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VOL. 26. YOEKVILLE, S. C., THTJESDAY, JANUARY 1, 188Q. USTO. 1. JFcIfftcd Itottrw. SCANDAL. A woman to the holy father went, Confession of her sins was her intent; And so her misdemeanors great and small, She faithfully to him rehearsed them all; And, chiefest in her catalogue of sin, She owned that she a tale-bearer had been, And bore a bit of scandal up and down ? To all the high toned gossips of the town. The holy father for her other sin Granted the ablution asked of him; But while for all the rest he pardon gave, He told her this offense was very grave, And that to do fit penance she must go Out by the wayside where the thistles grow, And gathering the largest, ripest one, Scatter its seeds, and that when this was done, She must come back again another day To tell him his command she did obey. The woman thinking this a penance light, Hastened to do his will that very night, Feeling right glad that she had escaped so well. Next day but one she went the priest to tell; The priest sat still and heard her story through, Theu said, "There's something still for you to do; Those thistle seeds which you have sown I bid yon go regather, everv one." rpk'1 foflioi- 'twould hfl vain imi nuuiau oaiu, i^uvf ?u?uv>, ^~? To try to gather up those seeds again; The wind hath scattered them both far and wide Over the meadowed vale and mountain side." The father answered, "Now, I hope from this The lesson I have taughtyou will not miss? You cannot gather back the scattered seeds, Which far and wide will grow to noxious weeds, Nor can the mischief once by scandal sown By any penance be again undone." j|n (Nfliaai Written for the Yorkville Enquirer* THE THREAD OF FATE. BY VICTOR VERNON. CHAPTER I. It was a black, wild winter night The snow fell fast, and the bitter wind whistled drearily over a wide, desolate moor, across which a woman was toiling through the storm. A friendly wagon had brought her within a a short distance of this place, and set her down, its owner having in vain tried to persuiide her to accept the shelter, for a few hours, of his humble home not far off; and she stumbled on through the darkness with the desperate resolve to reach on foot, and without farther aid, the goal towards which she was pressing. This was a farm house lying just beyond thfemdor, whose twinkling light she could even now faintly discern. They gave her fresh courage, and clasping more closely a bundle she held against her breast?a baby wrapped in a large shawj?she hurried on, keeping her eyes fixed on the welcome beacon, and dreading lest it might be extinguished or otherwise lost to view, before she was sufficiently near not to require its guidance. As if to renew her fortitude, the storm presently slackened; the feathery flakes fell lightly, blown hither and thither by the wind, whose keen, cutting breath seemed to penetrate to her very marrow. And her chief obstacle now lay in the deep, uneven drifts, among which her tired feet found no easy steppiugplace. The farther she went, the more diffi cult her progress became; and at last, just as ' she had nearly reached the very verge of the j moor, beyond which a comparatively easy foot-way stretched towards the farm, she sank, overpowered, into a huge drift, from which it seemed impossible to extricate heVself. She made a-desperate effort, struggled, rose, and once more tottered on. But her strength was exhausted, her. limbs paralyzed by cold, and in another moment she fell Attain *V?io tima' iiMtk tko /Incnjirinrr r^Anuin- I a^UiUy bUIO ifllUO *? IV Li bliv UWJ/v*U IVVUTIV | tion that all farther effort would be fruitless. The farm-house, as she well knew?for she had many times traversed this road before, 1 in by gone days?was farther off than it looked ; she still had some distance to go, and already she felt that her capabilities had been taxed to the uttermost. But her child moved in her arms, and gave a little cry. At that cry all the powerful mother-love, newly awakened, stirred her heart, arousing within it a might energy, a resolution to convey her precious burden to a place of safety and shelter, even though she should perish in the at- , tempt. "If he is once safe, then all will be well," she murmured below her breath. "It matters little what becomes of me" On, and still on, having again struggled to her feet; plunging blindly through the soft, heaped-ap masses of snow, feeling as though every step must be her last, so intense was her exhaustion, so frozen were her veins. Had she had been alone, even, her situation would not have been so hopeless ; but the child she carried, a stout boy of ten months, was no light weight, and beneath it, it was no wonder she sank. "I cannot go on?I must rest," she exclaimed, at last, when with infinite difficulty she had toiled a few yards farther. And indeed it was without the power to resist that she dropped into a resting place in the snow, and there sat, cuddling her baby, and unconscious that a torpor was gradually creeping over her, against which it would soon be vain to fight. Her child, screened from the weather by the thick folds of the shawl, and deriving warmth from her embrace, was sleeping soundly ; over her senses also an irresistible drowsiness began to steal. Her clasping arras, by degrees, relaxed their tension. Her heavy head,! drooping forward, rested against the bundle ! now lying on her knees. Soon she lost all1 consciousness, and sat a motionless, scarcely breathing figure, a helpless, forlorn atom of n l<%r\A i r> a /IttAnntr /I ha? M*f n ? a.V> 4- I nuiLiaiiity , aiuiic, in uic uicfti y, uicai v ui^ui, at the mercy of the storm. The snow presently ceased to fall; the wind, still blowing in sharp fitful gusts, parted the dark clouds