Plymouth Banner, Volume 2, Number 31, Plymouth, Marshall County, 6 October 1853 — Page 1

11 Ä MM 1311 y Y Iii ES . L .V 11 CTsy :n Tita k&brtJiM l t:a 5 --tj luii i i ioiirm 3 iä3s bsi öS ä BS äa Esa Ld "T HE ST A RS P A N G L E D B A N N EU. LONG M A Y IT W A V E. O'E R TUE LAND OF TUE F 11 E E A N D T II E HOME OF T II E T R A V E." A Family .Newspaper, EcvtteJ to EJuralian. Morals, Science, Agriculture, Cciiiinm, Clitics. Markets, Ceneral Iiilelligenr?, Foreign and Domestic Xcws,

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Volume 2,- Number SL

A T? u4w) 4 via 0 Vi L'CMMi:U EVER V Til '.' USD AT MORNING. 'JSC 23Ü!2 K IS. 73 TZ. icS a U pni l in advaace, - - -At the end of six months, - ' '.t1 :" IrlAvt.- J until the end of t.'ie year i-r 1 n'i'iv'e terms will be strictl x j : i ! untii ail 7 ,-X iiiDor will be discontinue :rem;e-v.re paid, uulessatthe op'.ior.oi the . ß . . i'uMisher. ADVERTISING A iver ' inenis v. illbe coiispicuo'.::lyi:iser-, t J. at tu nr crpi nu . ami c a;s "r . . V. .. ... 1 ..ft..? tinj'. ... , ...1.,., Hdvertis'a,T is done ly ic e.a.. VUah ?:.Tn.nMneatio is jro.u & distance . l.nii ! i K . I. rp,-,l p.ist-Paid to the Editor. ! I u. , . i ve&nfst ' odu'-t'to'i 1 1 The following lines are the pro of a young lady preparatory to the puD-

1 Ml. --.vi -it nnees. vir.

v ,,f fnf 10 :n.:s) SinscrlionsirJ! mot hers. U l. rr to love her. n ury u-;?!, a (aW.yy of do atrv a most: and msmeiia iismiuum iiiiuucauoa lli'l "l,c "u''m'S u' "l! "",c-lui''

Kich additional insertion, , . -r,c f and you will, I know. She'll mike you. uhen she wont from hi n he transferred ; deed. Uut perhaps ha liny some time; I j leading him to the gambling table; in rying so wildly? -WliO 15 that burst

rrA,iVilnii''lcss .hau auaK, c:..'i! ,nol (o von " (..it .1.. .1.. .,fr. ,.;., .1,., hmiUr. will ho;e so. Lut nothing now tiiat I i truth, that he was fast becoming, if not the door 50 furiously, and flies

ndered .1 sl!"C- , or,;rill,rn mark ' "Never. Loui.-se, never; she'll never -i;tf,r, irP haii watched and ruar- tan do for his good shall be left un.!ou.'.,; ! already, an irrevocable victim to reckless I parlor where are seated the family

J , (";.",.m1ti-f.i.-nnr!he.T!-1 rci;iL nif luv lipr and don't voudareev-l i . 1 c- , !,o.-. t-Jr .hr I And so it was that this Rcntle beius ; dissipation. And t!ie father feared and lie. the strantr intruder, has

vr;.r,.its. or thov vrillbfcnuMishcJ until- 0r a-nin to sj v ?o. Dj;;'t Jet ni3 hear uin 1S iL-l.kl on thm r.s n ': excused the coldness and disrespect of : trembled when he heard these thm;s, but Merrill's feet. He clasps his arms

hcatiou o: a literary M.gazine in w.iiu, , y0Ur mother ?o long? 1 tnought you iovwhen the monster death claimal her as ed m all of yo;i; and I know you did his own: i you do nw. Hat you won't any longer; ""l mv pnorci . she ll gt you all from me, even you, dariJ .-il b-jwa... Hng K -ja. aiiJ K:lciu whom j-v; ,ieK1 in Ye dear companions of my silent hour-;, ; , . u3 ever

