The Cardigan Observer and General Advertiser for the Counties of Cardigan Carmarthen and Pembroke

TO MOTHERS. Mother! watch the little feet Climbing o'er the garden wall, Bounding through the buay street, Banging cellar, shed, and hall. ^ever count the moments lost, Never mind the time it cost, Little feet will go astray, Gruide them, mother, while you may. Mother! watch the little hand picking berries by the way, Making houses in the sand, Tossing up the fragrant hay; iVevpr v. are the question ask, m to me this heavy task ?" These same little hands may prove Messengers of light and lave. Mother! watch the little tongue, Prattling, eloquent, and wild, "hat is said and what is sung, By the happy, joyous child -tell the word while yet unspoken Stop the vow while yet unbroken A his same tongue may yet proclaim ■^essings in the Saviour's name. Mother watch the little heart, Beating soft tnd warm for you, "bolesome lessons now impart j Keep, oh, keep that young heart true. Bradicaring every weed, Sowing good and precious seed, Harvest rich you then may see, Ripening for Eternity.

THB sTHANGE CLAIMANT; OR, TWICE WED. CHAPTER X. t WOOED AND WON. Xs^? is a wonderful transformer—mighty in power. tiujjj1" lta influence the proud man ia humble, the becomes strong he who falters habitually in grows eloquent, and the one who has prided maybe, on his acquirements, becomes sud- ^J nuite. Even the fiercest natureo can be at times f0t • to singular gentleness, which is otherwise most to their tempers. Car unscruplous wrecker—the man who, in a long lawleg8 crime, had become familiar with pi variety of hardship, cruelty, and danger— y0n his cause with all the warmth and energy of a cio an^ true-hearted lover, approaching the pre- iL8 object of his first pure attachment. tVi Wa3 no hyProcite *n this. Men are not wholly scarcely the very worst are without some atom goOd in their nature, and it ia a blessed consolation „ Reflect how hard it seems to drive entirely from re human heart the love of divine Nature and her teøh, pure truths. Saul Meghorn felt all he uttered in that impas- » •led stream of fervid eloquence he poured forth, by the side of the miserable widow, who, her u 1 d quietly put to rest, had bound up the wounded *ef ,^er preserver; her kind nature could not Wif0 muc^ 8UCb a moment. Alas she saw, Pain not to be told, that her outburst of grati- « Qe» her tearful exclamation, had finally unlocked emotions of the man, and doomed her to r what she had with dread so long avoided. And hear me, Nelly," he went on, as she, with srted face and streaming eyes, in vain tried to draw jj, ay the hand he held. Though I love you as my felt* ^ough, from the moment I first beheld you, I that you had the power to make me a better man, turn me from the careless life I have hitherto led >o though I would hazard life and soul to do 11 service—believe me, it is not all selfishness—not v for my own happiness, I speak. Dear girl, heve me, your happiness and comfort shall be my thought; your life shall be one scene of child shall be dear to me as yourself siaothing that money can purchase or love procure tin wanting. Ah dear Nelly, do but hear me not hate me for loving you." te She turned her head slowly, and in a broken voice Phed- Bate you I hate no one. God knows I am but Poor broken, sinful woman. Oh Saul Meghorn! o not talk so. You have been a friend you have f?*Ved U9 as none of the rest couid, though they had e will good to do it. You have just saved my ^arling child's life for the love of God, don't talk of bating; but—but .She trembled, broke down in her speech, and sank uack upon the settle behind her. He rose slowly, still holding her hand, and drew Closer to her side. "Nelly, you are alone you lAad a life of hardship Dd grief it cannot last, dear—the end will be your Iness, and perhaps worse. Think of her—what will become of her ? He pointed in the direction of the bed, where the Boft breathing of the little sleeper made itself heard. "For her sake, dearest girl—for her sake, let me 6 all tayou both. Nelly, as I said, forget the old titnes, if you dislike to think of them; let me be only t Wend you know, since you are alone in the world; 'Grget How can I ever forget ? Oh! Meghorn!" she in- tetru.pted; how can I forget what drove him from Ar'n't the words fixed in my brain ?—cut on l:t1y heart they might be. Night and day, night and j*y« I say them to myself, over and over again. ^Ven't I laid awake, through such weary haurs, "nd thought, and thought, until they have risen like of the o'ark before me—'Nelly, I know your Wickedness and deceit'; and my head has burnt and l:t1y lips have dried up, and I've risen and paced to and fro, te and fro, and cried, 'Oh, if I had not! oh, 1f I had net My God, forget, forget! The smuggler's dark visage paled as in a frenzied *°ice she poured forth her agony, and her tear- 8*ollen eyes flashed with the fire of delirium; but he jjever let go the hand she would have wrenched from ^DI, till, exhausted, she dropped her head, and again *1rned away. He paused awhile, then went on in a low but determined tone— Nelly, I have not always been as I am. Time "8.8 when I could have chosen from beautiful and Wealthy women a bride, who would have thought herself honoured, too, by my choice. But of them 1 never felt as of you, that there was a power to Bave me from evil. By the most lovely and most "ought I