overhead, and permitted stray glimpses of the moon, now nearly at its full, which had for some time been struggling to gain the mastery over its foes. These, now advancing,! now seemitfg to retreat, at one moment suddenly obscured the moon's beaming face, and in the next as suddenly melted before the effulgence of its rays, while the wind, a treacherous ally, now rallied the flying squadrons, and r.ow in one blast scattered them far and wide out of their course. For some time the victory appeared doubtful; but at length the scale turned in favor of the Queen of Night, who, casting off the last vestige of the darkness which had obscured her, rode in triumphant beauty in the sky, illuminating with a sudden magical splendor the whole wide snow covered landscape below. The woman of whom I have written had remained for nearly an hour in the dangerous lethary into which she had fallen, w:hen her child awoke. Frightened at itssituation, it began to scream lustily; but though, in "itsstruggles to fVee itself from its uncomfortable position, it managed to thrust aside entirely the folds of the s h a thus attained to the free exercise of its lungs, its loud cries failed as completely to penetrate the ear of its mother as though that ear were already sealed by the hand of Death. It was a fortunate circumstance for the poor baby that the instincts of its* nature thus led it to make known its distress. Soon aftei4 it had awakened from, its sleep, a light wagon appeared in sight, rattling along the road which wound around one edge of the moor, leading towards the farm. Its occupant was none other than the farmer himself, who, as it chanced, had been detained until a late hour on business in a neighboring' village, and was now on his. way home. Any sounds less loud and piercing would have failed to attract his notice. But above the rattle of the wheels, and the sharp trot, trot, of the horse's hoofs, rose, shrill and clear, that piercing wail. As its echo reached him, the good man pulled up his horse to listen ; and speedily assured of the near neighborhood of a fellow-being iu distress, he proceeded, without loss of time, to find out and succor the one xl :i?.- ..I.. Tnrl Kit ill o /?>moc o inua perilously stknutcu. ju^u uj kuu v?w)?. few steps brought him, after he had dismounted from his wagon, to the spot where crouched the unfortunate woman, now rigid and seemingly lifeless, with the struggling child upon her knees. "Good God !" exclaimed the farmer, aghast, "here's a poor creature frozen in the snow. And a baby! Poor brat, he 8 not dead anyhow. There now, there! hush, you poor thing, do," he continued, compassionately, as he lifted it in his arms the little fellow, whose crying ceased, as he felt that he had found a friend in need. "What can I do with them both? Let's see, it won't take but a couple of minutes to carry the child into the house; I can get help and come back for the woman, though I fear 'twill be of little use to try to aid her." He gave one more earnest look at the white, rigid face, touched the icy hand and with a sorrowful and significant shake of the head, turned away with his new charge, and hurried towards the house. His rapid strides soon brought him to the gate; as he pushed it open, the house-door, a few yards in front ofhiro, also opened, revealing the form of his worthy dame, strongly defined against a rich glowing background of light, ruddy and warm, speaking of the homely but luxurious comfort jvithin. "Welcome, welcome, John !" she exclaimed, "I've been fearing you've had an awful time, riding home on such a "night. Ain't you 'most frozen? Why, what have you there? And where's the horse and wagon ?" i ? j ? ...i:. " i ne norse anu wajjuu s saie, uu l iu hic i uau. Martha, I've come across a poor creature in trouble; a woman, frozen out there on the edge of the moor?" "Frozen!" echoed his wife, in horror. "Dead, do you mean ?" "I don't know. I .'most thfnk she is. This is her child, I reckon. He's all safe and sound, anyway. Are any of the folks up?" "I sent 'em all to bed, except Charity. She's in the back room, sewing." "She'll do. She's as strong as I am, pretty nigh. Call ?her, will you? I'll get her to help me with the woman, while you take this young one iu charge." His wife had already received the baby into her motherly arms, and lavished many pitying endearments upon it as she hastened to the back sitting-room, to summon Charity, a tall, gaunt, hard-favored individual, who, but for her name and her feminine apparel, might easily have been mistaken for a man. "Run, Charity, quick, quick! Your master's found a woraau out there in the snow, and wants you to help him bring her in. Make haste, maybe we can save her yet." Promptly, and without opening her lips to express surprise, curiosity or compassion, the sewing woman obeyed her behest. In a few i . -i .i - p i 1.1 moments sne ana tne laruier tugemci were trying to lift the stiff', senseless form embedded in the snow; no easy task, as the surface of the drift, quickly hardened by the biting atmosphere, encrusted the limbs with a complete wall of ice. Before long, however, they managed to extricate her; and raising her now without difficulty, for she was small and slight, they carried her to the house, and laid her on a huge old-fashioned sofa, in the parlor, which Mrs. Thorndale, the mistress, had already wheeled near the fireplace and provided with pillows and warm spreads. "She's dead! 0, John, for sure she's dead!" said the wife, in trembling tones. "Poor thing?poor thing! Why, she's only a girl. Why, John !?" "What's the matter?" asked the farmer, surprised at the sudden ring of awe and dismay in her voice, and the agitated clasp of her hand upon his. "Look! look!" She drew closer to him, speaking