." " Was she in need of any help?" A faiut smile flitted over the pa'e face--" I've come many a long mile to see you, Miss Nat ty. Forgive me —but I have heard your name so ofteu from lips that loved it, that I seem to know yon only by it. I've come over the sea to fiud you, and thank God! I've found you at last; and you don't look like one to turn me away with bitter words." She stop ped as if to read my fuce. What did it tell I her? Why did her voice move me so much ? I trembled. She continued, " Juliau " "What of him?" I shouted, rushing to her, and clutching her arm. " What is he to you ? And my breath came pantiugly, and my strong frame quivered. " The father of my child /" The words came Blowly from her lips, each weighed with a leaden weight, dropping ose by one npon my heart; and she drew her slight form up so proudly that my nature bowed be foro her. I could not gpeak or move. I stood beftre his wife- -his wife! I knew that, for she would never have dared to face me by any other claim. I stood before his week frail wife —a very nothing now. She had not spoken three minutes, bnt the scenes of many gone-by years were surging through my brain. She needed not to tell me he was dead; nor that the child was his. She need say uothing now, but simply leave me—leave me to myself, humbled, sad, hopeless. If she would only go! not stand before me with her tearful eyes gaz ing into my dry, tearless ouesl If she would only turn away, and not look so beseechiuglv —so sorrowfully on me I " I will leave yon," at last she whispered.— " He bade me give yon this; —he sealed it up himself the moruing he died. Your name was very often on bis lips; he taught me to love you—honor you; with his dying breath he said, ' May she forgive me! She will love you for my sake.'" She came nearer and nearer; I felt her soft breath stealing over my rigid form. Will she not go lest 1 strike her? I felt her Angers touch me. I felt her eyes and her crael gentleness stealing into my harried soul. " Yon will not refuse his last wish— Coasin Julian's?" That word Jbroke all the ice around my heart; li ived—l breathed; and with a sad, bitter cry, I fell into her out stretched arms. She was wise: calling none, she let me weep undisturbed. There I lay sobbing, and she— like a tender mother, half rocking, half sooth ing me—rather encouraged the visible grief She attempted no comfort—that would have racked me; so the accumulated, pent-up feel ing of years burst out of its prison-house, and I arose calmer, becanse it was now a certainty —a sad one for me —but yet better than feed ing on a false hope. Full half an hour must have passed ere I grew calm, she all the while grieving with my grief, and, I knew, praying for me the same comfort wherewith she had beeu comforted.— At last she spoke, taking my listless baud within hers—" 1 have given yon the packet, Natty; open it when you feel you can; and now—shall Igo away?" The look that ac companied these words spoke more than the words. Go away!—turn his wife from his home, as long as it remained to shelter us?— Thank God, the nest was not quite empty, though two fledglings had dropped from it, and the earth hidden them out of our sight.— She most stay; ay mother and father must know; and 1 longed, yet dreaded to hear from her lips of the latter days of my poor cousin. I must brave it out; I had kept his secret well, and now I must keep my own So I told them -"-prepared them little by little for the troth. Thoy were weak and aged uow; the silver cord would easily be loosed, if a heedless hand were laid upon it. Then I lead her in—gently, tenderly—the womau who had stolen what seemed to me my birthright; and the little chid—the little forgotten child—-that through all this scene had bidden close in the folds of her black dress, fearing to move or speak— crept out as she moved, and, tightly grasping her nervous fingers, both followed me to my parents room. It was a sad, sad time,the next two hours. " She mast stay —I knew that— she, and the boy." I went about my household duties, prepar ing for oar new relation. The servants weep ing and moaning over tb" dear yonng master almost broke my self-command. But I most 'cheer them up; I mast seem bat to mourn e VOL. XXII. —INTO. 84. lost cousin, and to welcome a cousin's wif®.