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. (Kjjp iBtaorfy Slnirriran IS PUBLISHED EVERY FRIDA* MORNING BY WM. H. CHANEY. Office In Osgood'* Block, next door So»ith «f the tills worth Bank, T E a M s. $2,DC p*r annum ; ifjwid strictly in advance 81,50. rr>-\nvanTisKM*vis inverted at rvftvoahlr rule*. Jfcrtrq. The “Ladies’ Man ” BV DAVID BA8XF.R, F.SQ. Who is a “Ladies' Man?" Not he. The "dom foine," »rt begotten fop, Who lives through life a devotee To dancing hall and tailor’s shop; Who lacks for ballast, not for sail — Whose beard around the place he chctvs 5s like a kirk on puppy's tail, For ornament and not for use. He cannot be a ''Ladies’ Man" Who dreams that for a world of gold The love of women can be wftn, Or virtue ean be bought and sold; Nor be a “Ladies' Man" 1 ween, Who da res assert, or d.irps expect, That tr iflings can be made to screen The poverty of intellect. He is of “Ladies’ Man" the kind, Who lives to learn, and learns lopri/it The sterling brilliancy of mind Beyond the brilliancy of eyes; Who leels that purity and love, That native modesty and taste Are gems which man should hold uhuve T'irw small circumference of waist; tVl.~ l ........ il.-,i -.11 fit,, tniN of earth. The pride of rank, and power of migh' Arc always tipped by moral worth When weighed upon the scale-of right He is 4 “Ladiert’ Man”—the best— Who, though he toils at sledge or car His got a something in his breast The dictionary calls a heart. ^rlrrtrh. KfrtM iiitliiHOrt rr*« K»*<. C;L A R CfJ THE URSULINE NUN : — 0 It — THE FATAL VOW. A THRILLING TALE OF THE SOU 11 • r M VERNON. CHAPTER I. • When hfl sal b.'firnlil linrey*, In* f’*U In splendor nii Imn lihu a bright sprll,'* Henri St. Clare, having left college remained «t home some months on In, tailier's plant at ion ; hot grow ini; "euri of the monotonous life lie led there, re <J lested of bis indulgent parents permis moti to visit some of the more Soullieri Suites, which permission was granted and not many days passed before tin young man found himself in the ( res cent City, sauuteriug along one of ilio jiiineip.il thoroughfares. It was a jileas ant day—and as lie |iassed along, aliius mg himself with observations of the dif lerenl forms and faces lie met, lie saw ti I nly approaching, leaning on the arm o a female slave. Notwithstanding lie rich and elegant attire, she appeared sal luw and sickly ; in fact, seemed like om gradually sinking, into the grave. A they met, tiie lady naturally looked up and Henri was struck with the fantilia expression of her features, but it was no until they bad passed one another sever al paces, that he suddenly recollected In *>wu maternal aunt, whom he had no seen for years, lie immediately turnei and retraced his steps for the purjiose o addressing her; and stejiping belore he with a bow, he remarked :— “Madam, can you remember an ol< r.u.ii'i She looked earnestly in his face for i few seconds, and then emending he hand, which he pressed warmly, she sail in a briken feeble voice— ‘•1 do remember you, Henry, tbougl »• is long since 1 have seen you. Yoi are not very much altered, but you hav grown taller and prouder looking. 1 an delighted to see you again. Will yoi nut accompany me home? Youperceiv that my health is very delicate!" "Indeed, dear aunt-, 1 do with sorrow But take my arm—lean on me, and will attend you.” Supported by Henri and the slave— who was called Bertha—the lady, whosi uime was Thornton, moved slowly home ward. They had only a short distana to traversee, and on reaching the house all ascended the marble steps and wer admitted into the richly furnished par lor. Here the afflicted lady sank into softly cuishoned lounge, and drew a dee and heavy sigh. "1 did not know of your second mat riage aunt Maria,” said the young man as he took a seat on an ottoman near hj M rs Thornton placed her hand ove her eyes as if in pain. “I will confide in you Henri," said sill “It is now two years since I became Ihi wife of Adelbert Thornton—and—and a thousand tunes have 1 had cause to re pent it." Here the unhappy woina paused, and coughed that broken, hollow cough, which is ever the presage of dis solution. “My dear aunt you surprise and pain me. How is thist” “Listen. You know when my first! husband