in a faltering whisper, her eyes fixed intently on the white, still face. "Those features?that long, bright hair?don't you know ? Don't you see the likeness ? It's Helen come back, just as sure as you live !" "Helen! Wife, wife, you are dreaming," cried Farmer Thorndale. In spite of his apparent assurance, however, he was evidently startled, and he looked inquiringly, almost in terror, from his wife's countenance to that of the girl under discussion, and back again, as if trying to read a confirmation of her words. "It's Helen?brother Richard's Helen? sure as fate. She's awfully changed, I allow, but still?" "Hush," whispered John Thorndale, warningly, as Charity, who had repaired for a moment to the adjoining room, returned. "'Hrin'f sov onvtViincr mnrp nnm Here. helD j * ""J ?V h ? ' ? me rub her, will you," he continued aloud. "Let Charity have the child, I expict she can keep it quiet." Mrs. Thorndale mechanically obeyed ; but it was with an indescribable sinking of the heart that she pursued her task, the conviction every moment forcing itself more strong' ly upon her that her first impression had been ! correct. Helen Dudley, her brother's only j daughter, had been, when last she had seen her, a bright, beautiful girl of sixteen, roseate | with health, and radiant with the joy of an innocent heart. But she had left the farm? ' her father's, as it then was?suddenly, mysteriously, and such whispers had reached them | of her since, as had led those who loved her ! almost to pray that they might never see her face again. Richard Dudley was now dead, his sister and her husband in possession of 1 the old farm, all the belongings of which continued unchanged. Could .this be Helen, ! betrayed, ruined, forsaken, come home with her child, the pledge of her disgrace, to seek i forgiveness at th$ hnnd^of the father whose j heart her sin had broken ? Changed, indeed I she was; fearfully, unutterably changed. The ' / ii. i once round and blooming cheek was sharpened by suffering, the fair features pinched and wan, the closed eyes, that used to be so lus; trous, sunken and circled by deep purple rings, their dewy violet hidden by the longfringed lids that would never be lifted again ; but in spite of all this change, and the un1 mistakeable seal set upon it by Death's stern hand, something in the face, the form, the | beautiful long bright hair, touched keenly a : chord of recollection and thrilled it into life, in the htart of the aunt who had once given her almost a mother's love. And John Thorndale felt it too. Although in the first moment of surprise and consternation he had repelled his wife's suggestion, # yet more and more strong and persistent grew the idea that she was right after all. Poor wanderer?poor, forsaken Helen! OL-. Unrtlr ir\ kor a1^ }mmo Qim UUU, lliUCCUj UUUiC wu 11 vt uiu uvimw with the hope of winning her father's forgiveness, and regaining her treasured place in his affections, little knowing how impassable a barrier was set between them now ; a barrier that no love, however tender, could break down. And seeking this dead father, to claim his pardon for herself, his protection for her child, she, too, had reached with weary steps the dread bourne from which she could not return; beyond which, let us hope, she was united to him again in the bonds of a deathless, unutterable love, a full and free reconciliation, that nothing could shake or mar forever more. Human judgment is stern; and it must be owned that Farmer Thorndale's 6rst emotions of pity and sympathy merged into a harder feeling, with the gl-adual assertion of the truth in his mind. What had this young woman come back for, to bring trouble and shame upon their household, at least in leaving a heritage of her disgrace among them, if not by her actual presence ? He had no children of his own, and did not want such a child as hers imposed upon his care. After all the misery she had cost her father, it would have been far more proper that she nV.ni. 1/1 knnn lr nr.f omoir filtnrTAthpr What. OilUUlU IJCfcVp AW|/V MIIUJ .. ~ ?right had she to suppose that she could ever again find a place in the home she had blighted, or that her nameless child could lay claim to its shelter and its care? These thoughts, passing through his mind, darkened his brow and compressed his lips, though they did not cayse higi to relax in the efforts he felt it his duty to make for his niece's restoration ; and when at last he found, as he had anticipated from the first, that such efforts were totally vain, and that life was indeed extinct, he muttered as he turned away? "God has dealt justly with her. This is the fitting reward of her sin." "Husband, husband!" answered the wife, whose tears were falling fast, "we are not to condemn her. God has no doubt forgiven her; let us do the same." He made no rejoinder, but walked into another apartment, where he remained, gloomily musing, while the women busied themselves with the needful melancholy offices for the dead. At length, Mrs. Thorndale joined him, and, coming to his side, laid her hand gently upon his knee. ' "Have you got through ?" he asked. "Nnt nnitft. Charitv nronosed to do the -.ww i ? j r" i -rest; and she's so handy, I agreed to let her. I combed out the poor child's hair. 0, John, many a time have I combed it before, and braided it, when she was dressing for some girlish frolic, and came to me to make her look nice! And to think that I should do it for her as she is now /" "As she is now, it's best to think no more about her," said the farmer, abruptly. "She's an angel, now, John. I can't look at her face and doubt that. So peaceful it is? so different, already from what it was when first you brought her in. The old, old look, almost, has come back. It breaks my heart