have again and again seen men tempted to their own ruin, or led into follies that lowered them beneath the contempt of their fellows. I had learned, I thought, experience, and yet I fell into e snare. "By a woman I was betrayed into folly, wrong. "Ud wretchedness, then worse, until there was no faith bar hope—nothing hut despair, and defiance, and ^recklessness. Oh, Nelly! if you knew, if you could Jj^t see what a sudden light was shown me when I first met you! I felt then there was a chance, there "as some hope. I felt born again to belief and happi- ness. I was seized with a loathing for the life I led "nd for your sake, for you, dear, beautiful, good Woman, Iucrificed more than I tell you. I laved Jpu; I believed you loved me. Surely I was not to blame ? tt I don't blame, I don't blame," she said, hastily. X curse my own wicked and vain folly and deceit." T "J0*" one' awee' Nelly, if you knew the misery ■t have suffered, the horrible disappointment and despair that came over all my hopes when you told :tUa-" Hastily she motioned for him to stay the terrible Reminder. She had ceased to strive now; her hand tested passively in his, her tears were flowing quietly 1rith pity. He, of stronger purpose, knew and pur- sued his advantage— I have haunted the place that held you. I have loaded tor this moment; yet I have feared your and respected your grief. Oh! Nelly, hear 11101 la ok on me! Pity a man that you now could Sa.ve, or send him out upon a world where there is Neither hope, nor comfort, nor life without you." And, aga in kneeling at her feet, he ceased, and let Ro, for the first time, the hand of the widow. There was silence for Bome minutes her tears were r'ied, and the old, steadfast look had come npon her *ace again, wbtNn she spoke— Saul Meghorn, 1" tell you my heart and love are In his grave. I shaH <aever, never crre for living *an again. It's the truth—how can I be what you ^tof me?" Nolly, I said it was not for self; let me be your Protector, and friend, and all. I have sufficient to well and ploasantlv on. If' shall tje as you will, or elsewhere. You pitied me just now you y^^nd up the cut and bleeding hands—so you can my heart, that has been aching and wounded ^s many a day. I will never, be sure, ask more than can bestow; nor ask you to forget the past—ex- PJ-1 cian make you happier than it j °he shook her head slowly, still her face turned r°tu him but, ere a minute had passed, she fixed her eyes on his— Saul Meghorn, I am but a sinful and unhappy I tell you truth, I shall never leave off keying and sorrowing for my own dreadful error, an*] ^°r that's gone. But I wronged you, too, Pained yon. you say. God knows, I'd do much taped^k0 am and my child-" her voice fal- "II ,t so deal with me as I with her and you," S Sau 1, in deep and earnest tones. W h PI, It her cold hand voluntarily into his. But 6a^' was again averted—she shuddered, as he caught her to his^breast; and the cheek that met his burning lips touched them like ice. In a toneless whisper, she bade him go now, and promised to see him on the morrow. Exulting, the smuggler strode down the path to Deepgang. He had gained the one desire on which the whole force of his unyielding will had long been bent. Alone, she knelt at the bedside of her sleeping child. It was not to petition for strength, neither was it in prayer, she strove till dawn, but a vague feeling lay heavy at her soul, that, in some sort, she needed forgiveness for the compact she had entered into; that of him whom she had lost she would fain crave pardon —though for what, she could not have said. Heavier her burden-could not be, she had thought twenty-four hours ago. She bad learnt, now, how much weightier it could be made; and death, she felt, could alone release her now. Yet, for pity's sake, and for hers," she repeated to herself, again and again, as she wept over her little Ida, and tried to think only that he had saved her life. So she listened, as the innocent prattled of her ad- venture, and extolled, in childish gratitude, her pre- server, Hund, and his master, an old acquaintance of little Ida, who had many experiences of childish treasures and dainties conveyed in surreptitious mementoes before the cottage door, and which poor Nelly had endeavoured, but in vain, to guard against, instinctively dreading that which had at length come to pass. Both Hund and his master were, however, free of the quiet little home now, and availed themselves of the privilege to the full. The neighbours—nay, the wbole village—wondered and talked some were scandalised, some approved. But it was all one to the widow. She had passed her word, moved by emotions which even she herself would have found a difficulty in explaining, and she would keep it. The times of coquetry and pretty tribulation were past now. Her heart might bleed, but it was uncom- plainingly. The sacrifice would be made without a sigh. She went about the old duties in the old way, only when, at evening, little Ida made the usual re- quest of— Sin', mover, pease—a ittle sonn' Mother can't sing, dear pet; Ida must sing to herself now mother will never sing any more." Even the Boothing hymn of prayerful hope was hushed henceforth, and her sweet voice woke the echoes by its pleasant strains no more. On a dull, autumn day the young wid«w Franklen became S vul Meghorn's wife. A dreary contrast to the first wedding! The wind howled