Newspaper Page Text
and tell her what he had heard ? No, he could not do that! He bad given a promise to his lather, and in Guy’s eyes a promise was a thing too sacred to be broken. Ono thing, however, he was resolved upon. He would not bo driven into marrying Diana Melford. He would not go near the Hall for the next lew days, not until the night of the ball, at which he had promised to be present He slept little that night, and the next day he got on to his horse, and rode far into the country, returning only in time for his solitary dinner. The Earl sent for him before he retired for the night, and looked up questioningly at the sad, handsome faco. “ Anything happened, Guy ?* he asked. “You look rather triate, Are you unwell ?’’ “I was never better in my life, sir,” replied Guy, staring at the fire moodily. “ Bad news, perhaps ? Is that horse of yours all right ?” “I hope so,” said Guy, grimly. “It will be bad for me if anything goes wrong with it.” “I see,” said the Earl, with a sigh. “It is dull for you here, Guy* Never mind, the time will soon pass. 1 suppose you are still as de termMied to ruin yourself as over ?” Guy raised his face. It was pale and grave. “ Don’t let us talk about it, sir,” he said. “Good night!” and he went off to bed, and dreamed that Lorrie had married Seymour Mel ford, and that she stood at the altar laughing at Guy. The next day he wont out as before, riding somo distance, and getting his lunch at a way side inn. It was dull and dreary work, but he had determined not to go near Diana Melford until the ball ot the next day, and he stuck to hia resolve. The morning broke clear and bright, and be bad bis bath and went down to the breakfast room. With the sunshine a gleam of hope had stolen into his heart. Perhaps it was not true about Lorrie and Seymour Meltord; perhaps Mr. Melford would not foreclose the mortgage; perhaps Gipsy would win the Grand Stakes; and, in some un explainable way, things would work round right! In this lighter mood he could think of the ball to-night with something like pleasure. You see ho had spent two extremely dull days! How delightful it would be, he thought, if only Lorrie could be there I Ho had never danced with her yet, and the blood rushed to his face as ho fancied himself whirling to the music of the Waldteufel with Lorrie—dear, aweet Lorrio —in his arms I Whistling a few bars of the melody, he sat down to the luxurious breakfast, and was count ing up the days to the and of the long, dreary month, when Rawlings entered with the letters. Guy turned them over eagerly, and his face brightened as he saw one with the Carshal post mark. Lorrie had written at last, and there would be her photo inside —her own photo this time, not that of a black bishop. But his face fell as ho saw the handwriting was Jack’s. “Jack is not the rose!” he muttered with a sigh, ft ßut he has been near her, and I must be content with that, I suppose,” and he smiled. But the smile died aw y, and his faco grew pale ss he read the scrawl. There was a good deal about the coming race, but it was not that which sent the color out ot Lord Guy’s face. The sting was in the postscript. “Have you heard that Seymour Mel ord has got mashed by my sister Lorrio? Fact. He has asked tho’governor and got his blessing, and so, I suppose, the affair is as good as set tled. Nice having a rich Cretans for a brother in-law, isn’t it ?” Guy’s hand fell upon the letter as if he would drive it through the table as well as out of his mind. It was true, then. She had been false to him. Thrown him over without a word, too. A black and bitter leeling came over him, and a curse upon all women rose to his lips. With a sigh be pushed the plate from him, and rising, fell to pacing the room, with a pain at bis heart that seemed as if it would choke him. It was true, then. The girl he had deemed all truth and innocence and purity, had jilted him for a “ good match ” as coolly and easily as if eh 3 bad been a garrison hack ot half a dozen seasons. With a groan he leaned against the mantel-shelf, and laid his hot forehead upon his hands. “ Oh, I.orrie! oh, my darling I” ha murmured Jiuskily; “and eo soon, so soon! Would to Heaven I had never seen you I I shall never get your sweet face out of my heart—nover, never 1” The door opened and Rawlings entered again. Lord Guy turned angrily. “Why the devil don’t you knock?” he de manded. “1 did, my lord,” said Rawlings respeoFully. “Then knock louder next time. What is it, now?” “ A telegram, my lord," said Rawlings, with his eyes fixed upon the ground, but seeing his adored master’s white face, nevertheless. Guy took it and tore it open absently; then he uttered a low, bitter laugh that startled Raw lings out of hie presence of mind. “ Ob, my lord—what is it?” he asked anxious ly- Guy stared at him, then laughed long and loudly. “ Oh, not much I” he said wildly. “ I hope you haven't put any money on Gipsy, Rawl ings? ’ mockingly; “ because, if you have ” —he stopped, aud something seemed to choke him— “he was poisoned last night.” “Oh, my lord!” gasped Rawlings; “it isn’t possible 1” “ It’s more than possible—it’s a fact I” retort ed Guy. “Head it lor yourself.” “Ob, my lord!” gasped Rawlings; “who could have done it?” “ They don’t know. Of course they do notI" said Guy bitterly; “ they never do.” , “ The horse was watched night and day, my lord.” Lord Guy groaned. “ Would to Heaven they had poisoned me in stead !” he said. It was not ot the horse he was thinking so bit terly, fond as he had been of it, but of the lose Of Lorrie. “ Is there anything I can do, my lord ?” asked Rawlings in a hushed voice. The sight of his master’s face awed him. Lord Guy shook his head. “No. What is to be done? Yes, you can tel egraph and offer a reward of a hundred pounds and say that I will be up by the next train. Get things ready, will yon ?’’ Rawlings went off sorrowfully, and Guy sunk into a chair. Lorrio gone from him forever, his horse dead. What else was there that could happen? Al most as if in answer to his bitter question Gil low stole into the room. “ The earl desires to know, my lord, if you oould come to him at once.” Guy rose. The earl had evidently heard about Gipsy, and had sent to condole with him. It was kind of him ! Ho followed Gillow along the corridor, and entered the earl’s room. His father was seated in his usual place, his hand resting on an open letter which lay npon the small table besido him. The old man’s faco was gray rather than white, and as he raised his eyes, Guy saw that they were heavy and dull, as if with some in tense pain. The earl waited until Gillow had left the room, then signed to Guy to take a chair, and for a moment sat in silence ; then ho said, in a voice hollow and sad, and yet perfectly under control: “ Bad news, Guy?” “Yes, sir,” said Guy, grateful to his father lor feeling the death of the horse so much. “Very, very bad news ! I would not have minded it it had come in the ordinary course and naturally; but to think that it occurred through foul play I It makes every drop of’ blood in my veins boil I” “Foul play!” said the earl, dully. “What do you mean ? I told you to expect it, I warned you ” then, seeing the look of surprise on Guy’s face, he broke off quickly. “Of what are you thinking and talking. Guy ?” “Ot the death of Gipsy, air,” said Guy. “Isn’t it that ” “No, no !” said the earl, waving his hand im patiently. “ I know nothing of it. This that 1 was speaking ot is worse news than even the death of your racehorse, Guy—Mr. Melford has foreclosed I” Guy stared at him heavily for a moment bolero be realized the lull significance ot the few poignant words. Thon he burst into a dull laugh. The earl looked at him sternly. “ Do you comprehend what I have said ?’’ he asked. “Bo yon know that this means ruin ruin—ruin ? You laugh, Guy I” “Forgive me, sir I” said Guy, wildly. “Oh, yes, 1 understand ! And Mr. Melford has fore closed -to-day. When trouble comes it comes not singly but in battalions. I thought we had had enough ior to-day, but Fate—or Mr. Mel ford rather-thinks differently, it seems 1“ and ho laughed again. The earl looked at him keenly. “Ib there anything else, some other evil tid ings that I do not know of?” he asked. “ Oh, these Will serve, sir 1” said Guy. “ Fore closed ! How long before the final blow falls, ■air ? Six months, isn’t it?” “Six months, yes,”assented the earl, wearily. “But long before then the vultures will have got nows that the end is near, and swoop down. Poor Latcham I” His eyes did not fill with tears, but a look camo into them that was worse even than tens ; the look one sees in the eyes of those who are too old and weary to find the great solace of weeping. “ Foor Latcham ! I have grown fond of every stone oi it; there is not an inch of the land that I have not lelt was part and parcel of myself. And—and I hoped to hand it down to you—l hoped ” he stopped and put his white hand tremulously to his lips. “No matter I Mr. Mellord will take better care ot it than we have done. No doubt lie will live here; these par venu always settle upon the spot they have gained. ‘The king is dead, long live the king !’ The Latebams are no more, long live the Mel- Ibrds !” and be nodded despairingly. Lord Guy stood, with his baud pressed hard upon the table. “You forget, sir,” he said, almost hoarsely. " All is not lost yet ” “ All save honor 1” eaid the earl, sorrowfully. “ No, sir ; there is still a loophole of escape. You pointed it out to me a fortnight ago. I will do a you wish, my lord." It was a long time since he had addressed his i’atiier by his title, and the earl colored as he looked at him. “ You will !” “1 will save Latcham, sir I” said Guy, with a hard, set look on his tace. “I will marry Diana Mel ord—if she will have me I” The earl, notwithstanding hi* crippled leg, almost rose from his chair. “Guy! Oh, great Heaven, if I oould but think it I” “ You may believe mo, sir,” said Guy, almost solemnly. “I will marry Miss Melford, Latob am shall be saved, and you, 1 trust, sir, will be happy I” The earl winced at the emphasis on the " you !” “At least,” he said with grave dignity, “ I shall die in peace 1 But, Guy, have you thought what all this means—the cost to yourself ;” and he scanned the pale, strained face anxiously. A bitter laugh escaped Guy’s lips. “Cost, sir?” he said. “What cost? A broken heart ? As you say, sir, broken hearts are scarce ! One may lose a point or two in the game ol life, but the whole game is not lost. Don’t bo alarmed on my account, sir; I have been brought to my senses—no matter how ! Love I” ho laughed bitterly and mockingly, “it is an empty name ;it doesn't exist—at least, in a girl’s heart!' Ob, no, sir, don’t be alarmed ! I am all right 1” The earl looked at him still anxiously ; there was that in his harsh, cynical tone that was not good to hear. “ And—and—Miss Dolores ?” ho ventured to ask. It was an unlucky question. A spasm, as of pain, passed across Lord Guy’s brow, and his hand opened and shut. “ Mies Dolores ?” he echoed, and the sound of the name seemed to smite upon his heart like a knell. “ Miss Dolores will not break her heart either, my lord. All goes merry as a mar riage bell!—merrier than it would have gone it it had been her marriage bell, for we should both have been marrying the wrong people. Miss Dolores I" —he laughed again — “ M.ss Dolores Latimer will be Mrs. Seymour Melford, sir! Fray give her your good wishes! She has had a lucky escape, my lord! The son of a Crcesus, instead ot a penniless young peer with a burdened reut-roll and a coffer full of mort gages I Oh, Lorrie is all right I” He stopped breathless, white and panting. “ Any message for Lady Farnham, sir ? The ball takes place to-night. We have had a great many festivities there lately, and Miss Melford has reigned queen ot them all I Any message for her The earl, almost stunned by the flood of wild, despairing, reckless verbiage, shook his head, aud Guy moved toward the door. There he stopped for a moment, then camo and laid his hand upon the earl’s shoulder. It shook like a leaf. “ Forgive me, sir I" he said hoarsely and with something like a sob. “ I—l am a little upset, that is all.” The earl answered never a word, but his head sank still lower and his lips moved tremulous ly ; they formed the words, “ Heaven bices you 1” which they oould not speak. CHAPTER XVII. “ DIANA, WIM. YOU BS MY WIFE ?” Lord Gny caught up his bat and getting his horse, dashed off wildly, where, ho knew not, nor cared, so that he oould get away from his thoughts, get far away from that vision ot Lor rio as she stood looking into his eyes that night in the lane. Was it all a dream—did it ever happen? Was he going mad? For the first time in his life he was guilty of unkinduose to a horse, and when he came back panting and foam-flecked, his nostrils strained, his chest heaving, the stablemen looked at him and thought that the death of Gipsy had driven their young lord out ot his mind! He dressed and came down to dinner, and Linnet, the butler, tried not to look at the white strained face, but expressed his sympathy by more than the usual attention. But Guy did not want to eat now. “ Get me some champagne,” he said. They brought some champagne, rare wine and costly, and Guy drank it like water. Then he sat down before the fire and—did not smoke, which was a sign that things were very bad in deed, with him. He sat there lor hours motion less and with the same hard look on his hand some face. The brougham came round aud was sent back twice, and Griffiths had almost made up his mind that his master had given up the ball, when the order came round. “ The viscount’s carriage—at once 1” On some occasions Rawlings accompanied his master in the brougham, to help him with his coat, put a tie straight, and so on; aud to-night, not liking the expression which all day had sat like a bird of ill omen on Lord Guy’s face, he meekly suggested that he should go as far as the Hall with him. But Guy stared and shook his head. “ What do you mean?” ho said withe hard laugh. “Do I look as if I were not to be trusted? Do you think lam goiug to commit suicide, man ?” “ Suicide, my lord I” echoed Mr. Rawlings. “ Yes, suicide I” repeated Guy; then ho smothered something which sounded like, “ 1 don’t know that I’m not I’’ and getting into the brougham was driven off. As he neared the Hall, and the lights streamed upon the carriage, he Beemed to awake from the evil dream that had taken possession of him all day, and “ pulling himself together,” as he would have phrased it, forced something ol the hard look from his face. He was late, and it was thought that ho would not come, and the servants, with whom he was as great a favorite as he was with the class usually, came forward hurriedly to meet him. The news of his arrival spread from the hall to the ball room, and a little murmur arose, as it does upon the approach of a late arrival whose, social importance ranks as high as Lord Ken dale’s, but the murmur of expectancy died out suddenly as he entered. Usually his appear ance was greeted as that of the careless leader of the party of the moment, the gayest and most central figure in the giddy throng. His smile was catching, his laughtar mirth provoking, but now—as he entered—a kind ot chill fell upon the crowd, for hie usually cheerful face was white, and there was an unoauny brilliance in his handsome eyes. Lady Farnham, as lie came toward her, felt a little spasm of pain and apprehension, but smiled up at him as usual. “How late you are, air! But I mustn’t scold you, my poor boy 1 lam so sorry." He started. Was it known already 1 “ Your poor horse !” she explained. “Oh, yes, yes I” he said, looking beyond her absently, and even with a smile. “Awfully sad, isn’t it ? Yes, yes!” and he passed on. Lady Farnham looked after him. “ He has lost a large sum of money,” she thought. “ I wonder would he let me if I of lered to help him. Poor boy I” Guy made bis way into the centre of the room. A dance had just finished, and the usual prom enading was in full swing. He looked round aimlessly, with the unnatural brilliance still showing’in his eyes. “ Looking for a partner, Kendale ?” said Lord Bruce. Guy started. “ Eh ! yes, yea !”land ho turned abruptly to|a young girl standing near him. “ Will you dance this with me ?” he said. “ Oh, yes !” she said, and as she spoke the music began. ) Guy, to whom dancing came as a kind of in tuition, whirled her round so fast and furiously that she stopped, panting and laughing. “ Oh, do let us wait a minute,” she said. “ I thought I could keep the pace, Lord Kendale; but this—this is too fast even for me.” “1 beg your pardon,” he said, looking be yond her into space. “ Will you sit down ?” “ No. I only wanted to wait a moment. But you must promise not to go so fast. What a lot of people are here; and yet the beautiful room isn’t crowded. Have you seen Miss Melford yet?” “ He started, almost perceptibly. " Miss Melford ? No?’ She looked up at him curiously, struck by his tone, strangely harsh and quiet. “No ? Then see her as soon as you can! She has surpassed herself to-night. Her dross will be the talk of the county for the next six months. It is more than beautiful. Lady Farn ham says that she will take London by storm next season.” “Oh,” he said; “I thought women never praised each other ?” “ Nor do we, unless we are obliged—and we are very much obliged to, in this ease,” retort ed the girl dryly. Something in the speech and her manner re minded him of Lorrio, and ho winced. " What is the matter ?” she asked. “ Nothing, nothing 1" he replied, forcing a laugh. “1 think you have caught a chill,” said the girl; “you look just as my brother did last Winter, when he got the fever.” Guy laughed. “ That’s encouraging 1” he said. “Suppose I try and dance it oft?” They danced out the end of the waltz, and then he resigned her to her next partner, and looked round again. There was a small crowd at the end of the room, and in the centre ho caught the shimmer ot diamonds and pearls. He knew who the wearer was, but he turned away and went into the room where refreshments were being served. The footman approached obsequiously with the claret cup, but Guy shook his head. “ Give me some champagne, please.” The man poured him out a huge glass, and Guv emptied It and held it to be re-filled. Then, with the brilliance in his eyes Stillmore marked, and with a flush upon his handsome face, be went baok to the ball-room and made straight for the wearer of the diamonds and pearls. Diana Melford looked up as he approached and gave him the faintest ot nods, and went on with her conversation with the man sitting next her. Guy knew him; it was one of the wealthiest peers in the county—an old man of seventy, and there was in bis eyes as distinct an admiration lor the beauty by his side as a man dare show. Gny laughed to hlmselt with wild selt mookery. “ I may be too late even to save Latcham I” he muttered. Almost as if she had heard him, Diana Mel ford looked up with the sudden flash of her large, beautiful eyes. “ What are you muttering to yourself about, Lord Kendale ?” she said. The old peer beside her took the hint, of course, and, rising with a bow, gave place to Guy. Guy sunk on to the lounge. “ Do you want to know ?” he said. “ Did 1 not ask ? But I am not so curious about that question, as about the other,” she replied. “ What is the other 1" he demanded. Her eyes drooped, and she plucked at ths feathers on her lan; then alio raised her head and looked at him full in the la. e, with a kind * aeons.og. ivproaoh'.ul ga NEW YORK DISPATCH, MARCH 20. 1887. “ Why have you avoided me for the last three days ?” Guv met her gaze with a wild, reckless smile. “ Do you know that the astronomers have to refrain from looking at the sun too often?” he said. “It is dangerous. They go blind, and sometimes lose their wits.” “Then lam the sun. Thanks I It is rather a large compliment, isn’t it ?” “Not too large,” he retorted. “See how many ot us bask in your beams !” and he glanced at the crowd of courtiers, who still ho vered near her, anxious lor him to depart. The indolent, alnlost insolent gaze, swept them slowly. “ How tired the sun must be of always shin ing 1” she said. “ Which means ■" he said. “That I think I should like to retire behind a cloud for a little while. He rose at ones and held out his arm, and gathering up the train of her exquisite dress, she slipped her arm in his. He led her to one of the side rooms aud found her a seat, but she would not sit down. “I am tired ot sitting,” she said—“lot us stand. lam so sorry about your horse " “ For Heaven's sake, say no more I” he said, abruptly, almost fiercely. “ I want to forget it to-night, and everybody reminds me of it. Foor Gipsy I” She looked at him, and her eyes drooped un der his fixed regard. “ What am Ito say to you, then ?” she asked, pouting her red lips and arching her brows. “ You stay away three whole days, as if—as if we had the plague, and then when you come two hours late to the ball which is yours as much as anybody’s—you fly at me I What have I done?” As she spoke, she raised her eyes and let them fall upon him with a look which, when it comes from such a woman, is sometimes mad dening, always irresistible. Gus s blood rose. He had had more cham pagne tiiat day than he had drunk for a year. The light, the music, the despair that burned within him, were telling upon him. “ Lot us dance 1” he said. “But I am engaged 1” she said. “Refer him to mo,” he said recklessly. She shrugged her shoulders. “Do you think I want a duel on my con science? But I suppose you must have it, if you must! Your humor to-night is too much like that of a wild Indian’s to be baulked.” She put her hand on his shoulder, and his arm encircled her waist. Some faint perfume, perhaps from the exotics in her hair and the bosom of her dress, dif fused itself over his senses. Never had she Ift&kSd more beautiful than to-night, he thought, forgetting how ftltenjie Jjad thought game before. From the diamonds, which shone upoil her matchless arms, specks of fire seemed to strike and dazzle him. Her breath came in long, soft inflections as she danced, and her touch seemed to cling to him with a tender, ap pealing regard. In short, the charm of 'a superlatively lovely woman, dancing with the man she wished to conquer and bring to her feet, was working through all his veins.® The music made msd revelry in his mind; the despair which had settled upon him gave place to a reckless wildness, and onoe be pressed her so closely to him that the blood mounted to her lace, and her lips parted with a hall-passionate sigh. “ Stop 1” she breathed at last; “ I am tired.” “ I am iated to exhaust all my partners,” he said, with an unsteady laugh. “Take me somewhere where it is cool,” she murmured. He went straight to the fernery, and, with drawing her arm, she loaned over a fountain and began drawing off her glove. “Are you so hot?” he asked. “Let me get you au ioe.” “ No,” she said, in a constrained voice. “I will cool my sell—so 1 ’ and she dabbled her hand in the water. “Take off my other glove, please," and she hold out her left hand im periously. He took the hand in his and commenced un fastening the numerous buttons. “Oh, take care!” she murmured. “You will tear it. It is the only pair ot long gloves of this color I have left.” “Who oaros about the glove?” he said, swiftly. “It is the hand—the hand 1” Her eyes flashed round upon him, then drooped. “You will hurt that if you are not careful," she breathed. “Do not be so rough !” “Am trough? Forgive me. It is a beauti ful hand. Will you give it to me, Diana ?” The words had escaped him in his madness almost before he knew it. It was done now. But she laughed softly. “ I think you have it already," she said, and tried to draw it away. “For a moment,” he said. “But will you give it to me lor always—forever ?” and his hot fingers closed round the soft, glowingly warm ones of the white hand. She turned toward him. “ l ord Kendale 1 Is this not a rather warm flirtation ?’’ “ By heavens, I am serious !” he said, almost fiercely, tor the charm was still upon him, the lumes of the champagne still potent. “ Give it me, pray 1 Am Ito speak still more plainly ? Diana, be my wile !” it had come at last. For a moment she stood looking at the water that reflected the smile of triumph lu her eyes; then she turned them upon him in a soft blaze. “Still in earnest?” she murmured. “In very earnest,” he returned, his eyes glit tering. “Is it so wonderlul ? Is there any man in this room who would not say so ?” “ But you ?” “ And I,” he answered. “ Diana, once more, will you be my wife ?” “ Why ?’’ she asked, qnietly. Her question startled him into soberness for aseoond. “ Can you ask ?" ho said, quietly. “ Because I love yon !” She turned and hold out her hand which she had taken from him. “ Yes, ,” she said softly, with a look which would have conquered most mon, which —lor the time, the time only, alas !—conquered him I He took her hand and clasped it in both his, then as her eyes still dwelt upon him, he drew her toward him aud pressed his lips to hers. With a little, quick sigh—was it of triumph or love ?—she draw back. “ Oh, Guy 1 How wild! how reckless !” she murmured, and the rare color dyed her face. “ Am I sb wild?” he said in the tone of a man intoxicated by passion and beyond himself. “ Ah, I can be more reckless still 1” and he put his arm round her and pressed her to his heart. # 0" V A ... The ball went on, but Guy and Dians Melford danced no more that night. Long alter dawn had crept into the heavens and gazed down in fright, as it seamed, upon the brilliant light that flooded the Hall grounds, Diana crept softly to Lady Farnham’s side. Her ladyship was tired and -rather out of humor. “ Well !