to see it?" "There, there, Martha, don't cry," said her husband, touched by her grief. "It's far better for her, and for us all, that she's gone. Does Charity know ?" "I'm sure she does, though she hasn't said a word?she never does. I can tell by her looks. Not that she seems sorry a bit. She's just as hard and cold as a flint." "Where's the child ?" asked the farmer, presently. "Asleep?dear little cherub! He's the most beautiful baby I ever saw." s "We'll have to make some arrangement about him, I suppose." "Arrangement? That's easy enough; he'll be no trouble to me at all." "What are you talking about, Martha? You don't imagine we can keep him here." "What!" cried the wife. "John, you'll not turn away my own niece's child ?" "You don't mean to propose that we should saddle ourselves with the charge of a?" Mrs. Thorndale's hand was on his lips. "Hush ! don't say it, John. Let us forget the past. He is innocent, at any rate ; innocent, and utterly friendless, if we desert him. Would Christian charity, setting aside family love, let us cast him off? Think of her in the next room, as she once was?pure, good, ' happy, our brother's cherished darling?" "And as she afterwards became," put in i-L ~ f. tut; itw iiici. "As she is now," the wife continued, not : heeding the interruption, "purified and for| given in Heaven. And judge if our con! sciences would let us sleep at night if we refused to befriend her poor orphan babe." "Doubtless there's one living whose duty it is to befriend him. Let him come forward ' and acknowledge the claim," was the stern : reply. ! "How do we 'know he's living, John ? and j if he is even, it's far, far better they should be parted from one another. We can do well for the child, even if you don't choose to acknowledge the relationship between ourselves and him. Don't refuse me, dear John ; I can : never know another happy day if you do." Long and persistently she argued the point, and at last she got her way, as she generally managed to do in the end ; though Farmer : Thorndale always asserted that if ever there ! was a man living who succeded in carrying | authority in his household, that man was | himself. I CHAPTER II. Farmer Thorndale's heart, naturally the kindest and most benevolent in the world, gradually warmed towards the little child whom his wife had persuaded him to retain. The boy, a bright, loving little fellow, full of health, and endowed with rare beauty, was indeed one whom it would have been difficult to dislike, and his winning ways completely overcome, in time, every obstacle which had stood in the way of his adopted lather's regard. As to Mrs. Thorndale, her devotion to her charge knew no bounds, and she was soon as completely wrapped up in him as though he had been her own child. Not knowing his name, or whether one had eve:r been bestowed on him, they called him Edward, adding the surname of Hall, as being sufficiently common and unpretending not to attract comment, while at the same time, it was not borne by any of their family or friends. Little Edward Hall, as we must therefore designate him, grew rapidly from infancy into childhood, acquiring with, each added year, a firmer sway over the household, which soomo'I unfhniit reserve tn viftld to the notencv WVV^V- J I ? of his youthful rule. The domestics idolized him, and cheerfully indulged his whims; he might often have been seen mounted upon one of the cart horses, as those sturdy animals pulled a load of wood or hay, brandishing his little whip, and amfp;ng with-his prattle the driver who walked beSTde; or he would trudge along behind the plough, fancying that he was helping to push it with his baby hands, while asking a hundred different questions about planting, the philosophy of crops and all the various branches of farm industry, until, as old Thomas, the head man on the farm, declared, when he was five years old he knew 'most'as much as the master himself. Possessed of^ a quick intelligence, and untiring activity, he dipped into everything and gained some useful knowledge out of every new experience. From early dawn until sunset, his feet were never still, and the little figure, with its belted blouse and short trousers, and wide straw hat sheltering the -curly locks, flitted perpetually from garret to cellar, from dairy to barn, from garden to orchard, now perched on a fence, now swinging from a bough, now racing, shouting; skipping, climbing, as though it were the embodiment of perpetual motion, of frolic and fun. No wonder that such a blithe and happy presence in the house should cast a cheerfulness like sunshine over everything around ; and Mrs. Thorudale, pressing her husband's hand, would sometimes ask him when they were alone? * "Now, John, isn't it a blessed thing for us that we kept that boy? Isn't he the comfort of our declining years?" And the farmer was fain to assent, for it was true that h'e was never so well satisfied as when little Edward was near him. Holding him on his knee in the evening, on the vinecovered porcfh in summer time, or beside the crackling fire in winter, he would tell him long and wonderful stories, to which the boy listened with deep attention, pleading always ' for another and another. "Just one more, Pap- 1 py !" until he was carried off to bed. Of his own accord he had bestowed the appellation of "Pappy" upon the farmer, though he had been taught that there was no real fatherhood in the case. Mrs. Thorndale he called "Tatty," probably a corruptionrof Martha, as he heard her husband call her.' But after a while it 1 was deemed expedient to change these child- 1 ish epithets into some more suitable and befitting his advancing years. "Edward," said Thorndale one evening* as 1 they were sitting as usual together, waiting for the