dismally along the shore; the waves came in with a pitiful sobbing not in boisterous shock, nor playful leaping over obstacles, and scattering of diamond spray: grey clouds hung low upon the horizon; and the regular, sharp blows of the workmen employed at the lighthouse on the Point sounded like the nailing down of some coffined giant, for whose obsequies all Nature put on mourning. Oalm, white, passive, the wretched woman passed to the church—not the old, ivy-covered edifice at Bontryst; a newer and more accessible sanctuary had arisen in the land close to Sandcombe and thither, hand in hand with her little girl, Saul led his strangely-won bride. The persistence of passion and tyranny of will which could seek as a wife one who had laid her heart so bare before him, is far from being an isolated case in the history of man. Nothing se blind, nothing so self-sufficient as love. Once the object won—once sole possessor of the being it craves, the rest must follow. So the passion wills it, and incongruity, aversion, or disinclination be overcome. In his innermost heart, we must give Saul credit for believing much of that he said. He had set up the girl as his idol, had woven in with her idea those longings for reform and better life, which still haunted him at times. Besides that, his baulked will and fiery passions craved their recompense. Hence his deter- mined pursuit; hence his triumph, and hence his settled conviction that, once his wife, Nelly would be all he intended, and appreciate the life he designed she should lead. Poor elements out of which to raise the edifice of conjugal bliss! I don't know but the share she brought to the common stock was more valuable. Unquestioning obedience, passive kindness, docility, patience- But, no! these even are net more promising. Pure cold water, it's true, is a necessary and heath- ful ele.nent, but even that works direful mischief mis- applied. The heated cauldron is harmless as it stands, but pour in the same pure, cold element, and the contact —eh! here is an explosion!—shocks and wounds, and sudden death. Full of fierce joy, and ardent love, and proud triumph, Meghorn led home his pale bride to Deep- gang. The house had been put in trim array within, a considerable quantity of new furniture added, and a younger maid hired in place of old Dorcas, who was pensioned off, wisely. Bachelors' housekeepers are scarcely advisable retainers in a married establish- ment. May I sin', mover ? was the request of the child, full of joy at the novelties around her. Not now, dear pet, not now," said the mother, as they crossed hand in hand the threshold of Saul Meg- horn's dwelling. CHAPTER XI. THE CARDS DEALT. I WISH I could assert with truth that no envy mingled with the very decided manifestations of opinion rela- tive to the widow's marriage among her rustic neigh- bours. Good Dame Bullocks certainly formed an excep- tion, as did kind-hearted Meg, her daughter-in-law; though naturally they felt the implied slight to their own relative, As for the dame's daughter Patty, she made no secret of her sentiments; but, with uplifted hands and eyes, wondered what on earth Mrs. Franklen could have seen in that black-browed man, to set him above our Dan; who, if he was short and fair, was as good-hearted a lad as ever stepped in shoe leather. But there it was the money, of course; and perhaps she'd make a better wife this time." Once more the good dame checked her impetuous child "Stay thy tongue, Patty dear, or the'll just be vexed in a bit, I know," said the kind old woman. "None of us sees what's in the heart of his next neighbour. It's the Lord only in His goodness does that. And we ;can't tell, my child, what may have moved in the poor lass to make her take up wi' Saul Meghorn." He wur always for following har at a distance, and eyeing her and the child that I do know," said Meg. Ay,ay, and maybe he d done her a good turn, and the poor thing felt grateful like, and he'll ha' pestered her, maybe." Such a doleful face as she always carried," said Patty, indignantly; though, with the consistency of her sex, Patty had always loudly exclaimed against the tacit rejection of consolation by poor Nelly. II Ay, well! maybe she's done the best for the child that could be," said the dame. God help 'em both! I do hope she'll be happy." She does not look it," said Meg, compassionately; I met her and little Ida down by the Ohine last evening, and I think she looted more worn, and spoke fainter like, than ever." Ay, my lasses, I don't think Nelly married for comfort, poor wench! I mind me too well of that night, and that she's never forgot it I well believe." It's a mighty change for her from that poor place of her's," said Patty; and what a fancy, too, to kefp the cottage shut up down yonder, as you say!" It was what she wished," said Meg; she goes there now and again, when her husband's away, and sits with little Ida at work; and she dusts and cleans it up, all like she used to." It's as if she half believed he wasn't dead," said Patty. "Ay, she can't forget, poor lass; well, well, I wish I could think she wur happy," said Dame Bullocks. There were few joined in the wish, however they may have doubted the fact; for change of fortune too often alienates the symoathy of friends from us; when, Heaven knows, the want for it may be even greatest. The surmise of her kind old acquaintance, one time