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lewis m. christ, proprietor.J $nbcpcitbtnf Jfamilg fftfospapcr: Jfor f[tc ^romotitrn trf t|e Social, ^grictiltnral anb dammerdal Interests of tjje ,.Soot|. jterms?$3.00 a year, in advance.
VOL. 19. YQEKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, FEBRUARY -27, 1873. JSTO. 9. mmmmmmmmmmmnmmammmmamBmmmmmmmmmmmmmmma JU (Original Jriarn. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. THE MYSTERY OF MOSSGBOVE. A ROMANCE OF THE 19TH CENTURY. BY MRS. HENRY DEAS. CHAPTER XV. THE CONSUMMATION. "Lucy," said the dying man, in a faint tone, "I have done you a terrible wrong." He clasped her hand feebly as he spoke, and looked up at her with imploring eyes. "Before I tell you all," he continued, "will vnn nrnmise me vour forgiveness ?" j ? r-~ j o She could not resist the appeal. Without knowing what dark confession?what dreadful revelation?might be before her, she gave the required promise. Then, in broken and faltering words, with many a pause between, many a murmured appeal for pity, many an anguished expression of remorse, he breathed out the history of his ^ checkered and guilty life. With part of this my readers are already acquainted ; but for the sake of enlightening them on some still unexplained points, we will rehearse it with him from the beginning, r>nlv aivini* it in our own words instead of j a e -- ? his. When very young he had met Bertha Leighton, an orphan, who was reputed to be immensely wealthy. . Stanley himself was poor, but ambitious and mercenary, and his friends jestingly counseled him to propose to the young heiress, who would make him, in every respect, an admirable wife. This advice he accepted in earnest, and immediately set about making himself agreeable to Miss Leighton, who lived in the house of a crabbed old uncle, whom her parents had appointed as her guardian. Bertha was an amiable, gentle girl, with no force of character, but a clinging and affection_ ate disposition, and a credulous and impressible mind. Soon the devoted attention of Stauley joined to the attraction of his handsome person and singularly fascinating manners, won her regard, and it was not long ere she yielded her simple heart wholly to his keeping, giving hira the pure gold of her love in return for the merest dross. Stanley did not love her; he thought her silly and insipid, though there was nothing in her mild, inoffensive nature to call forth any harsher sentiment than indifference. With some difficulty the consent of her guardian was won to their marriage, which accordingly took place; but Stanley found to his disgust that her property was in some way tied up so as to prevent his obtaining absolute control over it, as he had desired and expected to do. Shortly after the marriage, the guardian died, and there was no other near relative to watch over Bertha's interests, or take any part in their family affairs. Stanley, in spite of his disappointment, did not immediately manifest any unkindness to his wife. The sincerity of her affection, and her implicit and unquestioning obedience to his slightest wish, could not but soften and disarm him, and he was gentle and considerate to her, not making any ardent demonstrations of attachment, but satisfying her meek and gentle heart with a show of affection which he did not really feel, slender and incomplete as it was. At the end of a year, their child was born; a blue-eyed boy, strongly resembling his mother in appearance. From this time Bertha's health, never very robust, began to fail; and she was not considered strong enough to have the care of her infant, which was sent oil to the country to be nursed. It was her wish to have the nurse in the house with her; but Stanley, who was not partial to children, decided differently, giving as his reason, his opinion that the country air was the most healthful for the child. With her usual docility, his wife submitted, without opposition, to his mandate ; but she pined for her little one, whose arrival had been a source of great ^ happiness to her, and her cheerfulness gradually declined, while her health continued to grow weaker. It was at this time that Stanley began to show symptoms of indifference to his wife, and weariness of her society. Her low spirits were a source of annoyance to him, and her pale face and languid air vexed him, without exciting his sympathy. Gradually he got into the habit of absenting himself from home, and finding amusement in a more cheerful atmosphere. Bertha observed the change, and was deeply wounded by it; but instead of reproaching him, she endeavored, with tender asiduity to win him back, by increased de monstrations of her attection, and a still more constant endeavor than before to discover and follow all his wishes. Among Stanley's most intimate acquantances was a young lawyer by the name of Gresham, a man of the lowest principles, who scrupled at no means by which he could attain any end he had in view. He was one who made use of his friends in every possible 1 way ; and in all his actions was guided solely by self-interest, aud a view to his own advancement. He learned casually from Stanley how the property of tlie latter, or rather his wife's property, was arranged. He kuew something of the circumstances of his. marriage, and was shrewd enough to guess at his reftl sentiments toward Bertha. He possessed great influence over Stanley, and felt sure that if the latter could obtain the control of the property, he himself would be a gainer by it. He began very cautiously to throw out hints on the subject, by which, without betraying his own motives, he could discover pretty well what were Stanley's feelings in regard to it. These hints operated so successfully as to produce in Stanley's mind a still greater dissatisfaction than before, and an ever-increasing desire to be put in possession of what he termed his