died, he left me rich 111 worldly 1 goods; and after time had mellowed my; grief, I lived peacefully and contentedly in my lovely country home, until in an evil hour I met Thornton. I became, I know not haw, completely fascinated ; with him, and in a few months agreed to 'become his wife. He had been married before and was the father of tvto chil dren ; but I did not know until after our marriage that lie was a I’apist. Too soon I became aware that my property 'was all he wanted, and that no love for I me ever entered his false heart. Ob, I Henri ! mine has lieen a wretched life the past two years. Ilis tyranical treat 'mi nt of inc lias broken my heart, and it 1 will not be long before the cold sod is laid over ine. Alts Thornton paused, ami covering her eyes w ith her handkerchief, sobbed convulsively. The young man was much affected, and remained silent until she became more composed. Then he inquired where her husband's children were. “They live here,”* she said. Clari is past fifteen,[ami a good child to me she certainly is—but I lieodore, who is near lyour age, is the counterpail of bis father !—indeed, I might as well say it— be is 1 both a gambler and a roue.” At this moment a young girl bounded into the apartment, but on seeing a stran ger, blushed and seemed about to retire. “Come hither Clari,” said Mrs Thorn ton ; "ibis gentleman is iny nephew, Henri St Clare.” Clari saluted linn politely, and sat down by her mother. She was a bru nette : iter hair was iet black, and bang around her head in thick glossy ringlets, and her eyes also brilliantly black, were (ringed with long silken I.idles of the same inky hue. Her features were reg ular, yet she was uot u beauty ; but In r glance and expression when she spoke were irresistably fascinating. Her lorin was of a medium height—slender, ele gant and graceful. Henri kept Ins eyes fixed so earnestly upon her that she grew embarrassed, per ceiving which, the young man recollect en himself, and resuming Ins conversa tion with his nuiil, informing her of the principle events of Ins life since he had left her, when ipiite a hoy. At length it struck him that it was time to take lus leave, and ri-ing, lie expressed a hope ol Mrs Thornton's improvol, who only shook luir head sadly, inertly remarking, ■•DonI forget me—good-bye!" As the young man, bowing to Clari, , was in the act of leaving the room, Mr Thornton entered from the rear. He w as a tali, spare man, of about fifty, w ith a cold stern expression ot countenance — and as lie advanced, lus wile shrunk lack as if in -terror. Clari seeing him look fixedly upon Henri, hastened to s»y:— I '-Father, this gentleman is in; moth ! er's nephew, Mr St f lair.’’ Thornton bowed haughtily, which w as ■ as haughtily returned by the young man as lie passed out. As soon as he was gone, the former turned to the trembling Maria, and said, roughly : '■What was that leilow doing lo re?— One of your lovers, hey, my Indy !’ She made no reply, and Clan ohserv , j ed earnestly :— ‘How can you father ! Mr St Clare is her nephew.' ‘I suppose he is your lover then, lie ware whom you encourage! . Beware, I say!’ And his brow grew dark and threatning. 'I never saw him before,’said Clari 1 firmly. I Thornton made no reply, hut with a 1 scornful look upon the unnuppy Maria, he strode hack and forth through the room, muttering to himself. His wife was half reclining upon the I lounge, the picture of suffering, with her f thin, sallow, pinclied-up features, and as r she glanced towards her husband, she could uot repress a heavy sigh. I He stopped short in his walk. •What are you sighing for? Vou may i thank your stars you have not cause to r sigh, ay, and to weep also. There you I lie, day after day, like a worthless, lazy woman as you are, pretending you art i sick-’ i Pretending!’ exclaimed the miserable : wife. 'Oh heaven.’ i ‘Well, then,’said the heartless wretch, i ‘what's the use of your complaining all ; the time and giving everybody so much trouble? Why dont you die!—why don't . you, I say?' | ‘Oh father!’ ejaculated Clari, horror struck at his words—while poor Mrs . Thornton sunk back, weeping bitterly. . Thornton strode out of the room, shut . ting the door fiercely after him. Alaria, . still weeping, sobbed out; , ‘I have deserved it all. Why did I so • soon forgot my sainted Arthur, and wed . tins monster? Oh, Clari, Clari, I am so i wretched ! 