*’ she said. “ What is it, my dear ? Where is Lord Kendale?” Diana looked down. " Guy is in the supper-room,” she said. “ ‘Guy!’” echoed Lady Farnham, raising her brows with a smile. “Oh ! Who gave you the right to call him by his Christian name, made moiselle?” “ He, himself!” murmured Diana, and she raised her eyes with a sparkle of triumph in them. Lady Farnham looked at her curiously. “So it has come at last!’’ she said ia a low voice in which there was a mixture ot wonder and relief. “No need to ask if you are happy, my dear.” “ No,” breathed Diana. “ And Guy?” said the old lady. “ Had you not better ask him ?” murmured Diana, and she glided away. Two hours later, when the guests had all gone, including even Guy, who had disappear ed like a dream, with no word of farewell to any but Diana, that young lady satin her dress ing room. “ What time is it, Belton ?*’ she asked of the maid, busy removing the much-admired ball dress. “ Nearly eight o’clock, miss,” with a stilled yawn. “Don’t swallow mo, please. Nearly eight. Do you think you could send one of the men to the telegraph office lor me ?” The maid looked doubtfuL “Take a sovereign from that purse,” said Diana. “Do you think you could find a man to go for me ?” “Oh, yee, miss,” said the maid with prompti tude. Diana drew her writing case toward her, and filled in a telegram form to Seymour Melford, Esq., Carshal. “Lord Kendale proposed to-night, and I ac cepted I” she wrote. Oh, Lorrie, Lorrie 1 <To be Continual.) SCORN* OF A LIE. WHY MB. LINCOLN WAS CALLED “ HONEST ABE.” (from the St. Louis Globe-Democrat.') A. H. Chapman, a step-nephew by marriage ef Mr. Lincoln, has this to say of him as to why he was called “ Honest Abe:” In his law practice on the Wabash circuit he was noted for his unswerving honesty. People learned to love him ardently, devotedly, and juries listened intently, earnestly, respectfully to the sad-faced, earnest man. Ho was never blamed for bribery; nothing could move him when once his resolutions were formed. There was nothing scholarly in his speeches, and he always rested his case on his merits, only ask ing ior simple Western justice, and the texture of the man was such that his very ungainliness was in his favor before a pioneer jury. His face always wore a sweetened and kindly ex pression, never sour, and burning to win them, his tall frame swaying as a pine, made him a resistless pleader. I remember one case of his decided honest trait of character. It was a case in which he was for the defendant. Satisfied ot bis client’s innocence, it depended mainly on one witness. That .witness told on the stand, under oath, what Abe knew to be a lie and no one else knew. When ho arose to plead the case, he said : “ Gentlemen, I depended on this witness to clear my client. He has lied. I ask that no attention be paid to his testimony. Let bis ; words be stricken out; if my case fails, Ido not I wish to win in this way.” ' His seorn of a lie touched the jury. He laid bis case before them magnificently, skillfully, I masterly, and won in spite of the lie against ' him. From such work camo his “Htmest Abe.” I never knew Abe to have a coat to fit him; all were iil-fitting, but underneath was a big, hot heart that could adjust itself to all humanity. He had at his tongue’s end the little items that make up the humble world of the pioneer farm er. Once at a hotel, in the evening, during court, a lawyer said : “ Out case is gone ; when Lincoln quit ho was crying, the jury was crying, the Judge was crying, and I was a little damp about the lashes myself. We might as well give the ease up." THE HEimOFBEMDELL BY ADA PENLY. The sunlight sifting down through dusky leaves touched the bowed head of a girl lying prone unon the ground near the edge ot a gur gling brook, and lay in banners of gold on her graceful, petite form, shaken with suppressed sobs. A musical voice trilling a love song floated upon the warm June air,drew nearer and near er. Ceasing her sobs the girl sprang to her feet and turned to flee; too late, there was a flutter o! white drapery amid the rose bushes, the song trailed into an airy laugh, and a pair of cold gray eyes leveled themselves upon the girl shrinking against the trunk of a stately beech. “ Goodness, Edna, you seem to live in a per fect deluge of tears,” her stepsister exclaimed lightly. “Uncle asked me this morning if I know what had changed his sunbeam ? But of course I could tell him nothing,” sneoringly, “ as I am not honored with your confidence.” “I wish we had never come here,” Edna broke in. “ Speak for yourself," Cora cried passionate ly. “ I’m not sorry. I would rather die than return to our former life of eternal turning of old dresses and grinding attempts to stretch a ene dollar bill into two; but—’’ abruptly, “I haven’t told you the news. Robert Elson has fallen heir to a largo fortune, and was married on the twentieth to a wealthy lady in Balti more.” There was a low wail; a grayish pallor drifted into Edna’s beauti ul face. An awful despair shadowed the dark blue orbs fixed on the speak er, carelessly tossing pebbles into the restless stream. Twice she opened her lips, but the words died into a hollow moan. A vindictive light leaped into the eyes covertly watching that agonized young face from beneath their light lashes. “ You know I warned you against your un cle's ex-bookkoepor before he went on that sud den journey South last Spring,” Cora remark ed, shrugging her narrow shoulders. “ Urgent !4J9intMjis w«, I etrpngly suspect, a ruse to break freS ffohi a girl rateateilod with utter beggary if she married him in the teeth of her uncle’s commands. Now, to use a vulgar ex pression, the fascinating Robert, who was sum marily discharged for daring to raise his eyes to his employer’s niece, has not only stumbled into a soft nest, but mated with a girl who is not under the unpleasant necessity of waiting for dead men’s shoes.” Her cutting tones broke into a cry of pain as Edna’s fingers closed in a stool-like grip about her arm. “It is a black—black lie!’’ she whispered hol lowly, her breath coming in quick short pants. “ You bate him because be—no sought ma in stead of you, who gave your love unasked.” A hiss like a serpent’s warning broke from Cora. Wrenching herself free, she raised her hand as if to strike her companion, then clenched it in the folds of her dress, a fiery spot burning on either sallow cheek. A wicked gleam in the eyes, slowly sweeping the graceful form of her step-sister, who shuddered from head to foot, and drawing her dainty wrap more closely about her, turned away with a bitter sigh. “Stop, aud hear what I have to say,” Cora cried. “True, I did give my love unsought to Robert; a love the depths of which your shallow nature can never fathom. Ho passed my plain face by- to bask in the thrall of your baby smiles. You lived in an air castle lor a lew brief weeks, then found yourself desorted, and with all your beauty i would not change places with you to-day. There is the prool of your lover’s infidelity.” Thrusting a newspaper into Edna’s cold hand, the speaker trailed her light robe down the shady path, her taunting laugh striking like a knell upon the ears of the beautiful creature clutching the printed sheet-a frozen look ot horror turning to snow-dimpled cheek and curving lips. Halt way down the leafy glade Cora paused, and shaking her clenched fist at that motionless figure muttered: “ I will deal stab for stab. W-hy should she have wealth aud love, while my life is only a barren waste? When she won him she gained my everlasting hatred. In every throb of my wounded heart I vowed to give blow for blow, and thus avenge myself upon the man who slighted me, and the woman who bewitched him with her beautiful face. Thrusting the rose-bushes aside, she glanced at the stately mansion outlined amid branching trees, tinkling fountains sparkling like liquid jewels in the sunlight, and sloping lawns starred here and there by bright flowers and exquisite statuary. “It is well worth scheming for,” she uttered lowly. “At last, after many weary mouths ot waiting I can strike, and if art and a desperate woman’s cunning cm accomplish it, yonder sniyiling girl shall be turned from Beechdoll this very night by its proud Master, and I, instead ol my dainty step sister, before the month is past will be heiress ot all tins wealth.” > * * « It- * * Ten years before, Mr. Stoddard, the owner of Boeohdell, disowned his sister ior marrying a handsome ne’er-do-weil waiower with one child, a girl two years older than the lady a little daughter. Having gambled away his wife’s fortune he died. .Repenting his harsh ness, Mr. Stoddard hastened to his sister, whom he found dying. After her death] he brought both girls home, formally declaring Edna his heiress. Seated in his superb library that evening, the gentleman looked up with a glad smile which wonderfully brightened and softened his proud patrician face, as Edna stole softly ia and slipping her hand in his, seated herself on a low ottoman at his feet. “What makes my sunbeam so pale and sad, lately?’ he asked, patting the slender ringed fingers. The girl bent her dusky head until it touched his knee. Taking her pale face in both his palms, Mr. Stoddard turned her toward the light streaming from a student’s lamp at his side. “Edna, ’he demanded, gazing steadily into her prettv eyes, “ are you mourning that young fellow .”" She flushed crimson, then grew deadly pale. Drawing back, with a smothered sob she placed one trembling hand over her heaving bosom. “ Uncle,” she murmured in low, pathetic tones, “I do not deserve your love, I—l . Ah, let me confess my sin upon my knees, and then”—with another bitter sob—“ I will go from dear Beechdoll.” “Just heavens! hush!” he cried, trying to raise her from her lowly position, but she only clung the tighter to him. There was the rustle of woman’s drapery, and Cora stepped from a silken-draped arch. “I, too, have a confession to make,” she said, in silky tones, that belied the steely glitter of her eyes. “I cannot remain silent longer. I pity poor, misguided Edna,” sho continued, sighing, “ but 1 cannot see you, dear uncle, my almost father, deceived by a wicked woman.” “What do you mean ?” Mr. Stoddard thun dered, drawing his stately form erect and shak ing her clasp off his arm as he would cast aside the folds of a rattlesnake. Cora set her teeth; then said, slowly : “ Edna did not go on a visit to a school friend, as she led you to suppose, last Spring. Ask her with whom she went away. Silence, utter silence fell after that slow, deadly voice ceased. Mr. Stoddard stood like one dazed, gazing down in dumb agony at his niece, her white arms still wreathed around him. Then Edna sprang to her feet and faced them, white as death, her eyes blazing like sap phire stars. “ I went away with my husband !” sho cried, in clear, distinct tones. “ Ah, forgive your sunbeam, uncle! coming closer to Mr. Stod dard, a piteous ring in her girlish voice. “Robert was not to blame. He wished to open ly claim me, he said, trusting to time to win your pardon; but I was afraid—oh, forgive me 1 —I dreaded lest you might oast me from your heart, and persuaded mv darling to a secret marriage. I intended telling you to-night, for I could keep my secret no longer. Oh, do not utterly cast me out ol your life !” she pleaded, raising her tear-drenched face to the haughty one above her. “Only pardon your Edna her great wrong, and make Cora your heiress, for sho has never deceived you. I have sinned, but I have washed mv sin in tears.” “ Who performed the ceremony ?*’ Cora inter rupted. Edua’s dark head crested haughtily. “A friend ot Robert’s, who was staying at the next village ior a few days prior to his depart ure for Africa,” she replied, with great dignity. “ His sisters, who were to accompany him, act ed as witnesses.” Taking a paper from her pocket, she opened it, turned to hand it to her uncle, then reded backward, her eyes wildly dilated, a sickening tear blanching her beautiful face. Gliding to her side, Cora fixed a strange, in tent gaze on the paper, which was a marriage certificate, but the spaces that should have been filled ia with the names of contracting parties and witnesses was blank, and instead of a cler gyman’s signature a smooth, white surface marked the reeling senses of the girl, who ut tered a moan of mad despair, flung it irom her, and shrieking “ Oh, my God ! lost—lost!” fled like a wild creature through the long French window and down the fragrant, moonlit walk straight into the arms ol a broad-shouldered man hastening toward the house. » * *• * * * ■ As Edna’s gown fluttered across the window sill, Cora crept softly to Mr. Stoddard’s side. “ Let me comfort you, dear nucle, and atone for Edna’s wicked deception,” she purred from amid the folds of her handkerchief. “I’ve warned Edna against Mr. Elston, but she would not hoed.” Sighing heavily, Mr. Stoddard turned con temptuously away. Raising the bit ot lace to her eyes to hide the vengeful glitter, Cora crossed to the window, only to recoil with a shrill cry, as Edna, all smiles and blushes, leaning on the arm ot a no ble-looking fellow, confronted her. “Mr. Stoddard, will you not pardon two headstrong young people?” the new-comer queried, frankly. “ I have mere tte.u enough ot this world’s goods now to surround my pre cious wife with every luxury. Receiving no answers to my letters lor several weeks, 1 be came alarmed, and resolved to hasten to Beach dell, claim Edna, and crave your forgiveness. You can well imagine my delight, a few min utes since, when this little woman ran plump into my arms as I came through the grounds." Drawing Edna to him, her uncle kissed her tenderly. “ My dear, I forgive you freely,” he said un steadily, “ I intended telling you to-night that you might send tor Robert, but all is well that ends well, aud with God’s help,” placing her hand within her haaband’s, “ we will in future have no secrets from each other.” “I presume I am in the way,” Cora exclaimed mockingly, “ but before I retire I may as well con:ess that I intercepted your loving letters. If uncle had possessed the haughty disposition I gave him credit for, he would have turned Edna out ot doors, but woman's plans have before now been ruined by man’s obstinacy. So instead of playing the amiable, and usurping Edna’s place in the heart and wUI of the rich master ot Beeebdell, I’m compelled to retire from the field ia disgrace.” Walking to the door she swung around, and gazing steadily at Robert continued: “ Yon may thank mo for the announcement of your marriage to another woman. I wosld have broken your wife’s heart had you not returned at this unfortunate time, but you have tied my hands. Au revoir, may you be as wretched as I." Still with that mocking smile on her thin lips, she left them, and walking out into the warm, sweet-scented night, went straight down to the moon-silvered river bank and—death. “May God forgive her as freely as I do,” Edna murmured softly. Picking up the certificate, Robert held it up to the light for a moment. Slowly the blank spaces filled with clear writing and standing out in distinct letters, could be seen the names ot witnesses and a clergyman’s bold signature. “ By Jove, it’s filled in with sympathetic -ink," Mr. Stoddard exclaimed in astonishment. “ Rather an odd fluid with which te make out a document of Uiis kind isn’t it?” Robert laughed. “ The truth is, the night this naughty girl and I were married, my friend having no ink among his luggage at the hotel, I lent him my portable inkstand, forgetting in my hurry that I had filled it the day previous with sym pathetic ink, which I intended experimenting with. I’m afraid dearest,” pinching Edna’s rosy cheek, “we will have to frame this precious bit of paper and keep a perpetual light burning bafilLSfif." “ Yes, we will frame and hang it in the draw ing-room,” Mr. Stoddard smiled, patting hie neice’s silken head, “that all may see the heiress of Beechdell’s strange marriage cer tificate.” THE MISER’SJAND. A LEGEND FROM THE ITALIAN FOLK LORE. (From the Pittsburg Chronic-e,) The Italians have many pretty stories which they tell one to another as they Bit about talking to each other in a friendly way of an evening. Here ia one that they tell, and it ia a favorite with them: One evening in the year 1520, a female, com pletely enveloped in a long black mantle, was walking toward the Bridge of Rialto, m Venice. Her steps wore weak and uneven, and at inter vale sho looked around with a harried, fright ened glance. Hhe paused at the centre of the bridge and looked down with a shudder on the clear, blue waters of the Adriatic. Then closing her eyes and murmuring faintly, “ Antonio, my Antonio, adieu I” she prepared to throw herself over the parapet. Just as she was falling, a man rushed for ward, seized her with a powerful grasp and drawing