rights. Meanwhile his coldness to Bertha increased; and the poor girl, finding all her gentle arts to regain his tenderness unavailing, sank into a deeper melancholy, and displayed at times a nervous, morbid irritability, the natural consequence of the sorrow that weighed upon her, and the lonely, depressing life that she led. This change in her disposition, usually so tranquil and submissive, was a new instrument for Gresham to use for the accomplishment of his design. He visited constantly at the house, claiming to be a warm and confidential friend; and under pretence of the ^ greatest sympathy and most heatfelt regret at being obliged to state his opinion on the subject, hinted to Stanley his fears that his wife was fnalvfj her mind. Whether Stanley accepted this opinion merely for convenience' sake, and because it was a welcome one, or whether in time he succeeded in persuading himself that such ' was really the case (for the arch-fiend works ! by subtle means on a willing mind) he 9circe-! j ly knew himself; but, step by step, urged on by his temper and prompted by his own evil j : passion, he decided to take measures to have ] ; his innocent wife put out of his way, having j | learned from Gresham that if her insanity j | once became an established fact, it would be ; j easy to have everything else arranged to his ' satisfaction. It was necessary to obtain the certificate of J two physicians, and this seemed the most se-! ! rious obstacle in their way. But Gresham, j ; whose cleverness equaled his villainy, under- j ' took to arrange the matter for him, and the ; | certificates were finally produced, without; j Stanley actually knowing how the result had ! been accomplished, j The next step was to find out a suitable re- j | treat, to which the helpless Bertha might be ! ! conveyed. Here again Gresham, acting al- i j ways under the show of friendship, exerted j I himself with his usual success, and it was de- j cided that the private asylum kept by Leroy j j and his wife (a pair of needy adventurers,! ! mkn nn.in fliia nr>r>iinntioci ns ft mPHTlS ! I VYUVS liavi UA^U W^/Ull VtU4 Wvu|mvtwi> www - ? ! of earning their livelihood) would be the j place best adapted to their purpose. My readers are already informed of the manner in which poor Bertha was conveyed, under the influence of powerful drugs, which j stupefied her senses and made her incapable of resistance, to this fatal prison, where the treatment she received, and the agonizing reflections she endured, finally destroyed her | reason; and how she subsequently effected her i escape, though by what means always re- j raained a mystery. The body of a woman, resembling her in general appearance, and j wearing a dress similar to hers, was really J found in a mill-stream, and supposed to be j hers, though, as was afterward proved, this must have been some other unfortunate, who had come to an untimely end. Stanley, meanwhile, was enjoying himself, or endeavoring to enjoy himself?on the fortune of which Gresham had put him in possession?in company with his accomplice, who aided him in spending his ill-gotten gains, taking care to profit largely thereby. The two went together to Europe, and soon afterward Gresham died, fortunately for Stanley, vshom he would probably bave ruined had his influence over him contiuued much longer. Stanley sent on regular remittances for the support of his little boy, whom he removed from the care of his foster-mother and her family (the only people who knew of his relationship to the child) and sent to a different residence, and afterward to school, under the name of his nephew. He felt no real affection for the little Claude, * ? 1 ? I whom he had not seen since ne was uu imam, and, anxious to obliterate ns completely as possible all traces of his past career, fell upon this expedient to cut off, at least outwardly, the last tie that bound him to the memory of his lost wife. Claude, therefore, never knew but that Stanley was his uncle, and imagined that both his parents had died j during his infancy, and there was no one with whom he was permitted to associate who could refute this idea. So much for that portion of his life with which Lucy was unacquainted. He then went on to relate how his apprehensions had been excited by the interview Lucy had described to him, which she had j held with the supposed madwoman in the i grounds at Mossgrove. He had been aroused first to a sort of superstitious fear by the account she gave him, immediately after their | marriage, of the vision she had seen, or fancied she had seen in her mirror on her weddingday, and the idea had occurred to him that it might be a warning from the grave, the presage of some mysterious fate in store for him. Thoughts of his dead wife, in spite of his efforts to shake them off, continually recurred to his mind, aud he was haunted by a dread of her re-appearance, either in the flesh or in the spirit, which he tried in vain to reason away. By chance he met the woman, Leroy, passing herself off as a widow named Ford, in Unionville, and at first felt only a sentiment of disgust at the sight of one who was connected with so dark a period of his life. Afterward, however, he was glad to have an opportunity of conversing with her, aud setting to i rest the fears and doubts that tormented him,; by a recapitulation, of all the proofs of his j wife's death. He had also conversed on the j subject with a lawyer, setting the case before him as that of a friend of his, and obtaiued a satisfactory opinion from him in regard to the certainty of the evidence. And then came the terrible shock of the appearance of his long-lost wife, whom at first, as she rose ' before him in the moonlight, he actually believed to be a disembodied spirit sent to visit him. Then followed a detail of the plan adopted ! by him to secure Bertha (discovering her to be a confirmed