Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, October 16, 1897, Page 6

— CHAPTER LI.—(Continued.) But it was the nature of Httie’s duoyant spirit alw: to look upon the bright side. .So she speedily sent the image of her repulsive maiden aunt to Coventry, and called up that of her grandmother. Ah, that was some- thing to delight in! Ettie had never known a mother’s perfect love, grandmother's in- dulgent but she had! dreamed of A mother’s love | would never $s; but s Ww ndmother’s! She Is had been zrand- about to enjoy F had noticed how other gi loved by their mothers mothers, and that the manif of a mother’s love were part ¢: s and part rebuke; while those of a} grandmother's were all petting. And she greatly preferred the latter. i She recalled to mind the rustic } rs she had seen in her na- good, old women in stuff large aprons and white s and round spectacles—comforta- ble old ladies, who wore bottomile pockets with endless supplies of gin- gerbread for the children. Then she pictured to herself h grandmother who lived in the city, and Was said to be wealthy, and she imag- ined her to be a nice old lady, with soft, silky white hair just parted be- | h her close book muslin cap, and | a fine black bombazine dress, | with book muslin tucker folded | around her neck inside her dre: a black silk apron and bk mitts. She liked this old lady, and yught how happy she would be to |} ich an one to pet her. Fhis grandmother, she fancied, lived ni a pretty cottage with a flower den, near the suburbs of the city, quite away from its no} heat and dust. Se absorbed was Ettie in her day dream, that she never awoke until she was startled by the rising of every one in the car, who began to hurry on their shawls and pick up their travel- ing ba as for a general stampede. As the train was still in motion, E tie did not know what to make of thi: But, as this mode of traveling seemed to present a succession of noveltie: Ettie would not betray her s So she only gave Mi Pinchett a sharp nudge to wake her p, and said: “The people are all going! I don’t Know what is the matter!” “Have we reached the ferry-boat? Oh, y so we have,” yawned the spinster, starting up and beginning to er own | gather together her traveling bag, um- | brella and extra shawl. They fol- | lowed the crowd, thus reaching in safet, the ferry-boat, where Ettie and Miss Pinchett went to a long and crowded table and got a luncheon of hot coffee and stewed oysters, and where Ettie bought as) of beef steak, $ the privacy of the L: Howm, where nurses did * to attend to their babie: ing the crowd, Ettie and Pinchett entered the connecting f cars, and once more found rushing over the land with lightning speed. Miss Pinchett, overcome by m and the motion of the “most con- ie fell to day-dreaming about her nice, old grandmother, the subur- ban cottage, the white rtained bea- roovn, the dressing-case, work-box writing-desk, etc. And so she contin wed te dream until late in the after noon, when train in halted at the water’ had to leave tt to enter ‘y-beat, and cross a broad river like an arm of the sea. But when this ferryboat ay ched the opposite shore, Ettie, who was on the lookout, beheld a magniticent city, the grandeur of which had never en- tered her dreams, although t Creams were of the grandest. They landed in the midst of a bustle that tunned little Ettie into idiocy. “TIere we are, my dear, at our jour- ney’s end! In an hour we shall be Seated at tea in the old lady’s parlor,” said Miss Pinchett, as she beckoned a hackman and gave him the tickets to | g; }s get their luggage. “Hold your pocket in your hand, Ettie, or it may be picked in an in- stant,” said \ Pinchett, while they were waiting for the hackman to re- ‘turn. Ettie clapped her hand on her pock- et, but the next instant exclaimed, in SI ys it’s too late! it's my pocketbook is gon gracious, me alive! how n it?” cried Miss Pinchett, | in consternation. “A quarter and a fip and three cents age stamps!” that all the money you “All TI had in that pocketbook! The | two golden double-eagles that dear old Captain Fuljoy gave me, are in my mew crimson purse at the bottom of my trunk.” “That is fortunate! Now, here is the hackman with our trunks,” she | said, as that functionary approached. | The luggage was put on, the order Where to drive was given, they entered! and adorned by a necklace and brace- the carriage and started. The gas lamps in all the streets and all the shop windows were now light- ed, and poor little rustic Ettie was half-stupefied with amazement. As the carriage rolled over miles of illu-| own rich ‘minated, crowded and noisy streets, Ettie felt dazzled by the splendor of ‘the shop windows, blinded by the glare of the gas lamps, deafened