her back, said : “Girl, destroy not the life which has been given you I If you are unhappy, enter your church, kneel on its hallowed pavement, pour out your sorrow and thank your Maker that you have been prevented from rushing uncalled into His presence.” By degrees she told him wiio she was and where she lived. Hor history might bo summed up in a few words : An avaricious father, a poor lover, a mutual but unhappy love. Vainly had Maria pleaded with her father, a rich inkeeper in Venice, the cause of her lover, Antonio Bar barigo, the handsomest gondolier plying be neath the Bridge of Sighs. At length, this evening, her father, Giannet tini, so far lorgot himself as to strike his daugh ter with some violence, and she, with a far more culpable neglect of her duty, fled from her home, and, as we have seen, was arrested on the verge of suicide. The person who had saved her led her gently to her home, and, having given her up to her father, seated himself in an obscure corner ot the hostelry. Giannettini received his child with rude re proaches; and, bidding her return to her own apartments, he cast a suspicious .glance at the person who had brought her home, whose stout, manly figure and firm countenance, however, deterred the innkeeper from addressing him in a hostile manner. As Maria turned to depart a young gondolier appeared at the door, aud furtively approaching her, said: “Dearest! dearest!” Giannettini rushed forward, shouting: “ Out of this I Ont of my house, beggar !” “Certainly; you are rich,” replied the young man; “but what hinders that I should not be come so, too? A stout arm, a brave heart, an honest soul, will, with the help ot heaven, do much.” “ A lover’s dream.” The man in the corner had listened attentively to this dialogue. He arose and touching Barba rigo’s shoulder, said: “ Well spoken, gondolier. Courage brings success, and struggling, conquest. Maria shall bo thy wife.” “ Never cried Giannettini. “Well,” said the unknown, turning disdain fully toward him, “if this youth could lay down 600 pistoles, would you ob,ect to the marriage?” So saying, he drew from his pocket a piece of parchment nnd a crayon, and turning to a table, began rapidly to sketch a man’s hand. It was represented open, impatient, with a hollowed palm, as it expecting a ahower of gold pieces. It had, so to speak, an avaricious expression, and one of the fingers was circled with a mas sive ring. “ ’Tis my hand !” cried Giannettini. “And your history,” said the artist. Giving the sketch to Antonio, the author de sired him to carry it to Pietro Benvolo, librarian at the Palace of St. Mark, and demand in ex change for it 600 pistoles. “ Six hundred fools’ heads I” cried the inn keeper. “ I would not give a zecchiu for it.” An hour passed, then hasty, joyous steps were he ird, aud Antonio appeared, bearing in his hand .a bag and a latter. The bag contained 600 pistoles, and the letter was addressed to the artist and prayed him to honor the librarian with a visit. “Take these coins and weigh them,” said the unknown, as he threw the bag toward Giannettini. Antonio Barbarigo stood before his benefactor, pale and trembling with joy. “ One favor more,” he said, “ who arc you ?” “Men call mo Michael Angelo !” As to the crayon sketch ot the miser’s hand, it was taken from Italy by a soldier in Napo leon’s army and placed in the Louvre. During the invasion of 1814 it was unfortunately lost, and, so tar as can be ascertained, has never been recovered. The story of its production still lingers among the traditions of Venice. HUMOR OF THE HOUR. BYTHE DETROIT FREE PRESS FIEND. THE OTHER ONE. “So you have got a stop-mother ?” she said to a little girl ol 7. “ Yes.” “ Well, I feel sorry for you.” “ Oh, you needn’t do that,” replied the little one. “ Please feel sorry lor pa I” A KANSAS SQUATTER. Traveler—” What kind of corn did you raise last soason ?” \ Farmer —“ I raised ‘ Mammoth White’ mostly, but my neighbor down hero raised some ‘ Bloody Butcher’ and some ‘ Ninety-day’ corn.” Traveler—“ I meant, how much did you get offau acre?' Farmer—“ Got all that growed on the acre.. Gee up, there, Jack.” A VERY PARTICULAR SIGHT. “Bub, are there any partiouler eights in De troit?’ he asked, as he was getting his boots blacked. “ You bet I” “ What are they ?” “ Well, there's one of the best-looking girls in an office over here you ever set eyes on, and she flirts with mo through the window. Come around and see her when I git t’other boot done —no extra charge.” HE WAS SKUSED. “This is the sixth time you have inquired for George Smith this morning,” said the clerk at the post-office delivery to a young colored boy, “ An’ dar hain’t no letters ?” “No. Who is George Smith?” “He’s a cull’d gom’lan, ma’am, an’ dar’s a purleeceman huntin’ fur him, an’ his wife am watchin’ ober on de co’ner, an’ about sixteen tellers who have lent him money am tryln’ to git in de back way ob do shop to lick him. ’Skuae his anxiety to git a letter, ma’am. He’s ’a pectin’ one wid a ferry ticket in it" A PERSONAL MATTER. “Ought we to annex Canada?" inquired a Detroiter of a stranger in one of our hotels yesterday. “ No, 1 hardly think we should. Still my op position to it may be a personal matter.” “ You not interested in property there, are you ?” “ Well, no, But you see I have a son who used to be cashier ot a bank in Ohio, and, and .’’ “ Ah, yes, certainly. Of course, under the circumstances, you would be rather prejudiced. Good-day.” VERY LIBERAL. “ What repairs will you make it I take the house?” she asked alter looking it all over. “ Why, ma’am, I’ll be very liberal.” “ But what will you do?” “ Well, I’ll see that those two panes ot glass are put in, fix this front stop, aud .” I “ About the painting?” | “ I’ll promise to look for a paintar and ask him how much he'll take to go over the house one coat, and if he’s a responsible party, and his figure is reasonable, and the weather bolds good for painting, why, I’ll . Say, suppose I put in three new window lights and l,et the painting go?" AN OLD ROW. A boy about nine years old sat on a door-step on Clinton street yesterday, and a patrolman who beard a great noise up stairs in the house inquired of him: Isn’t that a row going on up stairs ?” <C Vpq ’* "Who is it?" “Dad and ma’am.” “ Why didn’t you tell me they were fight ing ?” “ Well, they begun early yesterday morning, and the thing has gpt so old that I thought you would yoll • chestnuts I’ at me if I said any thing.” PEACH TREE CREEK. GEN. KILPATRICK’S RAID BEHIND GEN. HOOD AT ATLANTA. (M-om the Indianapolis Hews.) General Hood made a desperate attempt on the lines of General Sherman on Peach Tree creek, on the 2ist of July, 1864, but was unsuc cessful. On the 27th be gathered a strong force on his left, on the west side ot the city, and a similar fight was very imminent. General Hume’s brigade of Wheeler’s cavalry, composed of the First, Second and Fifth Tennessee regi ments, and Major James Aiken’s battalion wore dismounted and formed on the left of the infan try, and, to our disgust, we had to begin to dig dirt and throw up breast-works, like the regu lar infantry. Just as things were getting ex ceedingly uncomfortable about noon of that day, we were ordered back to our horses. The movement was so sudden that it mystified us, but we were nevertheless glad to get to our horses again. A cavalryman always feels better when mounted, or at least with his horses. We were ordered to mount and moved rapidly south, and the further we went the better w*e felt, as it carried us further from the infantry and into service better adapted to our training and inclination. It was about noon when we left the infantry line. We marched until nearly stopped to feed. Ud tc this Time the object of our movement was all conjecture with us, but it now began to be rumored that Gen eral Kilpatrick was on a raid to the Atlanta k Macon railroad, which was Hood’s only reliable line to his base of supplies. After feeding wo mounted again and pushed rapidly toward Lovejoy Station, which is forty miles south of Atlanta. We marched until a late hour and wont into camp at daylight Js T sxt day. about noon, we arrived at Lovejoy Station, and came up with General Kilpatrick’s command. We found them tearing up ths rail road track and destroying the iron and ties. We commenced an attack on them and they retreated oast. We followed them up, skirmish ing with them for three miles out from the station, when we ran into Armstrong’s brigade of our own array. General Kilpatrick had dis appeared, and where he