lunatic) and to maintain the i concealment of the plot; his seuding Lucy to I Charleston, to effect the imprisonment of the i maniac at Mossgrove while she was out of the j way ; the pretended boardiug-up of the room ! I used as her prison, and the installation of! ! Mrs. Ford as her guardian, under the assumed ! j office of house-keeper. The light seen from the window of the! j "haunted room," and which had been allowed j j to appear there in an unguarded moment, was 1 of course now easily accounted for. In general the room was kept in total darkness, aud j i every other precaution of course used to guard | , against discovery. ! Claude (whom some prompting of slum- j ; bering natural affection had induced his father i (to bring home, after the death of his teacher) \ i evinced occasionally some desire to penetrate ' 1 the mystery of the "haunted room," and .was i I discovered several times by the housekeeper ' in daugerous proximity to that portion of the ! building. In order to frighten him away, she j had found means to arrange certain frightful i appearances which operated so effectually on . his timid nerves, as not only on one occasion 1 to terrify him into a fit, but prevented his ever going in the direction of her apartments agaiu.: Not content with this, she succeeded in obtaining an undue influence over him, by pre-, i teuding to be invested with a supernatural . ! power, and to confirm this idea, had recourse ! to such expedients as making hideous noises outside his door, and in his closet, all of which she represented to him as proceeding from certain fiends under her control, who would I undoubtedly carry him off in the end if lie I over presumed to dispute her authority, nr be tray her atrocious proceedings. Stanley was only partially awareof her dislike to the child, and never suspected her of being really guilty of such wickedness toward him, which must have been prompted solely by malice, a3 it was in no way necessary for the furtherance of her design. He overlooked all that did come to his knowledge, for the sake of keeping the woman in a good humor; for the fact that she was the keeper of his terrible secret made him dread to excite her anger, and put him completely in her power. [All this regardiug Claude, Lucy subsequently learned from the child himself; but I have introduced it here in order to maintain the regularity of my narative.] Stanley then related how, through carelessness on Mrs. Ford's part, Bertha had escaped from the room in which she was confined and explored the house, while the house-keeper endeavored, for some time, in vain, to find her. It was she whom Lucy met in the entry, and whose spectral appearance in the moonlight had terrified the latter into a swoon, during which the maniac was recaptured and restored to her place of concealment?not without force on the part of both Stanley and the house-keeper, and much resistance and shrieks of terror from the poor victim, who imagined that they were going to murder her ? i t 11 tor wnat sne naa aone. He then described Leroy's visit to hira, and i his own distress and perplexity to know how to act in this new dilemma. He also related the circumstances of his encounter with him in the grounds on the morning after the fire. Whether he was the actual cause of the catastrophe which was about to result in his death, he knew not; but if such was the case, he considered it as a visitation of God's judgment upon him, and wished no steps taken to appreheud Leroy or bring hira to justice. He himself, he said, was the guiltier man of the two, and felt too much concern for the fate of his own sin-laden soul to cherish any desire for revenge. "And now, Lucy," he gasped, "you know all. I am at least innocent of having inten- ] tionally done you the wrong of marrying you 1 while Bertha still lived, for God is my wit-1 ness that I believed she had long been dead. Of the other wrongs and trials you have suf- j fered at ray hands, I can only say they were all the result of this one awful catastrophe of ray life. Do you still forgive me, as you promised rae you would?" And the broken-hearted, injured woman, who was no wife, but felt herself an outcast upon the earth?the innocent sufferer for his guilt?bowed her head upon her hands and murmured? "I forgive you, as I trust to be forgiven." "And Bertha?" faltered Stanley, "does she yet live?" "I do not know," said Lucy ; "she appear ed in extremity when I last saw her." "Find out for me, Lucy,"- said Stanley. "Perhaps in these last moments, her mind may be partially restored. If I could, I would ask her forgiveness too; 'tis the only reparation I can make now." Lucy went into the next apartment, where Bertha Stanley was lying. She still lived; but it was evideut that it could not be long ere the sands of life would run through, and she, too, pass to the land where crime and suffering would alike be forgotten. "Missy," cautiously whispered Melissa, who had been left in charge of the dying woman, "she opened her eyes a little while ago, and looked at me quite friendly and sensible like. I do think she's got back her right senses." Bertha now opened her eyes, and seeing Lucy near her, said in a gentle tone? "Who are you, sweet lady ? Your face is one I have seen before." "My name is Lucy," was the compassionate reply. "Can I do anything for you ?" "Nothing?ah I if you could; but there is only one thing I desire now upon earth, and that I canuot obtain." "What is that?" asked Lucy. "To see rny husband. I do not know where he is?he sent me away from him, long, long ago; but I do not mind that now. And I had a sweet little baby, too ; but he is gone. If you could only let me have them both back, I should be so glad." Her mind was not clear, but recollections of the long past days seemed thronging upon her, excluding all curiosity or wonderment at her present surroundings. "I can bring thera