bridesmaid, was not far from truth. Ere Nelly had been six months married, she had learned that even the bitterness of the sacrifice might be deepened. Lavish in expenditure, warm and eager in his de- monstrations of affection, her impetuous and unprin- cipled lord certainly did his utmost, in his own fashion, to win her to him. He had yielded to her request, that all at the I cottage sbould remain untouched, that she should have the key and use the place occasionally, as we have heard mentioned. During his periodical absences, few and far between, she came hither with her child, and returned, with apparently a mel- ancholy plea&ure, to a few hours' reminiscence of the old time. Here were her bridal bea, her simple clothes, her homely furniture — his gifts, and the chest containing those dreary relics of her ship- wrecked hopes. It was indeed a change, the life she had now en- tered upon. She had few household duties to engage her; the care of little Ida formed her chief employ- ment, with such particular offices as her lord and master (taired at her Wids—pleasant and accept- able, when voluntarily rendered; but, ah me! how hard of performance, -how barren in acceptance, when performed by order. Yet she did her duty truthfully, and to the letter; never gainsayed word or desire of his; never mur- mured at the smallest of his decisions, tyrannical as —even in love—they could be. Little Ida took wonderfully to the huffe man, and would sit on his shoulder, play with his massy beard, or fondle the shaggy head, much as she did with faithful Hund, who was her shadow whenever she strolled out into the Ohine, or down the winding p1\ths of rocky Deepgang. The mother scarcely accepted tbeee demonstrations of the child as might have been expected—letting them do duty, as it were, for her own inveterate indifference—she rather seemed to regard with jealousy the affection of her daughter, though never in any way displayed in pre- ference to herself; and indeed, alas! every day seemed to increase her coldness, her austerity, and the methodical obedience of her avery act, to the will of the man who owned her. Better he could have borne complaint, denial, open rebellion, than this automaton-like resignation presenting so dire a contrast to the girl who had charmed him from himself in earlier times — the Nelly Hartsom ho had wooed, but failed to win. Not slow was he to interpret this perseverance in indifference to aversion. His was not the nature to brook rejection. He could persevere, endure, plan, and await the moment of triumph; but this invete- rate and chilling frost, this fixed immobility, it was not given him to overcome. He lest hope, he gave up endeavour, he slackened in attentions and endearments; but she changed nothing of her sepulchral mood. The man's mighty will was baffled; he was not to be victor even in the victory he had gained. But the birth of a son promised some change in the prospects of the ill-starred couple. Nellie's loving heart yearned to the poor infant, inauspicious as was its existence. She nursed it with all care, and little Ida was in raptures with the strange, new wonder. Saul, if he ever wor- shipped, did so at that tiny shrine. Day and night the huge man looked in upon his offspring—watched it, listened for its voice, found resemblances in its half-formed features to those of the mother; besought her care and attention for it in a manner that must have been touching to any but a heart so prematurely wrung as hers had been. Heaven forgive her, that while even she acted on his request, and answered him meekly, she turned coldly .way, nor by look or word showed sign of that illimitable love which, at such seasons, wells up in the heart of man and woman, to fulfil the highest concep- tion ef earthly bliss. Who knows how hard she found even the mother's duty, or how even its own helpless appeal to her maternal sympathies scarce overcame the terrible, though too natural, results of such a union! For Nature is imperative, though we toe often neglect her signs, or give them other names. If we consulted her requirements more, we should be nearer universal love and peace than we are. But, alas! for all the hopes of the newly-made father. The babe, strong and hearty to all appearance, fell sick suddenly; and, deBpitA all possible care and assistance, died the same day it was but five weeks old. Nelly grieved over the poor little corpse, but she shed no tears. One might have thought the agony of the strong man, so terrible to see, would have moved her; f>ut, no. Little Ida wept more for the pretty, live doll she would insist on singing to, whenever she was per- mitted. As for Saul, his grief was overwhelming, and par- took of the fierce impetuosity of all he did. He refused to credit that the child was dead, and and kept it by him longer than prudence or custom allowed. When it became necessary to part with it, the scene was terrible, and long remembered when subsequent events made recollections of the strange man valuable to the gossips. He absented himself from the house the whole of the day on which the boy's funeral took place, and night was far spent when he returned. His wife was up—she always awaited him. He came in, advanced to the hearth, and sat down facing her, in moody silence, without even removing his hat, or taking the slightest notice of the supper which was spread for him. (7b be continued.)