had gone was the mys tery. Alter beating ou each side of the road for some time we found that Kilpatrick had loft the road in the woods and gone south. He found that he was running into Armstrong on the and we were hot after him from be hind, and to gain time he very adroitly left the road at a place where we could not detect his tracks, without a close hunt for them, and slip ped quietly out to the south side ot the road. When his track was found we started in active pursuit, but by the strategy he had gained an hour’s start. After going south a short distance he turned west and recrossed the railroad two miles south of Lovejoy’s Station, and moved briskly toward Newnan, Ga. The hour’s start gave him a good chance to get out of the coun try. We all felt this and General Wheeler pushed us forward as fast as possible. At nightfall we came up with his rear-guard, charged it and captured a few prisoners. Our horses being exhausted we were compelled to stop and feed, and take a few hours’ rest. Mounting again about midnight we began the most dangerous of all operations, which is to follow the track of an enemy in the night. We moved cautiously forward the remainder of the night. Next morning, at daylight, we came up with his rear guard again. General Hume directed Major Aiken, ot the Ninth Tennessee, battalion to move through some timber and cut the rearguard off. The movement was prompt ly executed, and as Major Aiken charged on their rear, my regiment, the First Tennessee cavalry, charged on the main road. We cap tured the whole force, some two hundred mon, and only had one ot our men wounded. The pursuit now became close and active. We charged several small rear guards during the morning and captured some prisoners. About noon we arrived at the town of’Newnan, Georgia. Gen. Roddy’s command was on a train at the depot, on their way from North Alabama to At lanta. His command was fifteen hundred strong. Gen. Kilpatrick finding th s command in the town, promptly turned south, as at Lovejoy Station. Leaving the road in the woods and in such a manner that we did not see his tracks, we pushed forward to find the town occupied by Roddy, whose men could not tell us which way Kilpatrick had gone. Wo soon found, however, that ho had moved south by the railroad track. Tho dirt road runs south from Newnan, parallel with the railroad, and about one mile west of it. My brigade was ordered down the dirt road ata brisk trot, and the writer of this and one other man were the advance videttes. We were now between Kilpatrick and the river. When seven miles down the road at Bohanan’s farm we heard a sudden rattle of arms in the woods, a few hundred yards behind us. Six miles out Kilpatrick had turned sharp toward the Chattahoochie river, and ran into the offi cers’ extra horses and servants, in rear o r Hume’s brigade, and of all the confusion one ever saw. the condition of those darkies was the worst. Gen. Hume wheeled about and charged back on Kilpatrick, and Gen. Sul. Ross, with his Texas brigade, the Third, Sixth and Ninth Texas regiments, charged them from the other side. About five hundred made it through . between the two brigades; Gens. Hume and Rosa cut the remainder off, and after a rough and tumble hand to hand fight forced them back to the rail road. General Kilpatrick was now in a desperate strait. We had a much larger force, and felt sure we would capture him. On the south side of the Bohanan farm, in the woods, was a deep, rugged creek, with a wooden bridge across it on the dirt road. This bridge now became Kil patrick’s only means ot escape from his peril ous position, unless he took the back track. My regiment was ordered to this bridge and in structed to hold it. In an hour General Wheeler had his com mand well up in line, and, strange to say, com mitted the folly of withdrawing my regiment from the bridge and forming it on bis extreme right, preparing for a general charge with his whole force. General Kilpatrick discovered that the bridge was uncovered, and now was his opportunity. We soon found that he was escaping across the bridge, and my regiment was ordered to charge to the bridge and cut him off. We were quickly dismounted, so as to get through the timber more readily, and went at them with a will. We cut off seven hundred men, who returned again to the railroad and surrendered to General Wheeler. The writer of this seized the bridle of one ot Kilpat rick’s men, who was riding a mule that he had captured from some farmer, and giving it a strong, sudden jerk, he threw the mule on its haunches; this threw the rider to the ground, who was promptly made a prisoner. General Kilpatrick and Colonel Brownlow—a son of the noted Wm. G. Brownlow, ot Knoxville, Tenn.— escaped across the bridge. The Second and Fifth Tennessee cavalry, commanded by Colonel Ashby and Colonel Mc- Kenzie, were'very keen to capture Colonel Brownlow, and wefflT deeply chagrined at his escape. We had captured altogether about one thousand of General Kilpatrick’s men, with their horses and accoutrements. From Bohanan’s farm it was about seven miles to the Chattahoochie river, and it now be ing night, and our horses being completely ex hausted by hard marching, it was impossible to overtake them again be ore they crossed the river. Thus ended an active raid, and although General Kilpatrick did not accomplish the ob ject of his raid, yet his ability as a cavalry offi cer was well displayed. He was in a strange country and with the advantage we had of him, if he had been less determined we would cer tainly have captured his whole command. This was not to be, however, as he was destined to play an active part in Sherman’s march to the sea. The two generals, Kilpatrick and Wheeler, were constantly in contact for the next few months and had many a hard contest in the pine woods of Georgia and the rice fields of South Carolina, as Sherman forced his way and deso lated the country. THEgPENSIONg BUILDING. ITS GREAT SEATING CAPACITY. (From the Washington Star.) The interior of the great hall of the Pension Building will soon be finished. The immense stretch ot wall has nearly all been plastered, and some idea can be formed of what the com pleted hall will look like. Whatever difference of opinion there may be as to the merits of the outside of the building, it will no doubt be generally admitted that this hall is a grand room. In point of size, it is larger, with one ex ception, than any audience room in this coun try, and in point of capacity stands about fourth in ths list ot the large interiors of the world. The great Mormon Tabernacle in Salt Lake City is said to have the largest capacity of any build ing in this country. It will seat about 15,000 people. General Meigs, the architect of the Pension Building, says that the hall in the Pen sion Building and the galleries surrounding it have a seating capacity of 11,307 men. The hall itself is 316 feet long and 116 feet wide, while it has two tiers of galleries extending all around it which are twelve feet in width. A third gal lery, which encircles the hall, has a width of five fest. General Meigs says that he has esti mated that 30,000 people can find standing-room in thia great suace. St. Peter’s Church, Home, which is the largest structure in the world, will, in the same way, hold 54,000, while the Milan Cathedral will accommodate 37,000; St. Paul’s, Rome, 32,000, and St. Paul’s, London, 25,000. General Meigs says ho has no doubt that the principal portion ot the inauguration exercises will in the future be held in this hall, as well as public funerals and other exercises which at j tract large gatherings of the people. A JAMMED MAN. BY M. QUAD. You have soon people who seemed to ache all over to make some one unhappy? Just such an old curmudgeon was on tho train the other day when It stopped at St. Thomae, and a bridal couple entered our car. Wo all knew it was a bridal couple, because there were friends down to aee ’em off, and the bride and groom stood there and received the congratulations for four or five minutes. The bride looked a bit older than the groom, and the minute tho old cur mudgeon noticed this he slid over and planked himself in the seat ahead ot them, and after a minute or two turned and said< “Beg pardon, but can you tell me who’e fu neral that was back there?’