to you," said Lucy, trembling, "but?but they are both greatly changed." "Changed! yes; but I am chauged, too; you see I cannot move, except just my hand j a little way?so?and I used to be quite well once. I have a strange feeling too, as if something were passing through me, and lifting me up, higher and higher, into the air and the sunshine. So you see I must bo changed, or I would not have such feelings. Bring thera, sweet Lucy, and let me see them once more, before I am lifted quite away out of their reach." And now the couch on which Stanley lay was wheeled into the room, and Claude, too, was summoned to her side. UPlmi/lA " nm'/l T haw f/vB'An/lnhinrr nlll'lil VUVUUC, OUIVi JUUV/J iu UIW nvuuvnug "this lady had a little boy once, named Claude, just like you. She wants to see him again, and you must let her suppose that you are he." She could not tell the innocent boy the story of his father's guilt. Stanley stretched out his hand to his wife, saying iu broken tones, "Do you know me, Bertha ?" "Oh yes," she answered quite calmly, and without manifesting any surprise. "I have been waiting for you this long while. You know you promised to come back !" She smiled as she spoke, and closed her eyes as if satisfied. Almost at the same moment, without warning or apparent suffering of any kind, her head sank back, and the last faint sigh escaped her lips. Her long-suffering life was ended, and the new life of peace had begun. A few hours later, Stanley, too, passed from earth. There they lay, side by side?the guilty and the innocent, the destroyer and the victim ; reunited in the mysterious and indissoluble bond of death. . More to be pitied than she whose trials were now ended forever, was the lonely sufferer left upon earth, to bear in secret the burden of her grief and the terrible memory of the past. I Now that all was over, her long-taxed strength gave way, and she sank unresistingly I beneath the pressure of her despair. CHAPTER XVI. CONCLUSION. j Lucy relapsed into a brain-fever, and for ; , many days lay at the point of death. Kind and compassionate friends ministered ; ; to her, and her physician was untiring in his j I care and attention, frequently never leaviug j the house for several hours at a time. Rumors were afloat regarding the strange j events which had occurred, but nothing cer- j tain was known of the'particulars of the i matters. All seemed to feel that a tragedy j of some sort had been enacted, of which Lucy i was, in some way, the victim, and pitied her i accordingly. Curiosity, of course, was rife j throughout the neighborhood, for in such a quiet section of the country as that in which these events had taken place, anything unusual and mysterious was sure to excite much speculation and remark. The bodies of Stanley and Bertha had both been deposited in a vault in the buryingground of Mossgrove. Tho kind physician, Dr. Rumley, had seen to all the arrangements of the funeral, which had been as private as possible, being attended ouly by the immediate household and himself. Mrs. Ford had not been seen since the fire, and it was probable that, being dismayed at the complication of misfortunes which had occurred, and knowing that her services would no longer be needed, she had taken advantage of the confusion to withdraw as privately as possible from the ill-fated house, and remove herself to parts unknown. Some small but valuable articles of silver disappeared at the same time, and would, if searched for among her movable possessions, most likely have been found. Her trunk she left behind, but as it only contained some of her clothing, which even Melissa would have scorned to wear, it was probable that the lighter luggage she conveyed with her, added to the contents of her well-filled purse, contained enough to indemnify her for this slight loss. Mrs. Carroll had been sent for at the beginning of Lucy's illness, and the mother hung in anguish over the couch where her child wa9 lying, raving in delirium, and tossing in the restlessness of disease, her heart torn with remorse, and filled with bitter fears. Should Lucy die, she could not, indeed, feel herself accountable for her death; but her conscience told her that she was the author of much of her sorrow, which, perchance, had led to this fearful illness. She, too, was ignorant of all that had happened; but she knew enough to excite the most gloomy apprehension, and lead to conjectures of the most perplexing and troubled nature. Edward Carroll had accompanied his aunt to Mossgrove, in order to give his protection to the household and render any assistance that might be required of him. His presence was a comfort to her; for in this common grief they seemed to be more closely drawn together than ever before; and the thought often occurred to her that, should her child's life be spared, nothing could make her happier than to see her united at last to the man I who had so long and so fondly loved her. At last, after weeks of anxious watching and heartfelt prayers, Lucy was pronounced i to he convalescent. The crisis of the disease was passed; and though her strength was re| duced to that of an infant, the physician had I sufficient confidence in her naturally good | constitution to predict that in time, though very slowly, it would recuperate. Her first anxiety was to be removed from I Mossgrove, for the gloomy associations connected with the place preyed constantly on her mind. As soon as practicable, therefore, it was decided that she should be taken to i Charleston, Dr. Rumley thinking that the | change of air and scene would probably bene-1 fit her more than anything else. Scarcely had this move been effected how-: ever, before a morbid fear of meeting any of i her old acquaintances took possession of her, and she entreated her mother to take her to [ some quiet place where she need not dread in- j trusion. Mrs. Carroll