supper which Mrs. Thorndale and her assistants were preparing, "I want to have a little bit of talk with you, instead of telling vou anv more stories before vou go to bed. y y ? You know you are getting .to be a big boy now, aren't you ?" "0, yes," proudly rejoined Edward. "I'm 1 most as tall as Jake, Thomas says." Jake was one of the farm hands, a very diminutive, odd-looking little fellow, of whom Edward was a constant companion and playmate, notwithstanding the disparity in their years. "Yes, I reckon in three or four years more you'll be pretty near on a level with Jake's head. Well, my man, I've been thinking, as you're growing so tall, and so sharp, it's.about time to be sending you to school. How would you like that?" Edward's countenance fell, and he looked very serious for a moment or two before answering. "I couldn't play then, any more," i he remarked slowly, at last. "Why not? You would have plenty of ! time for play. All the afternoons, and early in the morning before school-hours, you could have all the play you want. And don't you want to be a clever, educated iooy, and read all about travels, and whale-catching, and lion-hunting, and Captain Kane, and fairies, and giants, and all i;hose fine si;ories you like so much to listen to? Just think, wouldn't it be first-rate to know how to road them your own self?" i "Why, did they come out of books ?" asked Edward. "I thought they just came out of your own head." "Oh ! no; most of 'em are out of books, though I make up a few myself. And when you can read, then you shal. have lots of books for .your own." "Shall I ?" Then I do want to learn," exclaimed the boy, immediately won over by the prospect of having so much treasured lore at his own disposal. "Did you learn to read when you was as young as me ?" "No, my lad. In my early days, education wasn't as much thought of as it is now, and I picked up mine mostly by scraps, till I was a big boy and got myself sent to a grammar school. I want you to be a better scholar than I am, and you may easily be, if you try. You've just got to set your mind on your tasks, and be obedient to your masters, and you'll get along first rate, and make me proud of you one of ihese days." "And Tatty'll be proud, too," said Edward. "Look here," said the farmer, stroking his curls ; "I reckou you'll have to / jive up calling us two by such baby names as "Pappy" and "Tatty." The other boys will have a laugh at you, if you don't." "Will they ? Then what must I call you ?" asked the boy. Farmer Thorndale was embarrassed for a reply ; but while he was hesitating, his wife, who had overheard the latter part of the dialogue, came to the rescue. "Call us Father anc Mother, my darling," she said, boldlj'. "Ycu are the same to us as our own boy, and we love you a;s well as if you were." "Oh! no," replied the child, with decision. "That would be just like a lie, I think. I'll call you Mr. and Mrs. Thorndale, like Dr. Evarts' boys do. That'll be respectful, won't it? And not like a baby, either." "Why, yes, it will be like a little man," said the farmer, relievedTStfraving the difficulty thus \ promptly settled. But Mrs. Thorndale turned away with tears in her eyes, for these formal appellatives sounded painfully cold and distant to her ears. Edward, however, adhered to the decision he had himself rendered, and seemed to fall, without difficulty, into the habit of addressing his protectors by these new titles ; and, if occasionally, the old familiar ones escaped his lips, he immediately corrected the mistake, thus proving that he considered it a matter of no light or trifliug import. Perhaps, deep down in his baby heart, there lurked unconsciously a feeling of pride, a feeling which he was too young to define, but strong enough, nevertheless, to withhold him from making any attempt to put himself on a more familiar footing in the household than was offered to him ; ory rather, than he believed himself entitled to occupy. Already his mind had begun to work in regard to this subject, which naturally contained much of mystery, as well as of interest,for him, but of which, as yet, he said not a word to any one around him. Within a short time after the conversation with Farmer Thorndale, which I have recorded, Edward began his career as a school-boy' rushing into his new occupation with the ardor which characterized most of his performances, and soon winniug encomiums for his cleverness as well as his industry. He was delighted with his teacher, his lessons, and his companions, and everything went on satisfactorily for several weeks, until one day a big boy, whose ill-will he had incurred for some trifling offence, chose to take revenge by selecting him as a mark of comment and ridicule for the Bchool. "Come here, you Hall," he called out to him as he was crossing the playground; "I want to ask you a question." Edward, suspecting no-unfair design, obeyed the summons, and ran over to where the other, surrounded by a number of the older pupils, sat lounging puder a tree. "Now see here," continued the latter, whose name was Smithson, and whose reputation was that of a decided bully, as the small boys knew to their cost. "I want you to tell me, plain and honest, what's your real, true name." "My name!" rejoined Edward ; "you know it yourself, as well as I do." "As well as you do! Well, may be so, but that ain't saying much," retorted Smithson, with a vulgar leer that fired the child's hlood. though he but dimlv comprehended the / o - * nature of the intended insult. "My name's Edward Hall, Joe Smithson, and you know it. I don't see what you are asking me such questions for," he cried, with crimsoning cheeks, looking from one to another of the faces around him. "Who told you so ?" "Mr. Thorndale told me so; and