* “ Why, there was no funeral!” exclaimed the bride, in answer. “Oh ! I thought there was,” be said, in a dry, sarcastic way, and he pretended to read hie paper for three or four minutes before turning again with; “ Are you taking your son to the seashore, ma am ?” “ No, sir. This is my husband 1” “Oh, it is? I’d never have suspected it I’* Thon ho went on for a quarter of a hour, tell ing about a farm he owned in Canada, and then suddenly inquired: “ Young man, I’d like to have you and your aunt go and see tho farm and make me an offer for it.” The bridal couple turned white and red and let go of hands for a moment, while tho old curmudgeon changed the sub.eot and began to talk about Niagara Falls. “Ever there?” he asked. Both shook their heads. “ I’d advise you to stop off if you have time. It’s a grand sight. I suppose, though, you want to arrive at Buffalo at the same time with the body. What did he die of, ma’am ?” *• I—-I don’t understand you,” she stammered in a painful way. “Oh! beg pardon; I somehow got it into my head that you had been to a funeral, of wore going to one, or some such thing.” He then related the particulars of a smash-up on the road in which he had an arm broken and his wife was killed, and added: “The case is in court yet, but I’ve lost ray marriage certificate* aq(| caif t prove flbe was my wire, ana uou’t Oxpeot to get any damages. I think I understood you to say, ma’am, that you had been married fourteen years ?” ‘ r Oh, no—no, sir 1” “ pardon; but perhaps it is only nine or ten. What I was going to say was that you ought to sacredly preserve the certificate. I suppose you have it with you ?” Bride and groom looked at each other in con sternation. The document hadn’t been thought of in their hurry and happiness. “Was reading of a case the other day,” placidly continued the old wretch, “ where a hotel-keeper bad a couple sent to prison for two years because they could not show a marriage certificate.” The bride turned so red that it seemed as it she would suffocate, and the groom so white that his oars looked like new blotting-pads. That was the last straw. Five or six of us had been holding an indignation meeting a few seats back, and our delegate, who had whipped hia seventh man in the prize-ring, now went for ward and whispered in the old curmudgeon's left ear: “Say, mister man, you let that couple alone, or I’ll break your neck ! This thing has been carried far enough.’” *• Certainly—certainly,’’said old meanness, as be got up. “ Excuse me, ma'am - and you, bub —and if you should have any trouble with the corpse in Buffalo, don’t fail——” The delegate choked him off there and took him to the last soat in the car and jammed him down and warned him to stay jammed, and such looks of relief as stole over the faces of that bridal couplo 1 never expect to see again on earth. WHAT IT COSTS TO SMOKE. HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS SPENT FOR CIGARS EVERY YEAR. (From the American Grocer.) Last year the losses by reported fires is tho United States reached a total ot $120,000,000, or an average monthly loss of $10,000,000. This is regarded as an enormous waste and is largely due to incendiarism and carelessness. How to reduce the amount so lost is a matter ot con stant study. Legislatures, local govrnments, insurance companies make regulations and exercise the greatest care to prevent fires. And yet the loss they occasion is $60,000,000 per annum less than the amount paid by consumers for cigars, and $86,500,000 less than the total cost ot tobacco consumed in smoke. Last year tax was paid upon 3,510,898,488 cigars. The average smoker is content with a cigar worth S3O per 1,003, or one that retails at five cents. On that basis there annually goes up in smoke $180,000,000, or $15,000,000 every month, or $500,000 every day. In addition, boys waste on cigarettes $6,500,000, and those who prefer a'pipe, a further sum of $20,000,000. How many smoke ? If we deduct from ths total population as non-smokers ail children under fifteen, constituting forty per cent, of the total population of 60,000,000, it leaves 36,000,- 000, of whom one-half are iomales; deducting these gives a male population, above the ago ot fifteen, of 18,000,000. it six out of every tea males above the age of fifteen smoke, it means that 10,800,000 persons consume 3,510,898,488 cigars, or an average per smoker of 325 cigars per annum. Thia is less than one cigar per day. The average smoker, however, is not apt to be contented with a daily allowance ot ona cigar, demanding at least two. If the latter basis is the nearer correct, the army of cigar smokers would be 4,809,449, being eight per cent, ot the total population above the age of fifteen. Whatever the number of smokers, it is a moderate estimate to place the cost of smoking to the people ot the United States at $206,500,000. if the cost of chewing tobacco is added the total expenditure for tobacco reaches $256,300,000; that is a sumthat represents a per capita tax of $3.44 per annum. If the number of smokers is 4,809,449, the average expense of smoking is $42.09 each per annum; 11 the number is 7,000,- 000, the cost is $28.64 per individual; if 10,800,- 000, it falls to $19.12, a sum sufficient to afford one five-cent cigar daily and leave a balance of eighty-seven cents for extras. What relation the expenditure for the smok ing habit bears to the consumption ot a few other articles more or less of a luxury is seen by the following exhibit, the figures showing the estimated cost to the consumer, averaging coffee at twenty cents per pound, tea at fifty cents, cocoa and chocolate at torty cents, sugar at six cents : Liquor, — $700,000,000. Tobacco, — $256,500,000. Sugar, —— $187,000,000. Coffee, tea, —— c0e0a.... $130,000,000. Schools, $110,000,000. Sugar is the only article that is universally used, and is properly regarded a staple and necessary article of diet. About fifty-two pounds per capita are used at a cost of $3.12. Alcoholic and malt liquors, tobacco, coffee, tea, chocolate are non-essentials, or articles con sumed for the more gratification of the appetite. For that pleasure a portion of tho community pays $1,086,000,000 annually. Not to exceed, one-fourth of the total population habitually uses alcoholic or malt beverages, nor more than one-sixth tobacco. Steadily do the habits of selt-gratiflcation increase, their growth stimu lated by a higher civilization. The more the masses have the more are the luxuries of lite demanded. Emebson’3 Own Daughter. — Ellen Emerson, daughter ot Ralph Waldo Emerson, is as independent in her movements as her father was in thought. She was out walking the other day, when it began to rain heavily. Along came a rustic horse dragging a swill cart, with a conventional country boy ou tho rough plank that served for the driver’s seat. Miss Emer son calmly stopped the cart and climbed up to a place on the plank beside the driver and rode home as fast as the boy could make the animal go. The conventional part of Concord, and that is the greater part, looked outoi misty windows in horror. But the proper people there kava long since grown accustomed to a more pecu liar sight than the daughter of the philosopher on a swill cart. Mies Emerson has a donkey, tho gift of a friend, upon which she lavishes considerable affection. She has horses and car riages, but whenever it suits her fancy she has thb donkey saddled and brought to the door. There she mounts him and rides unreservedly about town. She is so tall and the donkey so short that she has to hold up her feet to pre vent them from dragging on the ground. Vis itors to Concord who have not been familiar with donkey-riding in Europe, where the habit is comparatively common, find the sight enter taining. Give neither counsel nor salt till you are asked for it. Diseases' with the CUTicUqx\ Remedies; Torturing, disfiguring, itching, scai.Y and pimply diseases of the ekin. scalp, and blood with 1oh« of hair, from infancy to old age, are cured by tho Cuticura Remedies. Cuticuri Resolvent, the New Blood Purifier, cleanses the blood and perspiration of disease-sustaining ele ments, and thus removes the cctuse. Cuticura, tho great Skin Cure, instantly allays itching and Inflammation, clears the skin and scalp of crusts, scales and sores, and restores the hair. Cuticura Soap, an exquisite Skin Beautifler, is indis pensable in treating skin diseases, baby humors, skin blemishes, chapped and oily skin. Cuticura Remedies are the great skin beautifiers. Sold everywhere. Price, Cuticura, 59c. ; Soap, 25c, ; Resolvent, sl. Prepared by the Potter Drug anb Chemical Co., Boston, Mass. Send for “ How to Cure Skin Disease,.” TINTED w.ith the loveliest delicacy is the skin bathei UN with CUTiGUiiA. Medicated twtf.