thought that cheerful j society would be the best thing for her, and J combated this desire of isolating herself, as long as she could, but finally was obliged to yield. A house was accordingly hired in a small pine-land retreat, and thither they removed for the summer. Claude accompanied them; for Lucy had resolved never to part from him, and he on I his side was equally anxious to remain always with her. A imnrPBfiinn had heen made on the child's mind by the last solemn scenes he had witnessed at the time of Stanley's death, especially the interview between the latter and the unfortunate Bertha, around which hung a mystery he tried in vain to fathom. He still believed that Stanley was his uncle, and that Bertha was an unfortunate being placed under his care, whose existence it had been thought proper, for some reason, to keep a secret from general knowledge; and Lucy, who ' found all topics connected with that melancholy period too sad to touch upon, never undeceived him in regard to either particular, until many years afterward, when he was old enough to receive so important a communication, and when she deemed it wrong to withhold from him any longer the knowledge of his parentage. The little household at "the Pines" was a dismal one enough, for none of its members could rally sufficiently to introduce a spirit of cheerfulness into their midst. Edward Carroll came up from time to time to see them, and his visits were the only gleams of sunj shine that lit up the gloom of their existence. : | Mrs. Carroll's haughty spirit was completely i I kn.nkla/t 1\tt Viar /tanrrhtpp's miafnrfnnoa ortrl ' 11 U 111 UJVU UJ ^ UlUlWtVUtlVW) MMM j she seemed as incapable as Lucy of throwing j off the mournful impressions created by the . past. For nearly two years they continued to re- j side in the pineland, not returning to the city even in the wiuter season, though Edward ; used all his efforts of persuasion to induce ! them to abandon the melancholy mode of [ life. At last, however, Lucy made up her j i mind to remove to her old home; as much for i the purpose of placing Claude at school as ' anything else, for she did not wish to part1 with him, and it was necessary that hiseduca- j i tion should be more carefully carried on than , it could be under present disadvantages. Her : conscience began to reproach her, too, for keep-! ing him so long secluded, thus fostering all 1 : that was sad in his thoughts and disposition, i ! at a period when the natural joyousness of youth should be most promoted. Accordingi ly, Edward was commissioned to prepare i ' their city residence for their reception?a com-, | mission which he set about executing with a I joyful heart. Lucy's means wore ample I enough to warrant the re-furnishing and inhabiting of their own house, which had continued up to the present time in the possession of tenants, and Edward resolved that everything should be made as cheerful and elegant i as possible. When the young widow and her compan- j ions arrived, they found the establishment in perfect order, and everything properly appointed in the household, consisting of their own family servants, who welcomed them home with heartfelt joy. Lucy appreciated her cousin's kindness, and warmly thanked him for the interest he had manifested, and the pains he had taken in the completion of these arrangements. "I would do far more, ray sweet cousin," he rejoined, pressing her hand, "to restore the smile to your lips, and lighten the burden you still cherish at your heart." Lucy turned from him with a sigh. She felt then that the "burden she cherished" could never be lightened, and grieved at the manifestation, which Edward could not always repress, of the hopes which still inspired him for the future. It seemed to her that her grief was of a kind thatcould not be lessened, and that she had no right to look forward to auything like happiness again in the world. Hers had been no common sorrow ; but she was wrong in nursing the morbid idea that she was, in a measure, cut off by the peculiarity of her position from the happier portion of her fellow beings, aud that she had no longer a right to mix familiarly with them as of yore. This sensitiveness made her withdraw so persistently unto herself, aud shun so pertinaciously all the advances of her friends, that she became the object of much commisseration, and people thought Stanley must have been a very superior person, and a most exemplary husband, for his death to have left such a deep impression on her heart. At last even her mother thought it necessary to remonstrate with her on this line of conduct, fearing that if it continued it would act fatally on both her mental and bodily health. She tried to rouse her from her depression, insisted on her mingling somewhat in society, brought her interesting books to read, and tried, in every possible way, to divert her mind from the constant contemplation of her misfortunes ; aud Lucy, still docile, and yielding almost insensibly to the influence which had formerly been her constant guide?but which had not been exercised for so long a time?gradually began to give in to these efforts. It was not until three years had elapsed after Stanley's death, that Edward ventured to approach the subject nearest to his heart, and plead once more for a return of his ardent love. Lucy wept when he spoke of his wishes and hopes, and told him to seek another and a happier bride. It was not for her, she said, to think of ever marrying: it was the will of Heaven that a burden should be laid upon n.U v-tiirit krtn * f non rvV* 1 ? fo O 1 nn P I UCl j W1UUI1 Olic 11J UCt UCUl UMVUgii ?IW M.v^v. She spoke so decidedly that Edward would not press the matter; but resolved to wait for a favorable time to renew his suit. Though discouraged, he was not hopeless; and he resolved, without annoying her by too constant attention, to show her, by every