MINIE; THE MISEK'S DAUGHTER. It had been a year of torment to the miser. There had been a commercial crisis, and he had lest money. He determined to repair his losses, even at a risk, and fitted out another vsssel. But grown more timid and suspicious in money matters than ever, he could find no one to whom he was willing to trust the vessel. One day he brought home a huge mastiff, and com- municated his will to his daughter thus: Minie, I'm going to Smyrna, to see if I can't pick up a little, after all these losses, and I leave you in charge here. Below, in the rock cellar, you'll find an old tea-chest. It's nicely hid away, and it is full of money, or I mean there is a little gold in it. I thought it best to have something past all possibility of loss, for a nest egg, you know. Now, I leave you to take care of it, my girl. You can take out of the little leather purse what money you absolutely need mind, now; only what is absolutely necessary to your wants. You are an honest, true girl, I know, and will live just as if your father's eyes were on you. I would trust my daughter through thick and thin. Besides this, there is deposited in the safe at the bank, all my bonds, and stocks, and securities. Those, of course, you will not meddle with. "Now, I shall be gone a long time, and folks may try to persuade you to think I'm dead; those folks who want to get at my money; some greedy fellow, perhaps, who will hope to marry you, so as to share in the old man's gold. But don't believe them. I shall come back before two years are out, or if I don't, just wait. I may turn up again when I am not expected. Bat at the end of five years, when you are twenty-one, if I haven t come, then you may reckon I'm dead, and open my will. You won't mind living alone, I know. You are used to it, and instead of me, in the long winter evenings, you can talk to your dog, Boatswain, here. He is to be your guardian. Don't mind buying him meat. It will cost a great deal, to be sure; but to starve him would be 4 penny wise, pound foolish,' when there is such a treasure in the cellar to be guarded, and yourself, too, daughter. He is a powerful beast; no man could stand against him. He will be a better protector than your poor old father. Now, Minie, keep close. Let no one come to see you. Never betray the money down below. It is all I have sure, you know; all the rest is but paper. Guard it well. Be a faithful watcher for your trust- ing old father. Haven t I been kind to you ? Haven't I loved you better than any one who ever stepped on this earth ? Then be obedient, and I will come bome to bless you. Don t get acquainted with your neigh- bours. Shun everybody. But you may go to Mr. L.'s and read, as usual. They are a good family. I am not much afraid of them; but. leaat said, soonest mended;' so keep your tongue between your teeth even there. As for the rest, they only want a chance to rob you, so avoid them." Minie, or Wilhelmine, remembered her early ex- perience with the museum, and believed her father. She let his commands take the force of holy writ to her lonely, grieved, and fond heart, and after he sailed, submitted to her still more solitary life with zealous patience. No sooner was it known that the old man was gone, than the pitying villagers began to flock down to the cottage to see Minie, and ask her to their houses, or offer to spend part of each day with her. She heard them with confirmation of all her former suspicions, and she refused every advance scornfully. The ntxt day, when a fresh detachment arrived, they found her door locked, and defended, besides, by the dog, while she sat upon an almost inaccessible cliff, and laughed at them, not loud, nor insultingly, yet they could see her satisfaction. It exasperated them, and she began to be hated on her own account, especially as a few weeks proved that she was even more penurious than her father. She often met with abuse when she entered the village, which she was obliged to do every day, in order to reach the pastor's house, where she faithfully pursued her studies. At the end of the year, when she began to expect her father's return, she might be seen every morning and evening upon the cliff, looking out to sea; and every day upon entering Mr. L.'s library, she sought first for the newspaper. She saw news there at last; news that fell upon the aching suspense of her heart, like the sentence upen a criminal's. The Sea Foam, owner Peter 0., cast away on the coast of Oandia, and all on board lost." The good pastor talked to her of consolation and resignation; but he found, to his surprise, that although upon the first shock ef the news she had felt the grief of orphanhood, yet upon thinking of it she was sure her father was alive. She told his last words to Mr. L., and, contrary to his advice, persisted in her determination to live as usual, for at least five years from the time of his departure, expecting his return, and obeying his commands. She therefore went home, and kept faithful watch over the charge left to her. And if she could not sleep at night for thinking over the horrors of her father's possible death, she got up, and sat leaning her head upon "Bosen," and finding consolation in his rough sympathy. Of course her strange conduct was much talked of, and surmises were made as to why her father had so strictly enjoined upo-> her this solitary life in the cottage. It began to be whispered that he had hidden treasure there. This suspicion was confirmed by her caution about the bouse. It was observed that she never took her dog to the village with her, but left him on guard at home. It was a primitive plac^, and such a thing as house-breaking had never been known there, so that few people imagined the lonely girl to be in any danger from robbers. She herself was the only one who thought such a thing probablr. Therefor*, not much caution was used in the village in speaking of old Peter's treasure, and it was ooce fully discussed at the tavern, within hearing of a travelling tinker or pedlar, who, however, drove to distant parts without seeming to entertain any evil designs. But be was thinking the matter over more than an honest man would imagine worth while, and he had promised to return with a new supply of tin utensils at the end of three weeks. Meanwhile there was another arrival in the village. It