Mrs. Thorndale told me so; and everybody else knows it's so. If that's all you've got to talk about, I shan't stay," was Edward's indignant rejoinder, as he turned to go. But hispersecutor did not mean that he should escape so easily. "You stop here till I get through talking to you," he exclaimed, catching the little boy's arm and pulling him back. "How does Mr. Thorndale, and Missis Thorndale, and everybody else" (raimickingly) "know that your name is Edward Hall ? Who told'era so?" "How do I know who told 'em so? Let me go, will you," said Edward, struggling angrily to free himself. "You're a real mean, bad boy, Joe Smithson, and I'll tell teacher on you, so I will." * "Oh ! you'll tell teacher on me, will you ? Just you try it, my fine young bird! I'll have such a hue and cry raised in your ears as'll make you glad to learn, good manners and obey your betters. I'll have you called "Ned Nameless," and the whole school shall point their fingers at you whenever you pass by." "Let the child go, Smithson," said another big boy, compassionating the impotent wrath and distress of Door little Edward, who fought A ' w valiantly to release himself, while his tormentor only laughed at his efforts, and held him the faster. "It's a shame to bother him 30 much." "Shall I let you go, Ned Nameless ?" asked Sraithsou, tauntingly. "Ask me please, and may be I will." "I won't ask you please! I won't do anything you want me to 1" panted Edward. "I hate and despise you, and your father's only a butcher, and your mother takes in washing, and I'm more of a gentleman than you are, whatever my name may be."# This outbreak, awakening in return the anger of his persecutor, might have resulted somewhat seriously for its author, had not the head master at that instant made his appearance on the playground ; and Smitkeon, after one violent shake, relinquished his hold upon* Edward, who rushed off quivering all over, to cry his fill in secret in a distant corner, from which he did not emerge until the school bell summoned him to join his class for the afternoon's exercises. On his return home, Mrs. Thorndale, observing his red eyes, and also that his lunch of biscuit and cold pie was untouched, questioned him anxiously, fearing some trouble; but he gave her only evasive answers, and would tell her nothing of what had happened. Fortunately for him, Smithson was a day or two after called off from the school by the illness of one of his family, and from some cause did not return ; but not so easily were the results of his unkind action dispelled. The happy freedom of Edward's intercourse with his playmates was effectually marred. He could not forget that he had been made an object of ridicule in their eyes, and though many of them speedily forgot the circumstance, and few attached any importance to it, an ever-present sense of a difference between himself and them, a consciousness of an indefinable barrier, not tangible but felt, weighed upon him. Why had he been called Ned Nameless? What reason had anybody for questioning his right to the name he bore? Something must ho wrnnrr ahout him : if onlv he could, find out what it was! Once, and only once, he dared approach the subject with Mrs. Thorndale, but she so quickly silenced him that he perceived clearly the expediency of not reverting to it again. There was no ope else he cared to ask ; and so his doubts remained sealed up in his own mind, and gradually, as time went by, his studies and other employments gained the ascendency over his thoughts and engrossed them too much to permit of idle speculations. Insensibly, however, they had affected his character and disposition, supplanting his natural gayety by a thought fulness beyond his years. A degree of reserve became apparent in his manner, even with those nearest to him, and Mrs. Thorndale, whose afTection for him continued, if possible, to increase daily, wondered at his growing, as she expressed it, into such a different boy from what lie had used to be. Whatever the change which had taken place, no one had cause to complain of the boy's habits or behaviour. The latter was always exemplary, and a ntbre industrious, steady-going, active little fellow could not btf found, in any capacity, for miles around, fonriniiqn for bonks did not interfere with attention to home duties, and his spare hours were devoted to working in the garden and on the farm, and in rendering assistance to Mrs. Thorndale in the various branches of domestic work. When he was about ten years old, Farmer Thorndale fell ill, and after lingering for many months in a precarious state, was finally pronounced by the attending physician to be beyQnd the hope of recovery. The blow was a terrible one to his wife, who was most devotedly attached to him, and it seemed as though she must succumb to it, losing all energy and all hope in her earthly future, with the destruction of this one near tie. But the old farmer spoke kindly and cbeeringly to her, dwelling on the many causes for thankfulness which remained to her, and trying to comfort her by his own assurance that God must always deal wisely with men, and that this parting was not sent to them as a token of anything but love. "For you know, Martha dear, we've been many long years together; we've pulled up the bill of life hand in hand, and our true love made all the rough steps seem smooth. I did hope as how we might have come down the shady side hand in hand, too; but we're neither one of us very far from the bottom now, and if I'm. to go first and leave you to travel the rest alone, why we mustn't complain. Then there's the boy to comfort you, and keep you company. He's a good lad, and will be the stay and staff of your old age. We're sure it's all right, my dear. God has always been