1 shall soon leave this world j of sorrow however—he will rejoice then lor 1 shall be out ot Ills way. Oh, that . there was a single being upon earth that would love me—that would pity me!' ‘Don't dear mother said Clari folding r her arms around her and kissing her, while tears tell thick and fast troni her large eyes—'7 pity you—7 love you, for I know how you suffer. Don't weep so, - it will only make you worse dear moth . er.‘ i ‘I care not. 1 want to die—1 want to leave this wretched place and go to my sainted Arthur. He loved poor Maria !’ Let us change the scene. Some days passed. A grand hall was to be given by a belle of the city, and Clari received a pressing invitation. /It first she deinur e<t at going, as she did not like to leave Mrs Thornton alone; bill this lady urged her lo go and enjoy herself, for she need ed no attendance save that of her favorite slave Bertha. So, Clari obeyed—and was the acknowledged belle o! the even ing. She was splendidly attired, and Henri St Clare who was also present, thought she looked like a queen. He merely saluted her at first, and for a long time did not approach her, nevertheless his eyes continually followed her wherev er she moved through the brilliant rooms always attended by several gentlemen, with whom she kept up a gay and sparkl ing conversation, scarce glancing towards Henri, who began to think that ‘the hour which comes but once in a lifetime,’ bad at last come to him. At last he approached her and asked her to dance. She unaffectedly compli ed, and white in the pauses of the polka or waltz, she conversed with her usual' animation, her countenance lighted up so gloriously and her eyes shone with so much fervor, that Henri became for the time utterly heweldered and enthralled. She saw it—she knew it—and exqui site delight filled her whole being; and Clari spared not a smile nor a look to complete her conquest. ■It is loo warm here,' said she laugh ingly; let us go into the boudoir.’ They entered the small apartment, which was elegantly furnished. A piano stood between the windows— music lay scatterel about, and a guitar leaned i against the wall Clari seated herself I on a divan, took up the beautiful instru ment and swept the strings with her jew eled fingers. ‘Fond of music, mnn amiV she play fully anked, with a thrilling glance of her midnight eyes, that sent a stream of pleasure through the veins of the suscep tible youth. T’nssiimately,’ he replied. ‘Sing me something, won’t you fair lady! It will increase the pleasure I feel in you socie ty-’ t (.'lari colored slightly and drooped her eyes till the ebony fringes lay upon her ‘downy cheek.’ Then ith a low sweet prelude, she commenced in a subdued, yet exquisitely toned voice, to sing the following : “Come to me, love, come to me ! Stars are shining o'er the sea ; Moonbeams sleep upon the plain, .Midnight now is on the wane; Tis the hour I wait for thee, Come to me love, coine to me! “Ah, I love thee I read it now By the blush that tints my brow, By llie tender, soul-filled sigli, By tbe beaming of mine eye. All, how fondly love I thee! Come to me love, come to me!" Clari concluded her thrilling song with x look from her beaming eyes that went home to his heart, lie sat gazing on her like one entranced—pale with inward emotion. At last, growing more com posed, he tremblingly took her unresisting hand, and faltered forth—‘Thou siren ! tliou enchantress ! banish me at once or say you xull return the deep love of my soul !’ CHAPTER 11. They are all of them enured in holes, and they are hid in prison-houses, they are for a prey, and none d -hvereth -—Is*. 