was the nephew of Mr. L, who had come to study with his uncle before entering college. He was in his twenty-first year, of a noble and thoughtful mind, and a face doing justice to his fine nature. The morning after his arrival, be was reading in the library, when his attention was attracted by a shout- ing in the street, and looking out, he saw a tall, slender girl, very poorly clad, walking in proud quiet- ness, with a crowd of school children behind her, taunting her, and abusing her with every vile word. Her face was pale, and her eyes fixed upon the ground, but her head was not one whit lowered. Frank L. concluded that she was insane, since that affliction is the one most derided by children, and seeing her approach the door, he hastened to open it and give her shelter. After she had entered, he stopped out into the street to threaten the boys with punish- ment, and to shame them into more manly conduct. They dispersed in confusion of face. When he re-entered the library, the strange young girl sat in one corner, a huge volume before her, her elbows on the table, and her bead on her hands but she was not studying. She was trying to restrain her tears, and ignore his presence, with her pale cheek flushed, her eyes wide open, and her lips tight pressed to prevent quivering. Seeing that she wished not to be spoken to, he left the room, but returned imme- diately for his book. He found her with her he^d buried in her arms, sobbing so violently that she did not hear him enter. He sought Mrs. L. to inform her of the strange gueet; and Mrs. L. told him the girl's whole history, awaking for her a deeper interest and admiration than even her proud, wil* beauty had inspired. He longed to be of some service to the forlorn girl, but could only see her safely home, by following at a respectful distance, she having declined his attendance when it was proposed by Mrs. L. Frank never permitted her again, during his stay, to pass unprotected through the town. He watched her coming and her going, and she knew to whom she owed the freedom from annoyance which she now enjoyed, though she never thanked him. But not the less did she feel and acknowledge, in her poor, for- saken heart, a sense of protection and dependence that made life a thousand times sweeter. Civility was so I rare in her experience, that it inspired her with fervent gratitude. About two weeks after his arrival, Frank heard the I neighbours talking of the miser's daughter, on the I village green, and observed that the pedlar, who was listening with furtive eagerness to the gossip which he I carefully provoked, seemed to want to know a great deal about the situation, &c., of the house. His sus- picions were aroused, and he kept his eye on the man. When the pedlar took his departure, Frank went quickly to the neighbourhood of Minie's cottage, and concealed himself among the rocks. It was not long before he heard the tinman's cry, and Minie came out to exchange old tin and rags for new utensils. Bosen followed her. The man insisted upon carrying her purchases into the house, for the purpose of seeing the faateniagf, probably. Having observed narrowly the doors and windows, he drove off. As Minie then began to work in her garden, Frank could not leave his hiding place without attracting her attention, and afraid of being thought imperti- nent, he remained quiet. It was not long before he I heard stealthy footsteps and a panting breath near him. He was well concealed, and the tinman took a place ot espial quite close by. ".Hem," he muttered, I fancied the house leaned against a rock. It's got a stone cellar, now. There's 'I' that confounded dog!" After another survey, he began to descend, and tlune s notice was caught. She looked keenly at the pedlar. Aha," he muttered again. You'd better have been IPSS curious." He swung himself carelessly down, as If he had only climbed the rocks to looi at the sea, and returned to his quarters at the Red Lion. (To be continued.)

AN invalid Frenohman who hired a horse every morning tarly from a livery-stable, particularly desired the ostler, after having breakfasted himself well, te see that the horse had nothing to eat before going out. Because,he remarked, "monsieur Ie docteur he say I mus' tak' ze gentle exercise en ee empty stomach." TRAINED BEES.—Mr. Cotton, a clergyman, the eon lo! a late Governor of the Bank of England, took bees, in the firsi place, out to Australia, and afterwards to the islands of the South Pacific. His behaviour to his bees was the wonder of all who were in the ships with him. He would call them by certain sounds, and they came te him, covered him as he lay, and he would actually handle and fondle them in such a fashion as would hare been to another very dangerous. Then, when he wished to relieve himself of them, he gathered them together as one would a mass of loose worsted into a ball, took the mass near to the hive and at a given sound or signal, they new apart and retire i to their proper home.—Thoreau: his lAfe au Aim8,! by H. A. Page. STOARES OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN. — Lincoln particularly liked a joke at the expense of the dignity of some high civil or military official. One day, not long before his second inauguration, he asked me if I bad heard about Stanton's meeting a picket on Broad Blver, South Oarolina, and then told this story: ¡' "General Foster, then at Port Royal, escorted the secretary up the river, taking a quartermasters's tug. Reaching the outer lines on the river, a picket roared from the bank,' Who have you got on board that tug ?' The severe and dignified answer was.. The Secretary of War and Major General Foster.' Instantly the picket roared back, We've got major-generals enough up here—why don't you bring us up some hard-tack ?'" The story tickled Lincoln mightily, and he told it until it was replaced by a new one. Anything that savoured of the wit and humour of the soldiers was especially welcome to Lincoln. His fondness for good stories is a well-accepted tradition, .but any incident that showed that "the boys" were' mirthful and joUy in all their privations seemed to commend itself to him. He used to say that the grim grotesqueness and extravagance of American humour were its most striking characteristics. There was a story of a soldier in the army of the Potomac, carried