by the clatter of omnibuses, confused | "by the throng of people, and generally -overwhelmed by the wonders of the! great city. Through miles and miles and miles of this street, and then into another, more illumined, more splen- did and more crowded than the first! Ettie jumped from one side of the carriage to the other, never tired of gezing out. “I declare, this city is like our great | St. Mary’s forest, and the houses are ! as thick as the trees!” she exclaimed. Through miles and miles of this! estreet, and then into a broad, quiet ; CONDEMNED tia * ° WEALTH. | your grandmother 1 | floor was covered with a vidual asleep. Hy as light as day se | cept that it is a subtle, invisible agent politicians in their stump speeches to parlor, and, with three bows, said: to the dressing-room, mum.” said Miss Pinchett. the footman, with two bows. already | followed their conductor through the * spacious hall, up the broad staircase cover of lofty ure,” and sat down upon one of the avenue, where there were no shops nd no crowd, but where lofty palaces lined each side. CHAPTER LIT. The carriage drew up before one of the most imposing of these buildings large, double-fronted, four-storied, brown mansion, with wrought-iron balconies, plate-glass windows, mar- ble steps, and all the external evi- dences of wealth, taste and magnifi- cence, Lights gieamed through the closed shutters of the windows, showing life, warmth and _ brilliancy within. While Ettie gazed in stupefaction on this magnificent dwelling, Mrs, Pinch- ett said: “Here we are, my dear, at your grandmother's house: take up your little dog, and let's get out.” “That!” exclaimed Ettie, with eyes and mouth wide open with astonish- ment. “Why, that is not my ¢ mothe house! My in ever such a pretty white cottage, with a flower garden all around it! not in a grand palace like thi: “Who told you so, my dea in- quired Miss Pinchett, as the driver opened the door and let down the steps. “Why, nobody told me; I thought so of my own self,” said Ettie. “Then you are mistaken, my dear; | s here,” replied | Pinchett, as she alighted and sted Ettie to get out. The driver had already gone up to the door and knocked and rung. Ettie and Miss Pinchett went up the steps, and by the time they reached the top the door was opened by a black footman in livery. ll your mis that I have brovght her grand-daughter home,” | said Miss Pinchett to the footman. oy mum—cert’ney, mum—please to walk in here, mum,” replied the | man, with a low bow at the end of! every phrase, as he led the travelers | through the fine entrance hall to an} elegant little reception parlor, whose | blue and white velvet carpet, so rich that Ettie | hesitated to step on it; and whose | indow curtains, and chair and sofa | coyers were all of pale-blue and sil- | ver-satin damask. A chandelier of | silver and ¢ al hung from the ceil- | iug and illumined the room. Ettie | took out a clean pocket handkerchief, and laid it very carefully over one of the small reception chairs before she ventured to sit down on a thing so el- egant. soon as the servant had disap- sitting upon the very air, whispered, in awed tones “What does the black man wear such fine Miss Pinchett?”’ “It is not soldier's clothes; it is liv- ery, my dear.” “And w livery, “A particular sort of m, worn b; ants of indi- famil tinguish them from the servants of other wealthy nilies.” : ‘Oh!—how vei soldier's clothes for, Pinchett? servile ur fo y light the house i and a great deal light- er than some ¢ It really makes my eyes ache! What a deal of oil*it | must take, not only to light the house, I mean, but to light the great streets we passed through! Why, I should: think it would take all the oil of all the whales in all the oceans in the world to feed them!” said Ettie, gaz- ing, open-mouthed about her, “It is not oil; it is gas, my dear.” “And what is gas?’ “Well, I hardly know myself; ex- made from coal, and much used by the people of the cities to light up their streets and houses, and also by dazzle the intellects of the voters.” As Miss Pinchett got through this | auminous description of a luminous | ject, the footman re-entered the | “If you please, mum, you and the young lady, mum, is to walk up stairs “You must show us the way, then,” “Cert’ney, mum, cert’ney,” replied Ettie and Miss Pinchett arose and and into a lofty front room on the first floor, the splendor of which so blinded the eyes of Ettie that she could make out nothing but a glow of rose-colored satin damask and sofa and window curtains, a gleam | mirrors, a drift of lace-draped dressing table and a dazzle of gas- light over all. | At Ia through the splendid con- fusion, advanced a stately and beauti- | ful woman, whose elegant mourning- | dress of black moire-antique, trimmed | with crane, only rendered her blonde beauty more radiant by its contrast. Her plump neck and arms were bare, lets of jet that set off to the best ad- vantage the snowy whiteness of both. Her fair and classic face was flushed with a celicate bloom. Her graceful head had no other ornament thar its golden-auburn braids and ringlets. There was a shade of deep sadness upon this stately lady’s face, yet through it all she smiled as she advanced toward the travelers, and, giving the precedence first to age, of- fered her hand to Miss Pinchett, say- | ing: | “Iam very glad to see you, ma’am, and to thank you very much for bringing Miss Burns so safely to us, Please take a seat.” Miss Pinchett bowed and said: “Not at all! It was quite a pleas- rose-colored sofa’s. ‘Then the lady turned to Ettie, and drew her to her bosom in a warm em- brace, saying: “You are welcome, most welcone, | “All this is long past, and cannot now | this magnificent cit. | Ettie! ah, yes, like your mother and | know better than that, too, if I was iat the blooming face and sunny curls, | nice white cap tied close under her | wrath, “if I am a simple country girl, | grandmother, by telling her such sto- | price. And, so far from being my} to own dear Hsthe: Come and sit by me, and let me look at you, my child!” And she led Ittie to another sofa, immediately under a gas-light, and, making her sit quite close to herself, threw her arm around her, and, to Ettie’s. infinite confusion, looked stead- ily in her face, saying, as she perused each feature of that blushing counten- ance: “Yes; you are like your mother. You have the same Celtic style of features, the same glittering jet-black hair, the same burning-black eyes, and the same glowing crimson cheeks and lips! Yes; you are like your mother, and she was as like her father as a girl could be to a man. How old are you, my darling?” “I shall be sixteen on the first of August,” said Ettie, trembling. “A summer-child; just what your mother was at your age! I could al- most imagine it was my own Esther sitting beside me! You are just at the age she was when———oh, Esther! Esther! Esther!’ cried the lady, sud- denly overcome by what seemed a paroxysm of remorseful love! Ettie began to cry, partly from nerv- ousness, partly from fright, and part- ly from sympathy. And she had no pocket handkerchief to wipe away her | tears, having left hers spread over the | bottom of the elegant chair upon} which she had sat in the parlor. So Ettie rubbed her fists into her eyes in- stead. “There, do not weep, my dear,” said the lady, taking down the little hands. be mended. Think of something else my love! Tell me about your journey. Was it very disagreeable?” “Oh, no, ma’am, it was beautiful! I was delighted all the way; first, | with the lovely steamboat, and then with the grand train, and now with | “You are an enthusiast, my dear her father. But you look tired, child. I will. ring for cook to send up tea here, and then you shall go to your room.” And the lady arose and rang the bell. “If you please, ma’am,” said Ettie, and then she stopped and blushed, “What, Ettie? Speak, dear! what is it?’ “Sf you please, ma’am, then, I should like to see my grandmother first.” “Your——what did you say, my dear Ettie?” “I said, if you please, ma’am, I should like to see my grandmother first. That is, if she has not gone to bed; because I know she expects me to-night; but if she is gone to bed, 1 would not disturb her for the whole world.” “Your grandmother, did you say, my dear?” “Yes, ma’am, please.” “Why, Ettie, is it possible that you do not know that I am your grand- mother?” inquired the lady, in aston- ishment. “You my grandmother!” said Ettie, half-angry at what she took to be an ill-timed joke. “Oh, no, ma’am, IL brought up in the woods! You could not possibly be my grandmother!” “Why, Ettie, why not?’ asked the | lady, amused at the perfect sincerity | of Ettie’s manner. . “Because, ma’am, you are a beauti- ful young lady,” said Ettie, glancing plump, white neck and graceful arms of her hostess—“‘and my own nice, dear, good grandmother is quite an old | lady, with hair as white as cotton, and she wears an old-fashioned black bombazine gown, with a white muslin inside handkerchief, and a large black silk apron and black lace mitts, and a chin, and also spectacles.” “But, my dear, who gave you this | minute description of your grand- | mother?” inquired the lady, highly | amused, | “Nobody at all, ma’am; but I had seen a great many grandmothers in | our neighborhood, if I never had one | before, and so, you see, allowing for | the difference between country and | town, it was very easy for me to fig- ure out what my own dear old grand- | mother would look like; and I am | quite sure I should know her among | a thousand!” ‘The lady for a moment forgot the grief that lay heavy at the bottom of her heart, and laughed a low, silvery | little laugh, as she said: “That grandmother that you have described is the creation of your own fancy only—a fictitious grandmother; I am the real one! Can you not be- lieve it?” “No, ma’am,” replied Ettie, stoutly; “because, as I said before, you are a beautiful young lady, in a splendid evening dress, with low neck and bare arms. And my grandmother is a very | old lady, in a black gown, white cap and spectacles.” “My love, what was her name?’ laughed the lady. “Mrs. Gertrude Courtney Greville.” “That is my name, child.” “Ma’am,” said Ettie, with rising I know one thing; I know it is neith- er kind nor lady-like to try to hoax a poor orphan who is longing for her ries! But you cannot humbug me in} that way! I am not to be sold at that | grandmother, you cannot even be my j maiden aunt!” j “Your maiden aunt? By the way, I will introduce you to your maiden aunt! Celeste!” said the lady, laugh- ing and addressing her French maid, who was busy in another part of the ; room, “go and say to Miss Howard that I wish to see her here.” : “Oui, Madame,” answered the girl, | leaving the room for the purpose. The lady sat smiling upon Ettie, who | remained in offended silence until the door opened and a lovely girl, in deep | mourning, with a tall, slender and | graceful form, regular features, snowy | forehead, rosy cheeks and lips, clear blue eyes and pale golden ringlets, and with a countenance of the freshest | youthfulness, entered the room and } advanced smilingly toward her mam- ma, _ “Lois, my love, this is your niece, Es- ther. Ettie, my dear, embrace your— maiden aunt! ’* Ettie looked up to this fresh and blooming girl, and then at the beauti- ful and stately woman. Mother and daughter were the rose and the rose- bud, with the morning dew still spark- lirg on them. But they were not what Ettic had expected to find, and so she bowed very sullenly and went off in high | see no one has appeared. ‘a half-shrug; dudgeon to Miss Pinchett, and said: “Pinchy, take me to my grandmother ard auntie, or else take me back home again! I won't stay here for that big wax doll to make fun of me!” “My dear, bless your heart, that lady is your grandmother; she is younger than you*expected to find her—per- haps she is not over forty-eight or fifty—and she has taken care of her- self and uses all the arts of the toilet to improve her beauty: that is all; row, come right back with me and be-, have yceurself,” whispered Miss Pin-| chett, rising to lead Ettie up to her rel- atives. “Pirchy, I know you would not de- caive me! Is she, though, really, Low?” inquired Ettie. “Yes, my dear, on my word,” said | Miss Pinchett,/as they crosse dthe | room, When they stood before Mrs. Gre- vilie and Lois, Miss Pinchett said: “I hepe you will forgive poor Ettie, madam; she is country-bred, and failed at first to recognize in you the relative sLe expected to find.” “Oh, I will forgive-her for the im- plied compliment she has paid me in} sincerely doubting that I could possi- | bly be her grandmother!” said Mrs. | Greville, smiling and drawing the blushing girl to her bosom. “And now, Ettie, dear, as you fa- vored me with a description of the grandmother you expected to meet, let Lois hear what sort of an aunt you pictured to yourself?” But Ettie stood, embarrassed and blushingly, until Lois suddenly siezed and kissed her, and said: “Mamma, this child ought to have upper and be put to bed.’ ’” “Yes, certainly; I rang once, but you Ring again.” Lois did so, and this time the sum- mons was answered and the necessary | orders given. And in a very few min- utes a nice little supper for two was served in Mrs. Greyille’s dressing room. Ettie and Miss Pinchett sat down | and did ample justice to the delicacies spread before them. | After this the service was removed, and Celeste directed to show Ettie and her attendant to her chamber, he ’ CHAPTER LIII. When Mrs. Greville had kissed and dismissed Etti he beckoned Lois to her side and said: “My dear, just go after that girl make an excuse to help Ettie unpack | send Celeste back to me; and then make an excuse to help Etti eunpack , her trunk; and do you notice what she | has got, and what she has need of:) and then come and tell me.” | Lois flew and overtook the party on the stairs, and accompanied them to the door of an upper. chamber, imme- diately above the dressing room of! Mrs. Greville. -Here she dismissed Celeste, and in- trodtced Ettie into a spacious apart- ment, elegantly fitted up, the wall pa- per, carpets, curtains and chair covers ot which were all of the most delicate pea-green and white. “Mamma had this room fitted up ex- pressly for yeu, my dear; how do you like it?” said Lois. “Oh, it is splendid!” cried Ettie, | with a burst of enthusiasm. “There is nothing splendid about ft, dear; it is simply what I should call a neat room for a young girl.” “Oh, my goodness! Our rooms at Burnstop were as neat as ever they could be, but they were not like this, were they, Pinchy? Why, here every- thing is silk, and lace, and velvet; and all corresponding, even down to tle basin and ewer—everything is green and white!” “Well, dear, isn’t it as easy, while one is fitting up a room, to ve the furniture to correspond as not? “[ suppose everything is easy to my splendid grandmother. But where is Finchy’s trunk? There’s mine; but I don’t see Pinchy’s.” “Here, dear,” said Lois, opening a door leading into an adjoining bed- room, neatly but plainly furnished; “here is Miss Pinchett’s room, and her trunk is in it. If you both please, you can leave the intervening door open, so that you may talk all night if you lik “Then, if you please, ma’am, I’ll re- tire at once,’ said Miss Pinchett, thinking, perhaps, that the two young girls might like to be left alone to- gether for a while. And, after kissing Ettie-and taking up the cat and dog, she marched into the little room and shut the door behind her. “Is she angry?” inquired Lois. “Oh, no—Pinchy is never angry; she is only going to say her prayers. I dare say she will open the door before sho eooe ta hed” renlied Fttie, “And now, dear,” said Lois, “I will hei, pou cw uupace Your Waite.” KEttie, with great pride, unlocked her trunk and displayed her mourning out- fit—everything brand new, and of the best materials to be procured at Corn- port; and all her underclothing in dozens, and got up in the best style of Aunt Prissy, the laundress at Burns- top. “See,” said Ettie, confidently turning her treasures over, “how nice every- ining is! The black is as black as ink, ard the white as white as snow! It is true, I haven’t got anything as shiny and watery like my splendid grand- mother‘s dress; but then, they don’t | have ‘em down our way.” “No, I suppose not,” said Lois, with adding, “my dear, I think you had better not take out any tring more than just what you want to-night.” And when Ettie had done so, Lois led her up to the easy-chair in front of the dressing table and made her sit down in it ,and then kissed her and bade her gcod-night, saying: “My apartments are on the right side of the hall as you go down stairs. If you should feel lonesome or fright- ened, er ill, send your Pinchy to my door ,and I will come to you.” | Meanwhile Lois returned to Mrs. | Greville’s dressing room. | “Well, my dear, has the poor child aj proper outfit?’ Lois shrugged her shoulders, as she } answered: “Mamma, just fancy that she has; nothing.” “‘Nothing!”’ echoed Mrs. Greville. | “Nothing whatever?” | “And yet there was a heavy trunk that went up stairs, if I may judge) from the many times I heard the man set it down and breathe.” “Oh, yes! a regular sea-chest, mam- ma, And packed full of such a lot of ' crown of her head to the sole of her | elegant white morning dress, | with black, sitting before her toilet | wa | carriage to be at the de | led, my dear.” { ment, inquiring, with a scared look: rubbish! coarse alpaca, and coarser delaine dresses—made in such a style! | and cotton underclothing and night- dresses, and—in short, mamma, though the poor child is as vain of her ward- robe as if it were the outfit of a prin- cess, there is not an article in her pos- session fit for her to wear! And so you may just make up your mind to send her to Blank’s to-morrow and or- der her a complete wardrobe from the foot! Late in the morning Ettie dressed herself with much care in the very best dress she possessed; and, not- withstanding the contempt of ‘Lois. Ettie looked very neat and pretty in her plain black alpaca, with her white linen collar and cuffs. At least she she surveyed herself in ing glass. Then, leaving Miss Pinchett at her morning prayer Ettie hurried out and rapped at Lois door, exclaiming: “Maiden aunt! maiden aunt! I am ready to go down to breakfast when you are!” “Come in, you troublesome elf!) Iam likely to have a nice, quiet time with you!’ said Lois, laughipgly, from within. Ettie entered, and found Lois, in an rimmed ». Her maid stood behind her, ug the last twirl to a sunny rin: Lois rose smilingly to meet Etti and then conducted her down stairs. In the 1 kfast parlor they found Mrs. Greville and a handsome young man, whom the former presented. to Ettie her uncle, Welby Dunbar. Ettie had never heard of this uncle before, yet his face seemed so familiar that she could scare take her eyes trom it. Ettie had ne had but one imperfect look at Colonel Greville, but it was the strong resemblance between | the two men that perplexed her now. During breakfast, Mrs. Greville ap- reared overshaddowed with a deep gloom, that spread its contagion throughout the circle. Scarcely a word spoken beyond those demanded by the courtesies of the table. After . Greville arost ying: my love, take Ettie out this and get her whatev he re- “Lois, di coming to her hoped the arr! would have arou from brooding o “It did for a little while. She vy quite cheerful t evening, even g: but, you see, she has relapsed! \V you'drive out with us? Sha we set you down at your office doo) “If you please, dearest.” Lois rang the bell, a .” said Welby Dunbar, ide, in silence, “I had 1 of this young lady sed your dear mother | thi | d ordered the | por in half av hour, and then took Ettie up stai get ready for the shopping expedi They were soon in the carriage and driving toward the city. They set Mr. Dunbar down at his office door, and | then turned into Broadway. And, if Ettie was astonished at the great city | ight, she was no less so when | dors under the blaze | un, | 1 | bazars in the city. They entered it, | and passed in turn throu: gh all the va- rious departments, Lois selecting in | each all that she deemed necessary for | Ettie. i | They were soon at home again, where they found ‘luncheon spread in | the dining room. Mrs. Greville joined them at the ta- ble, but she looked more despairing than ever. The neal was finished in silence, after .which, as before, Mrs. Greville retired to her private apart- ments. Lois took Ettie up stairs to examine the things that had bee nsent home. As soon as they were alone in Ettie’s chamber the latter said: “Maiden aunt, what is the matter with my splendid grandmother? She looks very dull to-day.” “About two weeks ago, a great blow fell upon poor mamma; it nearly crushed her; when it came, she fell to the floor in a dead swoon; I neyer knew her to swoon before, not even at the death of her nearest and dearest. And ever since that blow fell, she has looked just as you see her now.” “She seemed cheerful last night.” “For the first time since the news came; it was not a healthy cheerful- ness; only the excitement of your ar- rival; that was all; this morning she was as low as ever.” “I wish I could arrive every day, then. But, maiden aunt, what was the blow that fell upon her?” “My dear, it was the sudden death of her only brother, to whom she was once fondly attached, but with whom she had quarreled many years ago; and frem whom she has held herself. aloof ever since! Poor mamma thinks | now that she was wrong from the be- ginning, and very wrong of late, in re- jecting the repeated overtures for a reconciliation.” “But why was she so implacable?” “She did not approve of the life he “And what sort of a life was that?” | “I do not know, Ettie! But I do know that mamma suffers very mach! Oh! it is dreadful! dreadful! to hear | of the death of a dear brother, to | whose earnest entreaties for reconcili- ation we have returned only disdainful answers!” “Poor, splendid grandmother!” “And now, Ettie, I have something ' to teil you! Do you know that this death has made it necessary for us all | to take a long journey? We should | have started before this, had we not | waited for your arrival. I suppose we shall go now in a very few days.” “Another journey! Oh!” exclaimed Ettie, and, in spite of the gravity of the occasion, she was delighted. CHAPTER LIV. We left Astrea, standing like a de- stroying angel, over the prostrate form of Rumford. 5 Venus, from her lair under the bed, hending, all that passed. She now emerged from her place of conceal- “Hi, honey, what you hit him with? Not de poker, ’cause dere it stan’s; you must a hit him wid sometin., dough! You's done for him, anyways, an’ sarve him right—ole scamp! I's sorry for him, too! poor, forsook ole sinner, gone straight te de debil wid- out a minute to ‘pent of his sins! It get you into a heap o’ trouble, I’s 1 i | ' had witnessed, without fully compre- | sure’s ever you're born! Rat you tell me yet, what you hit him Oh! laws a messy on top 0” my poor ole black soul!” she suddenly broke off and exclaimed, as she happened to look up from the prostrate ot Rumford to the avenging form of AS- trea. There she yet stoc>, in the sane attitude in which she had pronounced the doom of Rumford—her form di- lated and elevated, her head thrown back, her hair streaming behind, her arm raised on high, her terrible eyes fixed upor her fallen victim—there she stood an awful and majestic presence, | but turned to a lifeless statue! “My goodness, gracious me ative! what de matter wid her? Honey chile! Zora, I say! Miss Zora! M Astr I mean! Mrs. Full den! Speak to me, honey me! It’s I, Wenus! your frien’ Wenus, chile! What de matter wid you?’ cried the woman going slowly around and around Astrea, but not daring to approach too near, much less to touch her, “Oh, Lor! she’s turned to a dead corpe! She’s turned to a standin’ up dead corpe!” said Venus, finding that she could make no impression what- ever upon this statue. And, opening her throat in a suce ay-split- tiug shrieks, she ran through the house ringing all the bells, and finally sound- ing the alarm bell in the hall. na short time an- This clangor v swered by the ru: within rhey front 1 some thundering at the back lnnittance. house. at the hearing of the some thumping un distractedly from one other, in her utter contu- for some time de! her own st, and drawing bolts instead, of undrawing 2 last, however, she succeeded in ing the doors and admitting the clam- oring crowd. She now saw that it w daybre and that the negroes ir working clothes, nd had probably been on their way to the fields when summoned by the alarm bell. “What de row? “Is ole marse took ill?” “De house a-fir sion of id n't you speak, Wenuw These were some of the questions put by the excited crow s they athered around the affrighted woman. 2e silent, all of you! Ord there!” id the veice of the overseer, Vv now seen advancing through t ng. “What the matter he lat has happened?” Wenus know ! were the an- given by the erowd. t is it,“woman?’ inquired the pr, standing bef Venus. oh, dear! Oh, Marse Stepp’ you fool! Is your master Or Zora run away again, or what is the matte Yes, si Venus, w “Tl be bi me in one ins sir! yes, 1 ole mars: dezd corpe hersel “Zora killed Rumford!” echoed the overseer in horror, while the ne; stood around, dumb with const ti I gwine; "deed I nging her hands in you don’t And turned to a dead corpe herself, sir! a-standin” up dead corpe, horrow- ful to behold!” Yor an instant the overseer stoot azing at the speaker in a state of nd then recovering him- self with a start, he said: “Where are they?” “Here, sir, her Oh, please to come in with me; I's ’fraid © my life to go in dere by myself!” said Venus. Steppins needed no further im tion. He hurried toward the fa ehamber, saying to the crowd of ne- groes that were pressing behind him: “Back, back, all of you, except those that I call. Venus, Cybele, Saturn, Sam—come with me!” And Steppins, followed by the four negroes he had named, entered the chamber. As scon as the eyes of the everseer fell upon the group we have described -—the awful form of Astrea standing over the prostrate body of Rumford— he paused im breathless dismay. But when some of the boldest among the party would have laid hands upon them, he suddely exclaimed: “Stop! I daren’t touch ‘em, nor al- low them to be towehed! Sam, saddle Saladin, and ride as fast as ever you ean and fetch Dr. Herkimer! He's a physician and a magistrate, besides be- ing your master’s nearest neighbor and most irtimate friend. He is altogether the properest person to send for” Steppins had searcely finished be- fore Sam started on his errand. The messenger was exeited. the Lorse was fleet, the distance short and the occasion imminent. In less tham half an hour Dr. Her- ; kimer arrived, amd was shown at once into the chamber of death. First of all, on entering, his eyes en- countered the rigid form of Astrea. “That girl is cataleptie—not dead. Lay her om this bed, some of you.” Venus and Cybele darted eagerly forward to obey the order. They laid their hands upon the stony form of Astrea. And at their touch, as if it had dissolved the spell that bound her, her form relaxed and she sunk into their arms, limber, feeble and pliable as the meekest child! As they Iaid her om the bed, her eyes scftened from their steny stare, and closed. “She's rot a dead corpe, after all,” said Venus to herself, “an’ it’s all de worse for her, poor, dear chile, for now de law will held ef her for a-kill- in’ of ole marse, dough she did it in self-fense, an” he richly ’sarved it. L could bite my *fernal tongue off for tellin” on her? But den, I thought s dead herself, an’ i so seared I had p with about me! Never mind, dough; Yong as she’s “live, an’ has to answer for dis. I knew what I do! I's de exl- est one as saw her do it! I's de onli- | est witness *gainst her! An’ I jes up an’ "ny eberyting! and eben eat my own words! ’Deed will I!” Venus scon had an opportunity of putting ker resolution into practice. Dr. Herkimer knelt down beside the fallen form of Rumford, felt his pulse and examined his face. “This is an attack vt apoplexy! Land a hand here, Sam, and you, also, Sat- urn, and lift your u aster up, and take him to his own room!” fraid, chile! Dey have you up to court (Lo Be Continued) =