42,22. Ina private apartment of Thornton’s residence sat its master and confessor. There had been a long conversation be tween them, and the lowering brow of one gave evidence that no pleasing topic had been discussed therein. Thornton walked the floor without speaking for a length of time, w hile the priest, who wus a tall, dark coinplexioiied man, with a countenance which expressed both Intel igence and duplicity, sat watching him with a pair of keen, grey eyes, and a sin ister smile on his thin lips. At list he spoke : ‘And will yon sttfler your daughter to wed a htretic T" Thornton stopped short and looked his companion in the face with the words —"What is my wife !" “My son, answer tnc—Has yours been a happy marriage ? You shake your head. And do you then imagine your daughter’s will be ! Alter the foulish romance of lovers has changed into the realities of marriage, their different faiths will be an incessant cause ol disagree ment between them-” ‘It may be—it may be,’ interrupted Thornton. ‘But it is different—I never loved my wifi—Clari lores St Clare with the same romantic wildness with which I once worshiped my lost Jnlie. If I eim a villian my daughter’s happiness is dear to me. If I am a bad husband, I ain not a cruel father. If she chooses she shall marry St Clare. The priest, who was called Father John, arose from his seat and raising his hand with a solemn gesture, said, in a lone which caused his hearer to quail— ‘Hash man beware ! Hast thou lorgoi ten thy sarreel promise ? Yes,' he con tinued, as Thornton stood like one struck with u sudden palsy, ‘hast thou forgot ten thy promise seven years ago, that in expiation o( one crime, thou wouldst ded icate thy daughter to Heaven—that she should become the bride of Jesus—and that in her sixteenth year V Thornton staggered back and grew !deadly pale. He gasped for utteranc* , but was silent. The prieit regarded him with a coh smile, of triumph, ‘The time has come, he said ;—‘Clari is past fifteen. Is il no well that there should lie one member o your family pure and virtuous V Am a sneer curled his thin lip. Thornton sank into a clia-r—his hands fell beside him with the action of despair At length he gasped forth—‘Father I submit—it must bt so!' M rs Thornton was quite ill, so much so, indeed, that she was confined to her bed ; from which the miserable woman herself never expected to rue again. Clari attended her with all the Kindness and tenderness of an own child ; bat her husband never darkened the door oi her chamber. One morning, it was the day following Thornton’s interview wiili Father John, Clari was summoned to her father’s pres ence, and reluctantly leaving her mother who had passed a sleepless night, the young girl followed the slave into Thorn ton's apartment. He wae pacing the floor m his usual way, when disturbed in mind, and did not appeur to observe tbe entrance of his daughter, who waited timidly until he should speak. When his eyes rested upon her, he gave a slight start and said, in a cold restrained voice : ‘How is your mother ?’ •No better, lather ; indeed I fear she will not survive this week.’ And tears gathered in her drooping eyes, Thornton heard her unmoved. He continued pacing the floor in vilence with his face turned from his child, who stood leaning against a chair in anxious expectation of his next words. At last he turned towards her and said, ‘Clari, I am told that you love St Clare, is that true ?’ She grew deadly pale at first—and .1. _ 1.1 _ _ .1 _ _ L _ l_1. I mantled her brow with crimson as the faltered, ‘Father, I will not deny it. Her eyes were cast down, her beautiful head drooped forward, and her hand.' clasped before her, as she awaited her doom, as u were. ‘,My child,’ and the tones of his voice lost much of their sternness, ‘you must forget that man—for you never can wed him, never l‘ Oh, ihe pain of that fond young heart The sickening saddening pain ! Pali again grew that youthful face as tin white wall of the lofty room. The lipi moved, but no sound came forth. The stern heart of that crnel an haughty map, was deeply touched, bit he would not listen to its throbbing*, nr he could not—for he remembered lie fatal vote. •Clari, 1 have not said why you conic not wed St Clare. Listen child, and be resigned to your fate, for it is inevitable Years ago, when you were a child, I made, in a fatal moment, a vow which I .am forced, tty, forced to keep; it is thii —‘Ill her sixteenth year my daughtei shall enter n convent.’ The stricken child could not grow paler, as this unexpected blow fell upor [tier, hut her hands were clasped tigiitei upon her breast, and a low moan of tin heart’s agony came from her white lips but she did not faint. Housing herself Jshe stood belore her father w ith a calir dignity, and said, ‘My lather I submit It is well.’ Strong was the desire in that bad man’: heart to clasp her in his arms, to fob her to bis heart; but determined!; repressing every natural feeling of nflec lion , be merely said, in a cold tone/Yut do right. Go, child, to your mother.’ When Clari had glided from the room like a pale spirit, Thornton giving way to the strong emotion he.had so resolute ly mastered in her presence, threw hint self on the sofa, and, burying his face it his hands groaned aloud with agony, ant wept, yes, wept tears of remorse am pain. On her way to Mrs Thornton’s apart ment, Clari was met by one of the slave! who told her that St Clare was iwaitnij her in the parlor. Without a moment’! reflection, she flew down the stairs ant into his presence, as if it were a haver of rest. But, is he took her little handi into his own, with the natural agilktint of a lover, and looked into her face, hi exclaimed, ‘My God ! Clari, what i the matter ?’ She made no reply, but, as he led he to the sofa, the laid her head upon hi bosom, and the first tears she had shei since she had heard her dooth flowed un restrainedly. Clari, my own beloved—you tortur me ! Tell me 1 entreat you, the caus ol your sorrow.’ And raising her heai be pressed his lips upon her pure brow ,Twas the first kiss he had erer girer her, and it was sweet eren in he grief. ‘Oh, Henri !’ she sobbed, ‘wo mus part forever. My father has doomed in to a convent.' She could say no more. Henri's fine features were convulse with surprise and emotion. ‘Doomed ti a convent,’ he repeated, bitterly, ‘curse on such a religion as this !' Oh, Henri ! remember that I am Catholic’ And she raised the goldei cross she wore to her I ips. ‘And will you consent to be immure ! iii yon dismal cell, Clari J Will jo j forsake me. Clari, beloved oue T Nay rather fly with me —let me save you ; Be mine, Clari—mine!' ‘It ran never be !' A slight noise in the room caused h ' Clare to look up. Thornton stood Ik • fore them, stern and cairn, his arms fold cd and his brow compressed. I 'Clari,—St Clare—it is your last meet ' ing upon earth. Let it he brief. Anil turning on ins heel, he departed as si. I lently ns he came. I With a choking soh, the pale girl fidd led her nrnis around her lover, while her full lips wildly met his own in one lung, ' burning kiss—and then exclaiming,Fare well ! oh, farewell !’ she sauk at his leet, without sens or motion. Tenderly he raised her in iiis arms, with a bursting heart—and laying her gently upon the sofa, pressed his last ca ress upon her cheek. Calling her atlen denl, he left the mansion ofsulfcring and sorrow. That night, Marie Thornton’s earthly troubles Hed forever. Clari was with her to the last—closed her eyes in death, and wept over one who had always been a kind mother to her. Thorntcn kept aloof—and when in formed of tier decease, manifested tin emotion. Without a tear, lie gloomily left the mansion and did not return un til alter the funeral obsequies, which took place the second day after her death. Her remains were taken to tier I'artier'sj plantation and laid with those ol her an cestors. CHAPTER III Farewell! the echo died with thin deep wnrd! A voire, a smile. A young, sweet spirit gone. —Hkisxks. Gone ! yes, gone from the world—for in one week alter Mrr Thornton’s de cease, Clari was no longer an inmate of her father’s mansion , she was—need I say where ? Theodore Thornton, as disspnted amt depraved as lie was, still loved his sister very dearly, and was greatly incensed a. gainst his father for banishing her for ever Irom her childhood's home. lie swore he would Release her from her prison-house, ete a year passed over her head ; but whether he succeeded in Ins purpose remains to lie seen. St Clare accidently became acipiamt with this young man, alter Clan’s depar ture, and although so opposite 111 tlieir characters and dispositions, their com mon cause ol sorrow ami their mutual designs in regard to the loved one, bound them together in the strongest ties ol friendship. Indeed. I may say, rn pas stint, that the uprightness and purity ol St Clare’s character had a great influence over young Thornton; the more intimate lie became with Henri, the less he yield ed to his habits of dissipation ; and