Ho-.v r.ft amid the worlVs neglect have ye JJ.-fuilcd my lonely ho:ir,-,and rheer' 1 m s,:il; , Ami u:t wiien none Mere iouiiu to o.e , None with a kindred conscious:! ss tnlarel; . Who would no: smile the Ic..s if I were not, And wlwrn all -.'eem' I a solitude anuml; 'Tis then 1 have felt your sweet companion s!::p: Tis tl.eti my tod-woru mind has been rrireshed. j Dear IJ j .ks, 1-y you, vv!io.?e pa,'es oft, I.'e.'ore my eyes have strew"d sa many sweet ; And variegated flowers . Oft w ie:i dark clouds j Of gloom and sorrow have around me spread, j I've t-aru'd to thee, nor iurn'd in vain j I-'or cemfort l uttl.trev. es one more bless'J, Y.'hicli tau,' at my waul er in feet The path which lea U lo h.ipp;ne.?s Which kindly brings the v.ounded heart, A present solace fjr every jXrief. Tl e boa? led weabii that ndia c lain', N.;r yet dull poverty an! it ; attendant ills, ?dy IJjali.i shall pari tt.. N cny task 'Twould be, to fre-.dy give away I he fooj that uio.it. s i.slnins in. CK LI A. Tlie Happy Ereiiiiij. II jw blest i-? he whose tran piil mind, When life declines reriilU a-iiri The years tha. time ha cast behiul, And reaps delight fro.n toil an lpain. So when the transient storm is past, The su Idea gloom and driving sho.ver Th sweetest snüshine i?tlu last The lovelie st is the evening hour. From the Olive IJran-h. i:V MAKV A. EURNETT. CHAPTER I. "I ncrrr will call her mother never! She, our mother, indeed! Why, Louise, she dons not look much older than you; and then, so proud, so conscious of her beauty. For she is beautiful, I cannot help saying; but her face is not like our own dear mother's and I'll hate hr. I'll hate you, girl-mother, and would you were here to iiar mc!" Thus broke forth e noble looking bov. as lie stool in ths 11; ids t of his brothers an l sisters, a little motherless band. .Nob lc-loo'iini, did 1 i 51 V Why, he lookeu reaiij legal lue a very mug. as he stood there, his cheek3 burning, eyes flashing, and o.ie hand burned in the mass of midnight curls thit rolled back so gloriously from his white forehead. Harry Merrill was only sixteen, bathe was the eldest of that little group, and since his mothers death, had been brother not merely, but teacher, friend, father, mother to them: yes, all had those little oae3 found in him! They saw not much of their father, for the business of the law kpt him "all ths long days." as little KUen said, away in the city. Harry had loved Iiis mother bs boyhood geldoni loves. To him itseemed that there could be nothing so good, so beautiful on earth as she. And when she was taken from him by death, he prayed that he, too, might die. he thought, in his agony, that there was nothing left to lure him earthward; he looked on his dear father's grief-clouded face, on the weeping trembling little on?s, now as it were, lost, bewildered without a guide, and he. resolved "I will be tlrnr mother." And faithfully did he fulfill his task; he forgot self, and became their guide, tender friend, in truth, a real mother. Louise, who was next to him, was now twelve; then came little Willie, a child of eight years, and then the pets, the darling littie twins, a boy and girl of four years. And indeed to these last ha 1 Harry been a mother-friend all the one they ever 111 tii 1 1 1 i knew for it was when their existence dawned, that their sainted mother had soared to her native sky. "ll-irry, d?ar, dear brother, don'. talk

so, Perhaps she is not proud; I am sure I did not think she looked m the day she casus w i l ! 1 father. She looked real kindlv. an J when she went away, kissed us