to the rear of battle with both: legs shot off, who, eyeing a pie-woman hovering i about, asked, Say, old lady, are them pice sewed or pegged ?" And there was another one of a soldier at the battle of Ohancellorsville, whose regiment, wait- ing to be called into the fight, was taking coffee. The hero of the story put to his lips a crockery mug which he had carried with infinite care through several; campaigns. A stray bullet, just missing the coffee- drinker's head, dashed the mug into fragments and left only its handle en his nnger. Turning his head in that direction, the soldier angrily: growled, "Johnny, you can't do that again!" Lin- coln, relating these two stories together, said, "It seems as if neither death nor danger could quench the grim humour of the American soldier." Lincoln's shrewdness is well known sometimes it almost seemed like cunning. But with all of this there was a certain element of simplicity in his character which was child* like. Unless very much pre-occupied, he never heard any reference to anything that he did not under- stand without asking for further information. "What do you suppose makes that tree grow that way ?" he would ask, and he was not satisfied until he had found out. Or he would take one of his boys toys to pieces, find out how it was made, and put it together again. "Tad," as his youngest boy was called, on more than one occasion had cause to bewail loudly his father's curiosity. One day we were looking at a photograph of the President, taken in a sitting position, with the legs crossed. Lincoln's attention was attrac- ted to the foot of the leg which was crossed over the other, and he said, If Now, I can understand why that foot should be so enormous. It's a big foot, anyway, and it is near the focus of the instrument. But why is the outline of it so indistinct and blurred ? I am confident I did not move it." I studied it for a moment, and told him that probably the throb- bing of the large arteries inside of the bend of the knee caused an almost imperceptible motion. The President, very much interested in the discovery, as he1 called it, immediately took the position of the figure in the picture, and, narrowly watching his foot, ex- claimed, "That's it! that's it! Now, that's very curious, isn't it." Similarly, when somebody told him of the somewhat fantastic derivation of a word, he said," Now, that is very queer, and I shall never say capricious again without thinking of the skipping of a ,.t.&ribeÿ, Monthly.

I LADIES' COLUMN. THE FASHIONS; The modee for the beginning of the intermediate season are rich in novelties, and differ in some re- spects very materially from those still existing, and to which we have for some time been accustomed. The sombre colours of winter materials are giving place to some slight extent to the curious mixtures and con- trasts found in Scotch plaid there are plaid patterns in dress fabrics of all kinds, in stockings, toques, &c., the eccentricity and variety in colours- appear- ing more marked when contrasted with the purity and simplicity ofouthne displayed in robee made of one or other of these tissues, many of which are in blue and red chequers, with threads of deep red or old gold colour. These tartan costumes consist of an untrained skirt and long polonaise, or of a Princess robe, with long cor- sage front, draped along with the tablier in the side seams, the trimming, simple pleated ruches, bordered with pipings of faille, assorted to the brightest colour of the tartan. In cutting a robe of one or other of these chequered fabrics, there should be aa few seams as possible, one in the middle of the back and one under each arm being sufficient. It may be as well also to add that as chequers give an ap- appearance of increased size, those who aim at the opposite effect will do well to avoid this fashion. Plaid stockings are at present reserved for children, and when worn, the costume must to some extent or in some particular harmonise with them; for instance, if the dress is not itself of plaid pattern, a bow of ribbon or sash is worn matching to the stockings as nearly as possible. Dresses of cloth at present affect a pecu- liarity of cut somewhat resembling that of a riding habit. The favourite model consists of a trained skirt, pleated at the back; the front and sides are quite plain at the upper part, whilst towards the lower edge they are draped in several folds, fastened in the centre under a bow of faille. The corsage has cuirasse fronts, with Directoirerevers, and postillion basque; small nickel silver buttona fasten the frout, and ornament the basque and the sleeves, which are quite plain. The lower edge of the skirt is finished with several rows of stitching. Another cloth dress is of the Moyen age style, being made in Princess form, with interlacing cords; when this is made with an open square at the neck, and an aumoniere sus- pended from the waist with cord and tassels, it is similar to the dress of Marguerite in Faust." While on the subject of cloth dresses we may mention a few alterations in the form of riding habits. One is that the skirt is made rather more closely fitting to the figure than formerly, and the fulness put into a few close flat pleats at the back. The corsage has a short basque all round, ending in a flat postillion basque at the back the neck has a straight collar, and the sleeves are made quite tight to the arm. Tbe trousers are of the same material as the habit, and are made long. The favourite colours for habits are very dark navy blue, bottle green, or black. The hat is still the black beaver, with short net veil, no eccentricities of fancy or displays of individual taste being admissible in this sombre but graceful and becoming attire. Many of the new Princess robes are ornamented on the added train with narrow gathered flounces, from two to three or four inches in width. The smallest number of these on a train is nine, and occasionally there are as many 88 twenty. The upper edge of each is gathered, and thelower frayed out, or bordered with a narrow moss fringe or lace. The effect is one of great beauty, when, as in many cases, another material is employed for the train and its garnitures, such as taffetas, which, from its light texture, is so admirably suited for this style of trimming.—Myra's Journal ef Dreø, and Fashion.