— We prepared the best room for Mariao, and when all was ready I took ber aside into a little room looking orer the long avenue. I pointed to the tiuy shelves of books—the broken boxes of all sizes and material—a fad ed, broken kite—a cricket-bat. Iu the corner was prepared a tittle bed, and, as a stream of sunlight poured into the room and lit up all its quaint recesses, I laid my baud ou hers and said—" This is your Julian's room."' 1 could say no more. The child crept up softly to where I stood, and touching my passive band with his clinging fingers, lisped ant, " Kiss Cousin Julian! Me love you." I kissed the boy—that is, I pressed by buruiug Iqj upon bis broad, full brow. I would not look into his eyes; I feared I might oven—love hlmt 1 kuew it was no kits, and his mother knew it! I stole away to open once more something that had been his; something of what she had brooght me that had been his. Wlat was it ? A curl—a dark curl he bad stoleu from me laughingly one summer moruiog! and, twined with it, lay a soft, fair ring of baby hair! Was this a mute appeal—an appeal from the grave to love his child—to replace this earthly love of mine for one pure and spiritual as that of angels'—one that I might carry with mo into Ills presence and feel no shame? I know not; but that night beside a little bed 1 knelt and prayed, and the augels, as they passed beheld my son! expanded with a new and holy love. The father lives for me iu the child I ALLOTMENT CERTIFICATES. —The act concern ing allotment certificates, passed by Congress some days ago, is an excellent law, and is re ceived with much favor by the soldiers wher ever it has been submitted to them. Unsal aried commissioners are already appointed by the Presideut to visit the troops of each State, and procure allotments or orders making over portions of their monthly pay to their families. The mode in which this provision is secured is perfectly simple and no expense to the soldier, or to those who receive his allotment. Hav ing certified in writing that he wishes to send a stated monthly sum to a certain person, he receives thereafter from the regimental pay master a draft for the amonut ou the Assist ant Treasurer at New York, Mr. Cisco. This draft, payable to the order of his wife or friend, he now sends by mail to the person designated. The third section of the allotment act repeals a former law giving to sutlers a lien on the soldier's pay, and also restricts the privileges of these traders. For this reason, we are in formed, they oppose and strive to raise a pre judice in the minds of the soldiers against the whole law. Bat it is so simple and conve nient, that it needs ouly to be explained to the meo, to be at once appreciated.— Neva York Evening Post. A CHEAP BREAKFAST. —A son of Erin, at Schenectady, heard the breakfast bell ring on board a canal boat just starting from Buffalo. The fragrauce of the viands induced him to go aboard "Sure, captain, dear, (said he,) and what'!! ye ax a man for traveliu' on yer illegand swand of a boat?" " Only a cent and a half a mile, and fouDd," replied the captain. " Au' is it the vittals ye mean to find, sure? ,r "Yes. And if you are going along, go down to breakfast." Pat didn't wait to be told a second time,bat having descended into the cabin and made a hearty meal, he came on deck and requested that the boat might be stopped. " What do you want to stop for?" inquired the captain. " How far have we come?"' asked Pat. " Only a little over a mile." Pat thereupon handed the captain two cents, "and coolly told him that he believed he would not go any further with him, as Judy would wait the breakfast, not knowing that be had breakfasted out. The joke was so good that the captaiu took the two cents, ordered the boat stopped, help ed Pat ashore, and told him that should he ever have occasion to travel that way again he would be most happy to carry him. A KIND JUDGE.—A very learned and com passionate judge in a western State ou passing sentence on one Joues, who had been convict ed of murder, concluded his remarks as follows : The fadt is, Jones, the court did not at first intend to order you to be executed before next spring; but the weather is so very cold; our jail is unfortunately in a bad condition ; much of the glass in the windows is broken; tho chimneys are in such a dilapidated state that no fire can be made to render your apartment comfortable; besides, owing to a great number of prisoners, not more than one blanket can be allowed to each; and to sleep sound and comfortably, therefore is out of tin question. Iu consideration of these circumstances, and wishiug to lessen your sufferings as much as possible, the court,in the exercise of its humani ty and compassion, do hereby order you to be executed to-mr>rrow morning, as soon after breakfast as may be convenient to the Sheriff and agreeable to you ■6f*The New Bedford Mercury makes the following conundrum : " Why are the Heme Gaurds like the lamented Col. Baker? Because the last thing he did was to die for his country and that is tho very last thing they intend to do." Learn, in childhood, if you can, that happiness is not outside, but inside. A good heart and a clear conscience bring happiness, which DO riches and no circumstances alone ever do. TTF A judicious silence ia always better than truth spoken without charity. f6r* Money and time have both their value. He who makes bad use of the one will never make good use of the other.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers