Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, October 3, 1896, Page 6

__|INNIITI FONLY DAUGHTER. = CHAPTER XVII. How It Fared With Ernest Hartrey. Words fail to describe the astonish- ment of Ernest Hartrey at his miracu- lous rescue from the very jaws of death. He had quite given himself up when he felt the pressure of the negro’s knee taken from his chest and for a moment his unlooked-for deliverance completely bewildered him. His friends had seen him struck down before he himself fell, and who else was there likely to rescue him? When he staggered to his feet he saw standing, pleased, by his side the black guide who had undertaken to conduct him and Major Carlington on their tour. “You kind to dis po’ blackey,” said the negro, grinning. “You no call him bad names, and he save your life.” Yes, so it was, in truth; the negro iad was unused to words of kindness, and the manner in which Ernest had addressed him, and the good nature he fad shown listening to him, had been the means of saving him when the fury of the self-liberated slaves was at its height. The scene upon which Ernest gazed when he had sufficiently recovered his senses to take note of what was pass- ing around him was a terrible one. Many of the slaves who had been killed by the musket shots from the windows lay stretched about the dark- stained ground, lighted by the red glare of the still flaming house; while the survivors, little heeding the fate of their comrades, had dragged from a cellar a huge ¢ of rum, and were pouring the intoxicating drink in huge quantities down their throats. The effect was soon perceptible and the early morning sun shone on a scene of terror. The half-naked bodies of the negroes still lay where they had fallen; while those who had survived the encounter and had been yesterday the most ab- ject slaves were transformed into de- mons, furious in their rage. The house, which twelve hours be- fore had nestled so prettily in its clean- liness, amidst luxuriant foliage, nas now only marked by a heap of crimson glowing embers and wreaths of smoke, which curled slowly upward in the still morning air. The bodies of the late owner of the slaves and of Major Carlington were aowhere to be seen. Ernest sought for them to save them from the indigni- ties of which they were likely to be ex- posed by the infuriated negroes; but they had already been removed and all his endeavors to discover their where- abouts were in vain. What story the negro lad had told the others respecting him, Ernest Hartrey could not quite make out; but they all treated him with considerable respect; and one old man, with curly white hair, after examining hi wounds, gathered the leaves from cer- tain plants, and applied them to our hero’s hurts, and he very soon felt the benefit of the simple treatment, for the pain was eased and the stiffness in the shoulder joint grew better. The drinking which took place when the negroes had succeeded in making themselves masters of the situation was not of long duration; for two or three, who appeared to have some au- thority over them, went about the dif- ferent groups, addressing them in forci- ble language and urging upon them the necessity of at once leaving a spot to which sooner or later the military would be sure to come to quell the out- break and to take vengeance for the life of the planter. Soon all the blacks formed into a kind of procession; but: Ernest stood apart till his former guide gently took him by the arm and led him toward the others. “Am I to go with you?” he asked. “Yes, massa, you must come wid us.” “But I must be back to Carlisle bay in four days.” “Massa no want to go to Carlisle pee: he like to stay wid po’ black fel- low.” “No, no, I tell you. It is necessary, most important—a matter of life and death—that I should be back there in four days.” The negto only looked in his face and grinned. “I save massa’s life, now he do what 1 tell him.” Surrounded as he was by the tegroes, Ernest saw that any attempt to escape would be worse than useless, considering, too, that he was quite ignorant of the country. Led by the lad who had saved him from a violent death, he found himself in the midst of the negroes, who at once set off walking at an uncomfort- ably rapid pace. Whither they were taking him he could form no adequate idea; but the way seemed perfectly fa- miliar to the blacks, who had doubt- less arranged the outline ef their plans previously to the general rising, which resulted in the death of their master and the total destruction of his dwell- ing place. The terrific heat had no effect upon the negroes, who continued at a rapid ace even at the hours when the sun ad the greatest power; but upon Er- nest, who had not yet had time to get accustomed to the ordinary heat, the effect was terrible. Again and again he would have fall- en exhausted to the ground had he not been supported by some of the blacks, ‘who gave him to understand that it ‘was necessary for him to accompany them wherever they went. At length, however, he could endure ‘the fatigue no longer, and, unable to ut one foot down before the other, ‘he sank to the earth in a deep swoon. When he recovered consciousness he found he was being borne rapidly over the ground in a kind of rude litter formed of branches of trees slung be- tween four negroes, who, at a curious, shambling kind of trot, were getting along at a rapid rate. Though our hero was conscious of this—though he saw the forms of the ‘blacks around him on every side— there was a dull, aching pain in his head, a heaviness in his eyes and a quick beating of his heart which took from him power of speech and action. He looked and looked, as if it were some spectacular drama which he was witnessing, in which he himself played no part. He felt like one in a dream, and his thoughts reverted to England. He fancied he saw the form of the maltster’s daughter, flitting hither and thither amidst the ebony Africans; then the scene changed to Hartrey Park, and he saw his father standing in the menacing attitude as he had seen him last. Then it appeared to him that May, came on the scene, and the baronet raised his clenched fist to strike her, and he rushed forward to interfere. He fell. Down, down he went, deep- er and deeper, until the waters closed over his head He was suffocating, drowning, dying; but he could not utter a syllable. Again he fell into a fit of unconsci- ousness, only to wake from it in a more helpless state. He had been attacked by brain fever, resulting from the excitement, the fa- tigue and the heat of the last four-and- twenty hours.. It was a long, long time before he awakened from this dreadful state; but when at last he recovered his enses he found himself in a spacious ve, into which but little daylight en- tered, but from the vaulted roof of which was suspended a rude brass lamp, the feeble rays from which only served to make the further portions of the cavern look still more gloomy. He was lying on a rude bed formed of various grasses and rushes; and, as well as he could make out, he was the sole occupant of this underground chamber. He tried to rise, but so weak was he that he sank back again as soon as he attempted to exert himself, exhausted and fainting. In feeble voice he called aloud, but | his words only echoed through the cavern, now loud, now fainter, till they died away in the extreme dis- tance. Had he been abandoned by the ne- groes—left there to die in solitude? He strove to recall the events which had occurred since the burning of the planter’s house, but failed in the at- tempt; nor was it for many days that he realized all the strange scenes he had goné through. As he lay helpless on the ground the remembrance of the day which Capt. Salt had bidden him return, if he wished to avail himself of a passage To open in the Osprey, came upon him. Three days only he believed had elapsed since he left Carlisle bay, but still it would take him some time to return thither in his enfeebled condi- tion. : A gleam of sunshine coming into the eavern through a break in the thick, tropical foliage, revealed to him the position of its entrance. It was no great distance, and, by great exertion, he managed to crawl along the rough, uneven ground till he reached it. Eagerly he pushed aside the shrubs which hid from him the view of the surrounding country. He had just a faint hope that he might see some landmark which would reveal to him his present position, and enable him, when he was a little stronger, perhaps, on the morrow, to find his way to Carlisle bay. If not this, he trusted his eyes might rest on some habitation where he could obtain assistance, or, if necessary, a guide. He was quite unprepared for the sight which did meet his gaze when he parted the bushes with his hands. Immediately below him descended an all but perpendicular precipice, the base of which was washed by the sea, while above him the same wall of rock extended to a great height. The entrance to the cave was no more than a hole in a perpendicular wall of rock, and though by straining his eyes he could detect a faint track ztgzagging down the face of the cliff, he shuddered at the thought of having to pass it. Indeed, .in his weak and giddy state, it would have been an im- possibility. How he could have been carried there in the litter was a puzzle which at the time he could not unravel. The entrance to the cavern was sit- vated at a considerable height above the sea; and, consequently, he had a wide spread of ocean before him. As he watched the waves, lazily lap- ping over each other in the broiling sun, his fancy took him far away across the sea to his native land—to the land which contained all those nearest and dearest to him. One ship only appeared upon the ocean, and she was standing well in toward the land. Was she bound for England? Ernest wondered. Then something familiar in her rig and the build of her hull struck him and led him to scrutinize her more closely. With beating heart he watched her as she drew nearer and nearer. Then he saw her line of guns; then he rec- ognized the Union-jack waving in the heated air; and then he knew it was his majesty’s ship Osprey that he saw, and that his chance of speedily reach- ing England was at an end. Yes, it was, indeed, the Osprey, now homeward bound. Ernest Hartrey’s fever had lasted four days, though it seemed to him but as the sleep of a night. The week had expired, and Captain Salt, true to his word, had left Carlisle bay for Spithead. The knowledge came upon him like a thunderbolt, for he knew that his best chance of speedily seeing May was gone; that many, many months, even after he had succeeded in es- caping from the hands of the negroes, must elapse before he could hope to leave the Island of Barbadoes; snd that then it would be many dreary weeks on the ocean before the white cliffs of England gladdened his eyes. Faint, disappointed and heart-sick, he crept back to his rude couch of grass and dried leaves, and there lay with tearless eyes, mourning that the decrees of ‘fate had sey him —from her whom he had hoped long since to have claimed for his wife. What would May think? He had written to her from on board the Os- prey, and when that ship arrived in England she would naturally expect to hear further tidings of him. And what would the news be that ees Salt could relate concerning m Only that after supplying himself with money from the captain’s purse he had disappeared and nothing fur- ther had been heard of him. This would be all the Osprey could tell of his fate; and even should May think no worse she would surey be- lieve he had ceased to love her, when he neglected so good a chance of re- turning to her and fulfilling his prom- ise. In an agony of spirit he moaned aloud as he thought of this ,and re- membe! that his majesty’s ship Os- prey was every moment leaving the island farther behind her as she sped on her way to England, while he lay helpless and powerless within sight of the ship, but without the means to make his condition known to those on board. It was a bitter feeling; and had he cnly known hew sorely May at that moment needed his strong arm to up- hold her, his loving words to comfort her, he would almost sooner have cast himself headlong into the sea than re- main longer in the island to which his evil destiny had carried him. “Heaven help me!” he murmured; “for unaided, I can never hope again to see my native land.” Turning his face from the light he sobbed*convulsively in a bitter distress of spirit. CHAPTER XIX. The Two Men From Winchester, When Matthew Rivers heard the words which told him that ruin and disgrace, despite all his efforts, had truly come upon him, he turned ghast- ly pale, and covered his face with his hands. Oh, how sincerely he wished that it had been heayen’s will to take him, rather than his wife away from a world of care and anxiety; or that, at least, he might have gone with her; but then, when he saw May’s pale, earnest, inquiring face, he felt that it was for the best that he had been left behind to help and guide her. % Yet, it was a dreadful thing, this ar- rest—this seizure of all his worldly goods, while his wife yet lay unburied in the room above. “We're very sorry, Mr. Rivers,” said one of the men; “but we act under or- ders, and dare not disobey them.” “Of course not—of course not.” “We know of your grief, and we've | heard of the great misfortune which has fallen upon you; but you see, we've no choice in the matter.” “What do you mean? What do you want me to do?” “Well, you see, sir, I'm afraid we must trouble you to come along with us to Winchester.” “Impossible!” “Such are our orders.” “Put do you know,” began the old malster, and then his voice faltered, “do you know that my wife is—is—” He could not complete the sentence, but pointed upward with his finger. “We didn’t know it when we left Winchester, sir, or we should have got instructions. But Mr. Gridley’s words were, ‘Bring him back with you with- out a minute’s delay.’ Weren't tliey, | Sam?” “Sure enough,” answered the other gruffly, at the same time critically ex- amining the furniture. as if to ascer- tain what it was worth. “It is impossible—quite impossible that I can leave Annadale for the next four-and-twenty hours.” “Well, sir, unless you're prepared to pay down the £1,200 I don’t see you've much choice in the matter. Law’s law, you know!” “T cannot go.” “Oh, come,” said the other man, whose temper did not seem to be of the best, and who answered to the name of Sam, “we can’t have none of this. Our trap’s waiting at the inn and we can’t give you more than half an hour to prepare.” It is impossible to describe the agony of mind with which May had listened to this conversation. She had learned from her father al- ready that he was in great difficulties, put she did not know, till the actual arrival of these men from Winchester, that his liberty was erdangered; and even now she could not believe that |the law was so mighty as to compel a man not guilty of a crime, but only suffering for a misfortune, to leave a dead wife and an unprotected daugh- ter to repay, by the loss of his lib- erty, a sum of money owing to a man who, without his aid, might have been almost a beggar. é “Jt cannot be,” she said passionately, “jt cannot be that you are men, and yet insist upon my father leaving his home at a time like this.” “We have no choice in the matter, miss. We have our duty to perform.” “But your duty cannot call you to perform so heartless an act at that upon which you are now bent.” “It is very hard upon you, miss; but what are we to do?” “My mother lies unburied up stairs, and we are plunged in deep distress; surely you are not,bound to add to our grief. What caf I do if you take away my father from me at such a time?” “I tell you what it is,” said the sterner one, “we’re public servants and can take no account of such things.” “Don’t speak hard to her, Sam. You wouldn’t like it if it was you in her father’s place.” “Tf they insist on my going, May, darling,” said the malster sofrowfully, “I have no right to resist.” “But they will not insist. Oh, pray,” she continued in a voice of piteous sup- plication, “oh pray do not take my father from me at this time. If either of you have daughters of your own, think what it would be to them to have so great an evil happen to them. You may be endowed with power by the law, but beware how you abuse that power. It is not only at earthly tribunals that we have to answer for our sins—remember that, and pity my position, if you have no mercy for my father’s.” The more tender-hearted of the two whispered a few words to his com- panion; but the other sturdily shook his head. “You see, miss, my mate doesn’t see how it can be done. He isn’t a bad- hearted man, but our was clear that we were to bring your fath- D from her he loved so truly and so well’|er to Winchester without any delay.” “Oh, yes, yes! But not know what had happened. Oh, as you have feelings as men, as you will one day hope to receive m self, do not tyranize over those who are already fallen very- very low!” In her eagerness she dropped upon her knees to the floor and stretched forth her arms in an agony of entreaty. Her beautiful hair came unfastened and fell in a luxuriant shower over her shoulders and her eyes, always beauti- ful, looked doubly so as, beseechingly, she turned them from one to the other of the two men, who, in the name of the law, had come to Annadale to per- petrate so great a cruelty. To see this fair young girl kneeling at their feet—to see the agony of spirit of the poor feeble old man—and to know that. separated from them only by a few planks, was the corpse of one who had been so dear to father and daughter—moved even the hearts of the two men, whose daily life was passed in scenes of distress. They withdrew into a corner of the room and whispered together. “J tell you what, miss, it’s against all rules, but in this case we think we may venture to go out of the way a bit.” * ‘ “Oh, thank you—thank you a thous- and times!” May poured forth her acknowledg- ments for their forbearance with un- feigned eagerness; and Matthew Riv- ers raised his head from the table, scarcely able to believe that he heard aright. “We can give your father till after the funeral, miss, but that’s all. As soon as he comes back from the church- yard he must be off with us to Win- chester.” May sighed. She knew it would be useless for her to ask for further in- dulgence, and she was truly grateful to the men for that they had already granted. Had she been left alone with the edrthly remains of her mother in that cottage she would have been driven almost distracted by sorrow. “But we must have some secu- wity, miss, that there will be no attempt at escape in the meantime —no running away to Portsmouth, for example, or anything of that kind.” ‘J promise you | will attempt nothing of the sort, said the maltster. “That’s all very well, and we believe you; yet still, if we were deceived, it would be ruin to us; so, if you can just get a couple of householders to stand security for you until to-morrow: OG “I cannot do it,” murmured the malt- ster. “No one here would be answera- ble for me.” “Do not say that, father. ‘They can- not refuse to aid you in so great a strait!” “They can and will!” “Nay, father; I will beg and entreat —I will supplicate until it will be im- possible for them to refuse!” As she spoke, she hastily put on her hat and clok, and prepared to go out into Annadale, determined not to re- turn to the cottage until she had ac- complished her purpose. ‘The proud spirit of the maltster de- murred at imploring aid from those who, when misfortune was upon him, turned their backs instead of lending him a helping hand; and, moreover, he doubted his daughter being able that which she was about to undertake. But the emergency was great; and, with a weary sigh, he suffered her to depart upon her errand. May went forth in her mourning, sorrowful yet hopeful, leaving her fa- ther to the custody of the two men whom the spite of John Gridley had sent over from Winchester to ruin him. Poor May had, certainly, underrated the difiiculty of the task she had un- dertaken; but the eloquence of grief and the energy of despair nerved her to great exertions; and when she re- turned to her father’s cottage it was with two neighbors, who had consent- ed to become answerable for Matthew Rivers’ safe-keeping until after his wife’s funeral. The funeral of Mrs. Rivers was as sad a sight as Annadale had ever wit- nessed. The news of the widower’s iusolven- cy, of his arrest and of his misery, had spread rapidly through the vil- lage; and the sad taJe had moved the hearts of many who had before been disposed to speak slightingly of him. It was a pitiful sight to see that old man, as he stood, bareheaded by the side of the open grave, his white hair plown about by the wind, and his eyes wet with tears. ‘Tears to the memory of his wife; tears at his own sad position, and tears at the thought of the possible fate of his own darling May, left penniless, fricndless and homeless, to wander whithersoever she would ti earn a pre- carious livelihood, and, perhaps, to look forward to death as the greatest blessing earth could afford. ‘The funeral was oyer—the coffin was covered with mould; and Matthew Riv- ers, almost blinded by his tears, got int o the gig which was waiting to con- yey him to Winchester, having first tenderly embraced his daughter and bidden her adieu. One of the men sent over by John Gridley took possession of the cottage, and remained behind; and the other, esated by the side of the broken- hearted, ruined maltster, drove the fast-trotting pony which was to con- vey the old man to his prison. As they passed through Annadale, many a hat was raised in token of si- lent respect to Matthew Rivers. What- ever might have been his faults, they could not choose but sympathize with his misfortunes. Poor May stood at the garden gate, gazing down the road long after the gig had disappeared in the distance. Her eyes were fixed but tearless—her lips quivering ever «.d anon, but no sound came from between them. Words of comfort and consolation, gently whispered in her ear were un- noticed. It was to her as if she were ina trance—as if rooted to the ground—as, in a dream, a succession of pitiful pict- ures passed before her. ‘Then, at last, when the bell from the old gray church tower slowly boomed out its dismal sound as the messenger of a departed spirit, the full sense of ne reality of her position came upon er. Motherless, and almost fatherless, deserted by her lover, persecuted by a man whose very name was hateful to her, she was, indeed, alone in the world. With a dull, gasping sob she stag- gered, rather than walked, back into the cottage which hed been her home her whole life long, but which was her home no longer. _ “Oh, that I were dead—that I were Then tears came to the relief of her pent-up grief, and she sobbed as if her poor little heart would break. CHAPTER XX. — c The Cup of Sorrow Filled Brim. Poor May! What could the well- meaning neighbors do for her? Their clumsily expressed pity could not assuage her grief; their honest of- fers of assistance could not restore happiness to her heart. » Alone in the world, she sat in the cottage which was no longer her fath- er’s with eyes red with tears and with trembling limbs. Her new mourning, so trim and neat, was but the outward sign of a grieving spirit. “Now, miss, come, do ’ee come in and ha’ a bit o’ supper this evening along o’ me and my old man. We'll give ye a welcome, we will.” So spoke old Mrs. Hayter, but May only shook her head in reply. “Lor, you'll go on grieving and a pinin till ye join your blessed moth- ere “What could I do better?’ asked May almost fiercely. “Do you think I have so much on earth for which I should care to live?” “Now, don’t go on there’s a dear pet lamb! do for you, deary?” “Nothing.” “Think, little one. you want?” “Only to be left alone,” answered May. Then, when a moment’s reflec- tion had shown her the rudeness of the speech, she rose and threw her arins round the good-hearted old woman's neck and sobbed anew. “Oh, forgive me!” she cri@d. “I did not mean to be ungrateful, but I am very, very miscrable and hardly Know at I say.” to the ‘ in that way, What can I Is there nothing id Mrs. Hayter, calling from the window to a passing boy, “Jom, you run off home and tell the old man I shan’t be home to-night, for I’m going to stop with this poor, suf- fering baby;” and then the