delicate means in his power, how fixed and unalterable was the desire of his heart, and to eudeavor to effect, by patience and constancy, what he could not hope to accomplish by any other means. She could not but appreciate his conduct, - ? * i i- - J ? i.:_i_ and was toucneu oy a uevouou wmcii w?o untarnished by selfishness, and sought so carefully to act iu accordance with all the consideration due to her feelings. Occasionally a glimpse seemed to be revealed to her, of a possible future, in which a life of peace, if not of joy, might be vouchsafed to her in compensation for the bitterness of past grief. She shrank, at first, from these gleams of sunshine, which dazzled eyes so long accustomed to look upon darkness, as a person recovered from blindness shrinks from the first return of light. By degrees the idea became more familiar ; to her, and she dared, sometimes, to indulge it j without being haunted afterward, by the self reproach which, at first, was the consequence of such thoughts. Aud so at last it came about that Edward, watching his opportunity, ventured 'to press his suit again; and this time she did not refuse him positively, but bid him wait still a while for his answer. And in all this there was no touch of coquetry?no idle desire to keep him in suspense?for her heart truly was too sad to indulge in such feelings as these; but she longed, and yet was afraid, to allow herself to think of such a change in her life. It seemed impossible that all the dreariness which seemed a part of her existence, could ever be banished, and the light of love and happiness substituted in its place. But Lucy was very young still?not yet twenty-four?and at that age it is hard to resign voluntarily all hope iu life. It was very cheerless to her to look through the long vista of coming years, and see therein only barren rocks and gloomy skies, instead of blossoming flowers and green meadows, rippling streams and gladdening sunshine. And so it was no j wonder that after a time she should yield to ! the wishes of those around her, and the prompt- j ing of her own heart, and consent to find, at j last, a haven of peace for her storm-tossed I bark, in the manly and noble breast of him i who had loved and waited so patiently and so ! long. And %o Lucy became, after all, a happy j wife. She never could quite forget the trials , of the past, or quite regain the buoyancy of i spirit that had once been hers ; the shadows j that had darkened those weary years, though ! rolled away now from her sky, had cast their j tinge upon her mind, and even the sunshine ; that now beamed over her could not entirely disperse the faint, lingering trace of vanished ( sorrow. Thus her happiness, though pure j and complete, was of a chastened and subdued kind, and the smiles that lit up her lovely face were rare and pensive still. But peace and content reigned in her heart and shed i their benign influence over her home; and1 love spread its sheltering wings around her,; filling her with a blessed and holy calm, and stilling with magic power the waves of unrest! that had long surged over her soul. Mossgrove, the scene of so many horrors, I was sold, and the price it brought, added to I Stanley's other property, was invested for Claude, to be placed at his disposal on his coming of age. Edward and Lucy, in the capacity of his guardians, kept his interest ever faithfully in view and treated him al-1 ways with the same affection and consideration as if he had been their own son. Even when children of their own grouped around their hearth, enlivening their home with the j echo of merry laughter and bounding feet, they made no difference between them and ; the orphan boy they had taken into their' keeping; and Claude repaid them with warmest love and gratitude, clinging especially to Lucy .with a tenderness strengthened by time, j and fostered by her motherly care. "Aunt, Lucy," as he continued to call her, was, in his 1 eyes, the most loveable and perfect of human j beings. Contact with the miniature world of school, j and cheerful intercourse with companions of; his own age, had removed, by degrees, the inclination to melancholy which had always i characterized Claude. His natural timidity ; and reserve passed away ; and though ever j gentle, refined and sensitive, in an uuusual I degree, he grew up brighter, braver and more careless than in his nervous, delicate child-1 hood, he had ever seemed likely to do. Mrs. Carroll's former pride of heart was quite subdued, and all the gentle and womanly instincts of her nature came out in full force, making her old age a season of quiet and serene content and gratitude for the blessings which surrounded her. She devoted herself to Lucy's children, who delighted to minister to her comfort, and thought grandmamma one of the most entertaining people in the world, as she always had a fund of stories at her command, when it was their pleasure to demand them from her. Of the Leroys, man and wife, nothing more j was ever heard; nor does it concern any one j connected with this story to know what had j become of two individuals so unworthy of re*! gard, and so associated in their recollection | with the most fateful and gloomy period of their lives. Mossgrove has never been repaired. A portion of the building that still remained after the fire, was pulled down with a view to rebuilding it in a more modern style, but its ! purchaser, an eccentric and wealthy individual, changed his mind when this much had been done, countermanded his original orders and went off to travel in the East. Afterward the place was again advertised for sale, but no one ever purchased it. And so it remains to this day, uninhabited, and presenting a sceue of desolation well-befitting its past melancholy associations, and the dark deeds to which it stood witness. Its gloomy woods are denser and more gloomy than ever, and the sunshine penetrates more rarely than of old their rustling foliage, and casts no friendly gleam on the sullen river winding beneath their shade. Fences and outbuildings are falling to decay, and briars choke up the paths and twine in thorny profusion about the dilapidated porch, which, with a broken wall, is almost a!1 that remains of the dwelling ?r?l> Aon AKiimLlin/v nrnna tlia Stfv LlUUSCy QUUUfc HliUOC WUUIUUUg ^iv/|70 buv ??j j that friend in adversity, still clings. The hooting of the owls, the chirp of the crickets and the evening concerts of the frogs, are the only sounds that disturb the silence which reigns over the domain ; the gleam of the i fire-flies, as they flit at dusk among the trees, the only lights that are ever kindled in its shades; and over the deserted place, the very name of which has become an unfamiliar and almost forgotten sound, hangs a mantle, which will probably never be lifted, of darkness, mystery and gloom. [the end.] HJiscciliutcflus ftcaditig. WHAT FOLKS ARE MADE OF. The number of bones in a human body is generally estimated at 245, of which there are reckoned in the skull, head and face, 61; iu the trunk, 64; in the arras and hands, 60; and in the legs and feet, 60. The weight of the skeleton is about one-tenth the weight of the whole body. Bone, when used as a lever, is 22 times as strong as sandstone, 3J times as strong as lead, nearly 2} times as strong as Box, Yew on/^ Holr tlmKoi' muu \/un bittt The number of muscles in a man is 540, being more than twice the number of the bouea. The bulk of the body upon an average, is equal to a cube of a little more than sixteen inches on a side, and the amount of water equals a cube a little more than fourteen inches on a side, or nearly three-fourths of the body. An adult drinks about fifteen hundred pounds of water yearly, and throws offthrough the various water gates, niueteen hundred pounds. The difficulty of accounting for the four hundred pounds has led some to suppose that the water is formed in the system by the union of oxygen and hydrogen. The salts" that have been enumerated are found iu almost every part of the body. Common salt (chloride of sodium) is found in every fluid and solid, except enamel. The whole amount in the human body is 277 grains. It serves many important cases. Carbonic acid is found in the lungs, alimentary canal, the blood and urine. The amount of carbonic acid, however, varies, being from one to three pounds in twentyfour hours, and the causes of variation are temperature, age, sex, state of health or disease, development, of the body, muscular exertion or repose. This gas (carbonic acid) contains in every 100 pounds, 28 pounds of carbon (charcoal) and 72 pounds of oxygeo (gas). Hence, the maximum weight of carbon which escapes in this form from the lungs of a full grown man is about fifteen ounces in ; twenty-four hours. The average amount of air which passes in and out of the lungs at each inspiration and j expiration is about 20 cubic inches; the j amount passed through them in twenty-four ! hours is about 622,000 cubic inches, or, as ! others estimate it, from 3000 to 5000 gallons j every day. This varies greatly. In the first j place, the lower the temperature the greater ' the amount of animal heat to be generated, j and, consequently, the amount of air to be ; consumed. Also, a person laboring in the j open air breathes more deeply than one con-; fined to the house. From a series of 5000 ob- i servations made by Dr. Hutchinson, the fol- j lowing principle is deducted: "For every inch ! of stature from five to six feet, eight addition- j al cubic inches of air are given out at a forced j expiration after a full inspiration." That is, J if a person five feet six inches in height can ; expire 422 cubic inches, a person five feet seven inches can expire 430 cubic inches. The nails of the hand grow about two-fifths1 of a line per week, while those of the feet require four times that period for the same j amount of growth. Cases are on record ; where the nails have been shed periodically. The time necessary for a nail to grow its whole length varies from twelvo to twenty weeks. The nails are thickest at their most convex portions, instead of their edges; they grow only so long as they are cut, and among the literary class of the Chinese, who never cut their nails, they are said to attain only a length of two inches. In man, the average weight of the brain is 54 ounces; in females, 45. The average capacity of the crania of Germans and AngloSaxons is 90 cubic inches. Daniel Webster's cranium contained 122 cubic inches. The amount of blood in a healthy body is about eighteen pounds, or ten quarts. The heart is six inches in length and four inches in diameter, and beats 70 times per minute, 4200 times per hour, 100,800 times per day, 36,722,000 times per year, 2,565,440,000 times in Hirep nnnrp jind ten vears : at each beat 2i became exhausted. Monday morning the game was in full blast; but at ten o clock Bailey moved an adjournment, alleging that his official duties required bis presence in the Senate chamber. Stokes remonstrated, but the sergeant-at-arras persisted, and rose from the table. The Governor grumbled and scolded, but finally gave it up, swearing that if he had suspected Bailey would break up the game thus prematurely he would have seen him?any where before he would have invited him to join the party. Mr. Webster played whist, but indifferently only. The Virginians were adicted to that stupid game known as shoe-maker loo. President Tyler was fond of loo, and on a raiuy day, when there was no great pressure of public business, he has been known to make up a game at the White House, and play all day, having dinner in his chamber. His companions were usually William Selden, Treasurer of the United States, Carey Selden, his brother, storekeeper at the navy yard, and sometimes Governor Gilmer, of Virginia, with now and then another favorite. The amount played for was always small, but Mr. Tyler was as much delighted at taking a pool as if he had won hundreds. Public opinion was not so averse to gaming in Washington as most of the northern cities. Probably the tone of public morals is no more elevated now than it was then, but there was then less pretence and ostentation of purity. At a large party given by the wife of a cabinet minister, Mrs. Clay, chaperoning a young lady from the North, passed through a room where gentlemen were playing cards, Mr. Clay among the number. "Is this a common practice?" inquired the young lady. "Yes," said Mrs. Clay, they always play when they get together." "Don't it distress you to have Mr. Clay gamble?" "No, my dear," said the good old lady, composedly, "he almost always wins." In the winter of 1841, Gen. Scott, Mr. Clay, Mr. Fox, and Mr. Bodisco played whist once a week for some time, the stake, asr usual, ' ? ?- J -J J-11 T>l _1 3 ? oeing one nunarea cioimrs. j.ucj pmjrcu a match game, Scott and Bodisco against Clay and Scott. They were well matched, and for a long time the game was pretty- even. At 'ength fortune favored Messrs. Clay and Fox, l id they were ten or twelve games ahead. "Gentlemen," said the Russian minister, rising from the table, "the game has closed for the season. The appropriation is exhaust" And sure enough not another game would he play, much to the disgust and vexation of General Scott, who, of course, was a considerable loser. ? Covering Corn.?I have tried all known ways of covering corn, the hoe, the plow, the harrow, and the foot of the dropper, but I have found none so good as the board, just such as is commonly used for covering cotton. It is quicker by far than anything'but the harrow, and does the work better than that. It covers it an even depth, and pulverizes the earth round the seed. I have, tried it and found it to work like a charm.?S. W. B. in Southern Farm nml Home. ounces of blood are thrown out of it; 175 ounces per minute, 656 pounds per hour, 7f tons per day. Iu an ordinary life of a man, the heart beats at least 3,000,000,000 times, and propels through the aorta 1,500,000 tons of blood. The amount of gastric juice secreted by the stomach of a well fed grown person, has been estimated at from 60 to 80 ounces in twenty-four hours. A healthy stomach contains no gastric juice except where food is taken, and by its contact with the surface of the mucous membrane excites the secreting organs to pour out the gastric fluid in the requisite quantity. If the stomach is in a heahhy condition, and the brain healthy, the quantity of gastric juice generated or thrown out will be just sufficient for healthy digestion. If the condition of either organ be impaired, the gastric juice secreted may be either deficient iu quantity or vitiated in quality. Let us study ourselves, that we may understand ourselves better. The proper study of mankind is Man. GAMBLING IN WASHINGTON. Washington for many years had been a hot bed for gamblers of high and low degree. There were a dozen faro banks on the Avenue within a stone's throw of Gadhy's on the corner of Sixth street. Many of these establishments had club rooms attached, where members of Congress and others amused themselves with brag, viugtet-un, and whist. Drawpoker came into vogue at a later day. Gambling, and for large sums, was common, particularly among southern and western memhflra. Some nf them from Ohio. Indiana. Kentucky, Tennessee, and the Gulf States squandered their modest per diem, then eight dollars only, at the gambling table, and some impaired their private fortunes by the same indulgence. S. S. Prentice was reported to have lost thirty thousand dollars the first winter he was in Congress. The most notorious and dashing gambler of the day was Edward Pendleton. He came from Virginia, where he was well connected, his family being of the best blood in the State, and he married a most respectable and accomplished lady, whose father held a re- . sponsible office under the government. Pendleton gave sumptuous entertainments at his club-house, which were well attended by some of the most eminent public men of the district. Mr. Mangum, then President of the Senate, John J. Crittenden, John M. Botts, John B. Thompson, of Kentucky, and Linn Boyd, Speaker of the House, and others of lesser note, were frequently his guests. Congress had enacted stringent penal laws to prevent gambling, but they were a dead letter, unless some poor devil made a complaint of foul play, or some fleeced blackleg sought vengeance through the aid of the grand jury; and then the matter was usually compounded by the payment of money. Whist was a favorite^ame with the foreign ministers and the elder statesmen. Mr. Clay, General Scott, Mr. Bodisco, and Mr. Fox? nephew of Charles James Fox?who represented William the Fourth and Queen Victoria, often played together, a hundred dollars being the usual stake. They generally played well, as Hoyle taught the game; but many of the members of the fashionable clubs of New York play with more skill than was dreamed of forty years ago. Governor Marcy was a great lover of whist, but he would never bet money on the game. There were always inveterate whi8ter8 in the Senate. A story was current at one time of a protracted sitting at the card-table, at which Governor Stokes, of North Carolina, and Mountjoy Bailey, sergeant-at-arms of the Senate, were two of the players. It ran in this wise: the Senate adjourned from Thursday over to Monday. The party sat down to cards after dinner Thursday evening. They played all night and all the next day, only stopping occasionally for refreshments. The game was continued Friday night and Saturday, through Saturday night and all day Sunday and Sunday night, the nlnvpra rpst.inor fnr ft anatch ofsleeD. as nature