good to us and He won't fail us now." Very gently and kindly the Messenger loosened the last earthly bond, and led the freed spirit away. The old man died with a smile on his lips, and so peaceful was his parting breath that his wife thought him still asleep. But it was a sleep that would know no waking in this world. When the sealed eyes unclosed, they would read the riddle of life clearly, and see all things as they were. Mrs. Thorudale, worn oi^by grief and long nursing, lay on her bed with closed eyes, prostrated in body and mind. The gray shadows of twilight veiled the room, as a tall, gaunt figure stole noiselessly in, and crept with silent footsteps towards the bed. It was Charity, the sewing-woman, who still kept her old position in the household. In her hand she held a wine glass containing some dark fluid; she set it on the table, and drawing aside the curtain from the pillow, looked fixedly upon her mistress' face. Mrs. Thorndale opened her eyes, and feebly asked what she wanted. "I've brought you a glass of wine, Mrs. Thorndale ; it will do you good, you seem so broken down. Yon'd better take it now ; then let me undress you and help you into bed." "1 don't want wine, or anything else," was the moaning reply, as the poor woman turned wearily aside. "Just let me be in quiet now. I'd rather not undress." "You had better drink the wine; it'll do you good. See, I have it all ready," said Charity, ta"king up the glass. There was a suppressed-eagerness in her tone-and glance, oUq unmo anpr>iftl rfiflSfin for no LMUUgLl OUU UHU DVIUW - ? _? making the suggestion. "Well, give it to me, then," said her mistress, impatiently, anxious to get rid of her importunity. Quickly the glass was placed to her lips, and in a moment was emptied of its contents. "Now, leave me," said Mrs. Thorndale, falling back upon her pillow. "When I need you, I will ring. How disagreeable that wine tastes!" "Maybe I took it out of the wrong bottle," said Charity. "Shall I get you some more ?" "No, no; only go now, and don't disturb me again." / "Good-night," said Charity, softly, as she stole toward the door. [to be continued.] mm* Origin of "E Pluribus Unum.?"E Pluribus Unum" first appeared on a copper coin, struck at Newbuig, N. Y., where there was a private mint. The pieces struck are dated 1786. In 1787 the motto appeared on several types of the New Jersey coppers, also on a very curious gold doubloon, or sixteen dollar piece, coined by a goldsmith named Brasher. It was there put "Unum E Pluribus." Only four of these pieces are known to be extant, and they are very valuable. One of them in the possession of the mint is supposed to be worth over $2,000. When Kentucky was admitted in 1791, it is said copper coins were struck with "E Pluribus Unura." They were made in England. The act of Congress of 1792, authorizing the establishment of a mint and the coinage of gold, silver and copper, did not prescribe this motto, nor was it ever legalized. It was placed on coins in 1796,* and on silver coins in 1798. It was constantly used thereafter until 1896, when it was withdrawn from the quarter-dollar of rew device. In 1834, it was dropped from gold coins to mark the change in the standard fineness of the coins. In 1837 it was dropped from the silver coins, marking the era of the Revised Mint Code. It has been thought proper to restore it recently to our new silver dollar, without an sanction of law, although the expression is one very proper for our coins. God's Love.?And what doth the Lord require of thee, but only love? But how great a thing is love! Love brought Him down hither to us ; and love will carry us up to God. Love made him like to man ; and love is able to make thee like to God. Oh, the power of heavenly love! How shall we get it planted in our hearts?how, but by love? The frequent meditation of this adI mii-oKlo l/\tro nP f?nrl 111 His Son. .Tesus Christ, will not suffer us to love him with all our heart, soul and strength. Let us resolve, then, that the remembrance of His love shall lie perpetually in our heart. What more welcome thought can there be thee every morning when thou wakest than this: I am the beloved of the King of Glory? With what canst thou open thy soul thore cheerfully ? What will brighten it and chase away the darkness of melancholy, sadness, sorrow, cafes and fears, like to this ? Let the morning light bring Jesus ever along with it to thy mind, and enkindle in thee a new devotion to Him.?Bishop Patrick, fp$ttMaw0u$ fading. SOME DAY. You smooth the tangles from my hair With gentle touch and tendereat care, And count the years ere you shall mark Bright silver threads among the darkSmiling the while to hear me say, "You'll think of this again some day? Someday!" I do not scorn thy power of time, Nor count the years of fadeless prime; But no white gleams will ever shine Among these heavy locks of mine; -? Aye, laugh as gayly as you. may. You'll think of tins again some aay? Some day i Some day I shall not feel, as now, Your soft Hand move about my brow; I shall not slight your light commands, And draw your tresses through my hands; I shall be silent and obey? And you?you will not laugh some daySome day! I know how long your loving hands Will linger imthese glossy bands, When we shall weave my latest crown Of their thick masses, long and brown; But you will see no touch of gray Adorn their shining length that clay? Some day! And while your tears are falling hot Upon the lips which answer not. You'll take from these one treasured trees, And leave the rest to silentness? Remember that I used to say, "You'll think f this again some daySome day!" Adam and Eve's Expulsion From the Garden op Eden.?