USEFUL HINTS. GEORGE ELIOT says that girls are delicate vessels in which is borne onward through the ages the trea- sure df human affection;" and some unhappy Benedict adds that girls are delicate vessels which require a small fortune every season to keep them in sails. To the careful housewife, who is desirous of com- bining durability with elegance and economy in bed furniture, either chintz, or a printed or plain dimity, cannot be too highly recommended. Both these fabrics have undergone wonderful improvements of late years. The patterns in chintzes and cretonnes are of endless variety, suited to every taste, and to a residence 'n town or country. Some with designs in which colours are bright, with flowers beauti- fully painted in elegant groups, and wreaths carelessly (though with much thought) distributed on grounds of many tints and hues. The arabesque figures, sprigs, and stripes, the lutes and ribbon ties of the Louis Quinze period, all vie with each other in delightful confusion, and, last of all, are there not the beautiful neutral tones and mediaeval patterns which, with our advance in art and culture, are now so much in vogue? The linings of these materials should also be selected with due thought and care. Cretonne and sateen are handsome for the purpose, and also durable; but the old-fashioned calendered chintz, with its shining sur- face, is the least likely to soil. LIQUID CEMENT FOR FASTENING INDIA-RUBBER TO WOOD OR METAL.—A cement of this kind is framed I by dissolving one part of powdered shellac in ten times its weight of the strongest solution of ammonia I (iliquid ammonia fortiss). They form when mixed together a mass of a slimy consistence, which after three or four weeks becomes liquid. When applied to india-rubber it softens that substance, and causes it to adhere tightly to metal or wood. After it has been exposed to the air for a time the ammonia volatilises, and the cement becomes hard, and prevents the escape of both air and fluids.—CasselFs Household Guide.

FOSSIL SHBLLS.—The shells belong to the class of molluscs that love to dwell in the mud at the mouths 01 large rivers, where the water is brackish. The clay, too, is exactly such as would be formed from the fine sediment brought down by some large river to the sea, and there deposited on the bottom. Hence we infer that this bed of clay is nothing more than the dried and pressed-down mud of some ancient estuary, whose turbid waters Bowed over this spot in bygone ages. Before passing on, however, we must pause a minute to notice a ridge that juts out about the middle of this deposit, and is continued along its entire length. A tap of the hammer soon reveals its nature. Packed as closely as possible, and dove- tailing, so to speak, into each other so as to form a hard band, are countless shells of oysters, often with both valves united just as thty grew on the spot. As they prefer salter water than the ether shells, they point to a slight change in the physical conditions at this stage, whereby the sea was enabled to gain slightly over the river, driving the estuarine shells back, and allowing the oysters to settle here, till a return of the previous conditions re-established the former occupants in their old quarters.—Science for ÂU. HIGHWAYMEN AT BLACKHEATH.—Leaving Charlton House behind us, and pursuing a south- western course, we make our way to the southern side of the Great Dover-road after it crosses Black- heath. Here we pass, at a short distance on our left, the steep ascent of Shooter's Hill, which, as Philipott writes, was so called for the thievery there prac- tised, where travellers in early times were so much infested with depredations and bloody mischief, that order was taken in the sixth year of Richard II. for the enlarging the highway, according to the statute made in the time of King Edward I., so that they venture still to rob here by prescrip- tion." The road continued a steep and narrow thoroughfare, closed in by thick WO.Ois-a con- venient harbour for highwaymen—down till about the year 1733, when, as Hasted informs us, "a road of easier ascent and of great width was laid out at some distance from the old one;" but still the high- waymen lingered about the neighbourhood, and con- sequently the hill maintained its reputation long after the new road was made. Byron has rendered the spot familiar to his readers by his description of the pros- pect from the summit of the hill looking towards London: A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping, In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy A huge dim cupola, like a foolscap crown On a fool's head—and there is London town." Here, too, probably, was the scene of Don Juan's musings on the morality, or immorality, of the great city"—Here are pure wives, safe lives;" a reverie which was destined to be broken off rather abruptly— if there be any truth in the*poet's words which follow —by the sudden attack of a highwayman. For the dis- couragement of these knights of the road the usual methods were adopted here; and in former times Shooter's Hill was seldom without the ornament of a gibbet. Pcpys tells us in his Diary," | under date of April 11, 1661, how that of all the journeys he ever made, this [from Dartford to London] was the merriest. Amongst other things," he adds, I got my lady to let her maid, Mrs. Anne, ride all the way on horseback. Mrs. Anne and I rode under the man that hangs upon Shooter's Hill, and a filthy sight it was to see how his flesh is shrunk to his bones." With the improved condition of the times in which we live, however, an end came some years ( ago to the practice of the highwaymen but a some- what ludicrous attempt at its revival was made in the year 1877, and in this very neighbourhood, with some little success; but the young ruffians having been brought to iustice, it is to be hoped that henceforth the midnight wayfarer may proceed on his way over Blackheath or Shooter's Hill in security,—Old and New London.