old woman proceeded to take off her cloak and bonnet, and to bustle about the room, and May looked on. incapable of help- ing, almost of speaking. And as the day drew to a close and the sun set in a fiery glory and May moved slowly about as one walking in her sleep, but yet with the conscious- ness that in another room was a man sent over from Winchester to watch that nothing was removed and to as- sert the claim of John Gridley to the house and furniture, which had been her father’s years before the younger man was born. And this man—this John Gridley— who was to have been her husband. The man who even now sought to make her his wife, not by persuasion, but by force. It-was a strange kind of wooing, this of John Gridley’s; but the cun- ning man calculated rightly that it was the only method by which she could be won. He would fain buy a wife for £1,200; and his wily nature told him how best to transact the business. The night come; but day and night were alike to the poor girl, who sat silently wretaked, scarcely conscious of the flight of the hours in the remem- prauce that her sole remaining parent was lying at Winchester gaol a pris- ener for debt, and that the only per- son who could procure his release was herself, and that only by seeking out the hard-hearted man who had pro- cvred his incarceration, and offeFing to become his wife. Mrs. Hayter saw that poor May was not inclined for conversation, and, therefore, kindly refrained from talk- ing; but silently she sat by her side, in the hope that she might be of some service, till the clock in the old church tower boomed out the hour of 10, and then she rose, and, putting on her cloak, prepared to take her departure. “Good-by, dear,” she said tenderly. “Don’t you go fretting and pining, for it can’t do no good. Good-by.” “Good-by,” repeated May mechani- cally. “Don't you trouble about anything in the morning, there’s a darling. I'll come in early and see to everything.” “Thank you,” said May. “You are very good and kind to me.” “Now you go to bed and have a good sleep.” The poor girl only sighed; for she felt as if the only good sleep for her was the sleep of death. You see, she was a poor, weak, tender and loving little flower and her feelings were almost too strong for her frail body. She could not rise and philosophically argue and strive against misfortune—she could only sigh, and weep and look for death te relieve her from her sufferings. Once before, when her burden had been almost greater than she could bear, she had contemplated self-de- struction. But no such thought as that now entered her mind. “Oh, Ernest! Ernest!” she cried,” “why do you not come to me? Why are you not here to comfort and sus- tein me?” But Ernest Hartrey was divided from her by many hundred leagues of ocean; and her cries rose into the still night air, and no response came to the. With the early morning came Mrs. Hayter to the cottage, which had been the property of Matthew Rivers, bent on her errand of charity. In a basket on her arm were some dainties, with which she hoped to en- tice the poor, unfortunate girl to eat; and in her capacious pocket was a great ball of worsted, and in her hand her knitting needles; for she had re- solved to spend the whole of the day with the maltster’s daughter, to pre- vent, if possible, her giving way too much in her loneliness to her sad re- flections. The inhabitants of Annadale were primitive in their manners and cus- toms, and Mrs. Hayter had to do no more than lift the latch of the cottage door to obtain an entrance. The little parlor was empty. “That’s right,” muttered the good- hearted woman; “she’s sleeping it off nicely, and will come down fresh and blooming.” Then she bustled about (for Mrs. Hayter was one of of those women who rarely take things quietly, gen- erally ‘fussing’ over the most ordi- nary matters), and laid a clean, white cloth over the table, and then dived into her basket and brought out, one by one, the little dainties she had brought from home to tempt May to eat. ~ s and : ; and Mrs. Hayte had nothing to Re Hd fold Dead aad and wait patiently for the poor girl, in whom shé took such a kindly, mother- ly_interest. : But it so happened that she was one of those motherly old ladies who can do anything better than fold their hands and wait patiently; so, when some ten minutes had been fidgeted through, she proceeded softly up the stairs to May’s room to see if she w stirring. She tapped gently at the door, but there was no response. Louder still, but no sound of anyone moving fell upon her listening ear. “It’s a pity to wake her,’ ’thought the old woman. “I’ll just go quietly in, and see that she doesn’t want for anything.” So thinking, she softly pushed open the door. Wider and wider she opened it, and entered May’s room upon tip-toe. “Good gracious!” she cried, and then paused, i “My goodness gracious me! Wherev- er has that blessed child gone to?” The room was empty! The bed had not been slept in, and the chamber showed no signs of its usual occupant. There stood the little bed, with its white curtains; there the little table with its tiny looking glass. The win- dow was wide open, and the creepers which covered the side of the house wayed refreshingly in the morning breeze. In one corner stood the spinning- wheel, silent uow for so many weeks. Two things alone were missing from the room besides its usual occupant— her cloak and hat. Mrs. Hayter sank into the first chair and gave vent to a string of exclama- tions and bewildered sentences. “My gracious! if the dear child ain’t been and gone!