to his friend's satisfaction, Theodore bid lure to become a respected citizen. Let us now change llie scene to the Utsuline Convent. A year had elapsed since Clari had entered Its gloomy walls —and the morning had dawn-d which was to hello'd her profession, that is her assunition of the black veil, the symbol of perpetual seclusion. At the break ol day she was on her knees at the confes sional, anJ received absolution Ironi Father John. She then retired to her dormitory to pray, until summoned to the chapel about eight in the morning, She was led lorward to the alter liy two bridesmaids, herself being attired as a bride- as the act of taking the vows is considered in the light ot a marriage to t he Lord Jesus. The whole chapel, ami especially the alter, was decorated with wreaths of'ever green and natural flowers, while numer ous wax-tapers lent a brilliancy to the scene. There were several priests m attendance, and the whole sisterhood of nuns wire present. As the pale girl knelt at the fool of the altar, the organ pealed forth in a grand anthem, now swelling into volumiis of sound and 11 gain dying away in a soft, silvery cadence dike the voice of a dying saint.’ The duty of performing the ceremony devolv ed upon Father John, who was the prin cipal confesser of the convent, and he began by celebrating the gorgeous cere mony of High Mass ; after which he de livered a short sermon on the future bliss of the victim, bulb on earth and in Heav en. , Sister Angeline—the mime given Clari on tier entrance into the sisterhood— still knelling on the altar, was obliged to re 1 peat a vow of poverty, chastity, and i obedience—the vow that separated her irrevocably from the world and all its en - hearing ties. Her bridal attire was then i changed for llie black woolen robe, and | the long black veil, and laying hcrsell . down at the foot of the altar, a pall was thrown over her, tapers were placed at her head and feet, and her bridesmaids [ strewed white roses upon her—all tosig | nify that she was dead to the world—a funeral hymn being sung by the nuns accompanied by the deep notes of the or r S'"’ ''■"S'", wjiciiiuinca ’irilljj ended, the victim, who throughout the ordeal was ealin and resigned,was raised 1 to her feet and led away l>y the superioi ! while the organ again rang out glad tones of tov and triumph. I • • • # • • ‘ The convent clock had chimmed the ’ hour of eleven. The night was dark title still. Sister Angeline was in her lonelj 1 cell, brooding over her lonely fate tint 1 yearning for the home and the dear ones from whom she was now irrevocably sep * arated. The light of her taper was din 1 but the gloominess of her cell was a (i < accompaniment to the mood she clier ! ished. The hour was still—as the whole con vent seemed to be at rest—yet Sister An i geline thought she heard a footfall al(fli( - the corridor, and she was not deceived % for the unfastened door of her cell wo jgcntly pushed open and Father John »;ep ( ped Mealthly in. The nun trembled slit , scarce knew why, at this visitation, am: j tbe wily priest was not slow in perceiving it. " llcnrdicilc, my daughter,” sard he in soil, pious tones, ‘‘1 have come to wit ness the calm happiness of your soul. “Father,” interrupted the nun, “I will not deceive you. I am not happy.— Prithee, leave me to myself, and to-mor row I will confess my smlu.1 yearnings.” “Poor child!” he returned, in a genth voice, inking her hand and sitting down beside her,‘is it even so? Do you still yearn after tbe world with all its vanitus? Angelina, does your heart still throb for yonder proud youth? Answer me!” Ilis voice suddenly grew stern, as he grasped her hand with a quick pressure. The .tiimson blood rose in her cheek as site dropped her head and replied : ‘S en, lather, I love him still.” ‘Child ! will yon never forget the-” then suddenly pausing, his voice changed to a low, soft lone, us he called her by tbe old name—‘Clati, Clan !’ She started at the sound. ‘Listen to me. From your earliest childhood, Clan, 1 have watched over you with the solicitude of a parent—1 huve loved you with the love of u brother —no,” and here his voice became quick and eager, ‘not with the love of a brother Ci.iri; ’twus a far different love that burned in my soul, and I swore that none should ever possess you—none, Clari but myself!’ A scream of surprise and] terror burst from the maiden’s lips; but lie held fast her hand and whispered in her eu; —‘tear not, beloved — would 1 harm thee? and m the same breath—‘lie mine, Ciari. mine?' The nun started to her feet. 'Never, foul priest!’ she almost uttered; hut checking the words ere they were spoken she replied, with a 1 reed calmness, which completely deceived her confessor ‘iaihor I cannot listento >ou to-night : leave nit*. I beseech you! 1 o-inorrovv,' she ^concluded, with a well feigned ex pression ol bashful emotion, ‘1 will lieni all you liaie tosay. Good-night, fattier!’ Delighted with her seeming compliance the priest thought it wisest to oliey, Jirid raising her hand to his lips, he wet slow ly trom her presence. M/lieu lie had gone, the pour girl threw herself upon n pallet despairingly, and cried—'Oh, Heav en ! is there no escape?1 •She had lain there, for perhaps an hour, when a hand touched her own with a gentle clasp, and slatting up, t>, her great relief, she beheld one ol the sisters, whom she could not distinguish, for the taper burnt very dimly, and be sides, the nun’s fact was shaded by her long black veil. •Clnri,- exclaimed her visitant, in a low voice, ’thank Heaven, I have at length discovered you !j And throwing aside the veil, the seeming nun revealed tin lace <>l Theodore Thornton.’ ‘My brother !’ was the astonished nod hew ildered exclaimation of Clan; how — when—for heaven's sake, how did yon I get here? Can I believe my senses/ I must be dreaming!’ 'it is not a dream dear sister,’ replied lie, with a fond kiss on her pale check.— 'I have attempted your deliverance sev er.il nines, but have been foiled in tin outset. I conjure you, sweet sister, ti leave this prison; you are in danger—’ ‘ 1 know it !"she said, will) a shudder j "To-night, then. 1 w ill save you. '1 lx ! convent as still —ell are asleep—St. dart waits without with a carriage. C ame i arouse ! we will depart at the same eu trance through w hich / made my ingre-i this morning during the ceremony—c i liule hack door with a slight fastening.— No one perceived me, fur all were in the 'chapel, and I hid mysell securely tiuii now. Come Clari, hasten! every mo , incut is precious !’ ; ‘Hush !’ cried the rising to her feet I hear footsteps. If it tliould be that vih i priest!’ Both held their breaths and listenet with throbbing hearts for a few second: — hut hearing no sound, the young gir wrapped her veil around her and taking her brother's hand, left the cell. They stepped lightly along the dark corndo until reaching the farther end, were i llicht ol mens descended to a iiss*ao, I which led to the outer door before men tinned, when, turning, they both discern ed the door of Ulan’s cell pushed genth open, and the light ol tlie dun taper lei on the lorn) of t'other John. Not a mo mem was now to be lost.—they nlritos lie w down the steps and along the passage and reaching the little door, found it la.-t It was but a bolt, however—Theodor | quickly removed it and they found them selves hi the Iresh air. In ies* then fiv minutes they had reached the earring wherein sat Henri, just despairing. N sooner ,\\gs Clari clasped in her lover’ arms, than the horses leaped forward u full gallop ami at the same moment th convent hell gave the alarm. Dm th danger was over. Passively lay th escaped nun in St. Clare’s fond embraet while miles and miles seemed lo fly Iroi beneath the horses’ feel ; and at th dawn ol aim her day, they reached th dwelling of a clergyman, where vow were breathed that placed Clari beyou the reach of priest or convent. Kxtki'.mks. Many a fool has passed ft a clever man, because he has known hot to hold his tongue ; and many a clove man has passed foi a lool because he ha not known how to make use of it. | THE COUNTERFEIT BILL; OR, THE LORD WtLL PROVIDE. BY W. B. PABOR. 'Anhnr.' •Well.' ■Did yon take flu'* bill in to-day V The ij we a tinner was a man worth his thousands; he stood at the inuury till counting up ihe sales of ihe day, and during this operation he cunie upon a five dollar hill on a broken dank. The i|uciliiuu-d was a young lad, with die mark of enre already lining li is brow; he could not hove been over 12 years of age, yel he had the experiences of more iliau a score of years He knew the character of hi* matter Hu knew that lie hud taken the note ba llet ing it to he good, hut he scorurd a lie so answered , •I did, sir.’ You did ; well—it is bad. You know my rules —nil hud money falls on the clerk who takes it—and the hard heart ed, unfeeling man thrust the l ill upon die boy, whose ejes filled instantly with tears. 'I he employer turned away ; there was no look ol pit), no trace of relaxa tion visible in bis leatures—all was calm —stoic. The hoy also turned away to bide Ins tears ; nor did die shed them alone, though lie knew it nut ‘Mother.1 •Arthur—what is the matter ? Why have you been weeping?’ ‘.Mother—we arc ruined 1’ was all the child could say, as he buried his lace in ner lap and wee.pt bitterly. During tin period, the parent’s heart was racked with paiiilul emotions- Was her child di» imnesl ! Had be abused the confidence reposed in him by his einplyer ? Hud he iisgt„ced hiinsell and tier by some acts., of commission or omission ? Had lie so far furgonen the lesson taught biiu on the Sabbath us to break one of die Command ments, such were some of her thoughts which llew like lightning to her mind ; ..I.. 1.. L.... 1 .!.» I........ .1 presented themselves. Weeping violently h>r awhile,Ins tears were stayed and the hank hill was laid in ins m,inter s hands—she saw all at a glanre. ‘God help us,' said the widow, ‘for now we are indeed poor.’ There was no flour in the house—uo coal in the bin—no potatoes in lire closet, hope had been in her heart, bnl now it w as driven away. The shadow had en neied, usurped the sunshine, and her heart bowed down in agony to her father's God. The prayers that went up that night to the in rone were heard by none ou earth ; she sat and watched her supper less child fall into a troubled sleep and then bent the knee. Her struggles An gels only witnessed in that room but they were recorded on high. She arose from her posture and looked wound—hare walls met her eyes; scanty furniture graced the apartment and tlmre in one corner was the empty platter and lie basket winch was to have been tilled hat night with the proceeds of her son’s labor; there they were and here was the nank bill. The Sabbath day dawned upon the world. There was no food in the house • it the w idow and the fatherless hut the teenstomed morning prayer was not with held, nor (he usual petition to the must high. As the two sat musing on their pros pects, a knock at the door startled tin.in. It was opened ! A negro presented a •arge basket and immediately vanished ; the cover-ltd was removed and lo ! there was plenty ami' to spare of everything needed. A little mite was at the bottom >>f the things and this was all it contain ed— •The Lord will provide.’ Tim hoy went foTih to lab >r with henrt strengthened—faith euronragi tl—and the dawn of brighter days Hushing tip life's orient. He did not go to thp same store —no ; a Kind Providence directed him to another place and that night when he 1 returned home, he was surprised to sec a ' ] bright tire in the stove—a burrel of Hour in one corner and all the necessities and some oi me oniiinns 01 me m hmijmii'k array, around. No clue could be obtain ed front those who left the things, of the doom's name—nothing hut the simple sentence ‘The l.ord will Provide,' met ■ their eager search and with this they ■ were fain to he content. Sunshine once again threw its enliven ing beam athwart the cottage; every thing ' seemed to go well with its inmates and as months lost themselves in the years, ' lliere was left them only a memory of those elark r/rit/s, in which the world 1 seemed conspiring to casta gloom over her and hers. Flowers blossomed in tlie little patch ' of ground attached to the cottage in sum ’ mer, and in winter a few choice exotica 1 tempted the canary into a belief tliut lie ^ was in bis own home, und won Irutu bim ' many a song. j But years have passed by ! The old matt—the miserly merchant is dead. Arthur has grown up and in about to marry the daughter of him who r tliurst the bank hill so heartlessly on him innny, malty years ago. The widow r still lives and goes about with a bustling s tread, a merry countenance Bltd cheerful voice.