-Old Jodge Gusatavius Af Pnlnmkng flliirt waa a "fiharUfttaf'. KJVTftUj Ui VV1UUIVUS) VMftW ??wv ? f of bis day. He was not a member of the church, yet he was a constant attendant on the ministrations of the venerable Dr. Hodge, the distinguished pastor of the Presbyterian Church, and if he could not be called a pillar he certainly might, with bis distinguished English prototype, claim to be buttress, of the church, supporting it from without The Judge was a constant and dilligentstodeat of the Bible and had a decided penchant for the theological controversy, and it must be confessed seemed to take a special pleasure in puzzling the clergy, who irequently called upon him, with his knotty questions. One day a missionary called on him for contribution. "Now," said the Judge, "I'll tell you what I'll do; I will ask you a simple question in Bcripture, and if you will answer it correctly I will give you twenty-five dollars; if not, nothing." The clergyman brightened up at once and agreed to the proposition, being quite sure of his twenty-five dollars. "Well now," said the judge, "can you tell me why God drove Adam and Eve out of Paridice ?" "Certainly," said the clergyman, "that is a very simple question; it was necause they ate the forbidden fruit contrary to the commands of God." "There," said the Judge, it is as I supposed; I have, asked that question to a hundred different clergymen and never yet got the correct . answer. I see you are no wiser than the rest. You ought to give me twenty-five dollars for being so ignorant of one of the most important. facts in connection with the fall of man.. But I will send you away with my simple blessing and the true answer to the question. If you . will look into your Bible which you seem to have read so carefully, vou will see it written: 'And the Lord God said, Behold the man is become as one of us, to know good from evil; and now, lot he put his hand and take also of the tree of life and live forever: therefore the Lord Godsent him forth from the garden of Eden to till the ground from whence he was taken.' Think" added the judge, with a sly twinkle in his eye, "what a great mercv'^Mvas to drive them out, for suppose they had r ome chance got hold of th$ tree of life, and thus the race had been perpetuated for ever on this earth. Why, by this time we would be piled . mountains high upon each other, and what an awful struggle there would have been for life and happiness." The clergyman departed, a wiser if not a happier man. How They Do It.?As one of the most prominent? young burglars of Ban Francisco was walking out of court the other day, just after having secured an acquital regarding ?his latest job by a prompt and businesslike "divvy" with the powers that be at " the usual rates, a well-to-do but anxious looking stranger touched bis arm &nd beckoned him to-a doorway. "You are 'Teddy, the Ferret,' aren't you ?" asked the gentleman?"the man who was tried to day for safe cracking ?" "Well, what of it?" replied the housebreaker. "Why, jnst this?you'll excuse my speaking so low?but the fact is I've come all the way from the San Joaquin to look up a party in ypu:r line of business." " rr _ oi) "nave, en i "Yes?I?well, I've a little proposition to make to you." "Exactly" said the Ferret, camly; "you're a bunk cashier down in the foot-hills." "How did you know that ?' stammered the gentleman, much amazed. "And your cash and accounts are to be gone over by the directors on the 1st, and as you can't realise on your stocks, you want me to gag you some time next week, shoot your hat full of holes, find the combination in your breast pocket-book and go through the safe in the regular way." "Great heavins man! how did you find all that out ?'' " Why, I guessed it It's the regular thing," you know. Got three orders to attend to ahead of yours now. Lemme see. Can't do rfhythiDg for you pext week, but might give you Wednesday and Thursday of the week after. How'll that suit you ?" The cashier said he thought he could make that do, and in less than five minutes they had struck* a bargain and arranged the whole affair. Integrity and Independence.-?It is a misfortune to be poor, but not a crime?unless one keeps up appearances at the expense of others, contracting debts he cannot pay, borrowing money he connot return, etc. This trying to seem what we are not has become the bano of society and like what is called mimicry among insects, produces a nondescript race very difficult to define or assign to its proper place in the order to wh'jfl it evi-1 l1? 1 1 ~ nta ama ?af o /i tta aermy ueiongs. ui cuuiac, no mc uvt uumcating the exposure of s man's business affaire to everybody with' whom he comes into business or friendly relations; but we do hold that he has no right to pretend to be better off in worldly goods than he is in fact; for to do so is a deception which is but another name for dishonesty. By strict economy, and adoption of a manner of living suitable to our means, the pressure of poverty may be removed in -time. To be sure it is hard to deny one self luxuries of life, and reeolutely turn.from all expensive pleasures.?But it must be done if wealth is to be gainecl. There is a pleasure in self-denial that a majority of our people never experienced, and it comes most gloriously, and is extremely satisfactory to the one practicing it, when he can say, "I owe no man anything," and at the same timo has a hundred dollars in lib pocket, but, Wanting some article costing two, he refuses to, purchase until, through self-denial, the other hundred is obtained. It requires some courage to adopt such a system of living and dealing, but it has this, a recommendation?it is perfectly safe and honorable, and deceives no one. The man who will agree to work for nothing, is the hardest kind of a man to satb-fy, when you come to settle with him.