—and never since my first was two year old, which come next March will be nineteen year,— and a fine, well-grown one he was, with red hair. Only to think, now, of her having gone away—and me, too, with the cream and the goodies down stairs, and she where gracious only knows, with an east wind and nothing to eat, and a great sorrow and a weak constitution, and a beautiful face and all the rest of it——Lor—!” She was disappointed and puzzled; and as, with a thoughtful face, she packed..up..the eatables she had brought, ‘she paused, every now and then to utter some fresh ejaculation significant of surprise and disquietude. Before long all Annadale knew that May had left the cottage in the night, and had fled, no one knew whither. “A guilty conscience!” said one. “Gone to join her gentleman lover!” eried a second. “A good riddance, I say!! exclaimed the mother of a large family of plain and single daughters. “You're a set of cruel and unjust hypocrites!” rejoined Mrs. Hayter,with some warmth. “She’s as good a girl as ever stepped, and you were all jealous oft her—there-” But it didn’t do much good, this speech of May’s good-hearted friend, for the Annadale people were as ob-, stinate and thick-headed then as their descendants are now. They had taught themselves to be- lieve that May Rivers was a bold, in- triguing girl, and they were not going to alter their opinion for anything Mrs. Hayter might say. And they contin- ued to speak of her with an ominous shake of the head, and a wish that, were it possible, she might reform. Poor May- What was her crime? Simply ti son of a great man like Stephen Harold Hartrey, had admired and loved her! There is nothing of which people are so intolerant as the advancement or success of those whom they have mixed with on terms of equality. It was not the whispered reasons which John Gridley had caused to Be circulated respecting her which had done her the greatest harm—it was the report that she might one day be Lady Hartrey which had roused the indigna- tion of the villagers. How ready we all are to pick holes in the coats of our successful brothers! And where was poor, suffering May, while Mrs. Hartrey was defending her character? She was toiling wearily along the dusty road on her way to Winchester, prepared to make the greatest sacrifice a@ woman can make! She was about to sacrifice herself on the altar of filial affection! She, in her gentle, loving nature, could not bear that her father—he who had all her life watched over and tend- ed her—should suffer, when it was in her power to ease him. Once before she had made the re- solve, but now it was still more diffi- cult, When she first agreed to wed John Gridley she had only to overcome 2 re- pugnance for which she could assign no reason; but now it was far worse. She knew from his letter that Ernest Hartrey still loved her ,and was, per- haps, at that very moment on his way s to England to claim her as his bride. And she knew, moreover, whom the man whom she had resolved she must learn to call husband was a criminal —had stolen the money which had en- abled him to obtain so secure a hold on her father, if he had not added to his sin by endeavoring to drown him whom she loved so truly and well, and who returned her affection with the full force of his manly, noble heart. She could not bear to think of all this, for it made her waver in her de- termination. She strove to think only of the happiness it would give her to procure her father’s freedom, even at the dreadful cost which it would ne cessitate. After Mrs. Hayter had left her, that night of her mother’s funeral and her father’s removal to Winchester gaol, she had sat thinking of all the dread ful events of the past week, until re fiection became almost unbea When the gray morning light spread itself over the face of theearth and brought out the old church tower from the darkness, and when the birds com / preachy ge morning hymns of praiscy + ay sat in the little ir, pal wan and tearless. Pon ds -g. but her mouth was ly and resolutely. “ She had battled herd with herself 4 through the dreary, silent hours of the night, and had ended in conquering her own feelings, and determining ta sacrifteing herself for her father. (To be Continued.) Ee