uii on ynu. ui i uu iuh diu uiic, mu 1 a kiss. I inean. you know? 15at tou ! , 1 1 I Tl. ... . . . . . , aresucii a tall blackeyed young ruin, a!- j most as tall rs father, you know, that I suppose s'.ie thought it would not b?. just what shall I say? po-ite, tiiat's t." ! ; an.i Louisa luu;hed merrily. "Oh," she j f continued. "I know we shill all love her. I ! und she will love us, end be kind to us. ! S! is so gentle and pretty; she must be igoo l. Her kiss was like our own dear j an Louisa luu;hed mjrrily. you aain couple her inm with on 1 1 ,1 sid her kiss was line our angel mother s. , And me you'll cast ins oft now, you 11 ; f,r0t .n.-, vnn won't want mv can: anv lorjet inc. vou won 1 nuai " -aic u Il,J1r. 'vlie she comes. How willing j vim ar. tn w-plrnm. her in r.i v nUce! Oh. 1 j,; h,nv can VQ whea j have been : 6ince our lilotj,,.r .uve yon to me for i s!,e didmollwt give, left vou to me, for j mv OWn: but she I lure vou lrom ni2 to !lt."r;:.lf A t!, l:iv closed his arms 1 - - . - - I dUout the infanta and wept as he lud not done since his niother'ej burial. j "II irry, wh(t do you mean: 1 break mv heirt if vou talk to, You'll t sobbed i Louise. '-You know wj all love you, I next to fther, best of all the world. I Vou have, been an angel to us tver since j poor mamma left us all these long ye&rs. : And Wv alwavs shill love you just as dearly as we do now. ow. No new mother from you. as you say, or will ver tike us ini;e u-? luv you less. "Well, Louise, then if you love you must all be v.iy chiiilr.n when comes, just as you are now. Oh. me, tili; V O ! I J must it would kill mc if she should you from me. Why does father want o bring her here? Wc don't w ant he any said, motht r; the; is our mother," i pointing to the portrait of his mother up- ! 011 the wall; "and there can be no other ; for us; there shall be none other for mc. j And, Louise, Willie, til of you, promise me you won't love this woman, that you 1 won't mind her, tint you won't fill her mother, that you'll hate her even as 1 will. Do you promise?"' Louise looked at him wonderingly and mournfully. Then she took his hand and J led him to the portrait, his mother's pic- ! tured immnge, and said, "Harry, would j she bid us do so? Do you suppose she j is looking down on you with delight? would .she not teil us 1 is our duty to try to please our dear father? would she I not sjy we should be sinful did we dare j question his right or wisdom in bringing I her here? would she not tell us it is our duty to love and obey her for her sake, if' for nothing else? Oh, dear brother, for our spiiit-mother's sake, in remembrance of her prayers that we should always b good iu m.inury of her dying words, Always, dear lambs, obey, love and cliTish your poor father, in memory of these try to love her. lie was in part subdued. "Sister, 1 11 try to be respectful to her, I can.iol love her, and I never will, never can call her mother. And now, darlings, we shan't have many moro opportunities to dwell upon our blessed mother's memory without intrusion, or to talk about her, or sing the songs she used to sing with us. So now let us sing perI bans for the last time, that one she used to sing an 1 play so often." And he sat down to the piano and commenced to play and they joined with their little voices, "Home, Sweet Home." Hut he soon ceased, "Oh, it was sweet home, darlings, whtu she, our mother, was here," "Children," said Mr. Merrill, on a morning shortly after the scene with which wc commenced, -I shall bring home to night your new mother. So be ready to receive her, darlings, as will become my children. She will be a good mother to you always, and I want you to be dear chjldren, and seek to make her happy iu her new home. She has no mother nor father, nor sisters nor brothers, all alone iu this world is she. Then see how much her happiness will depend j on you." All that day Harry watched with a bursting heart the preparations going on with the housekeeper and servants to get the house ready for its "new mistress." Furuiture was moved, re-arranged, carried from one 100m to another, and, in his eyes, all things underwent a change. He kept silent however, till the housekeeper proceeded to move Iiis mother's ! portrait from its place over the piano where it had always hung, suggesting that "it might now just as well hang in Miss Louise's room," He confronted her

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Plymouth, I&arshall Comty,

l1 - with the "violence of a ramiac, as she afterwards expressed it. "Don't you dare to move my mother's picture: My angel mother: and are they . tt) rt move vouf uear unmade lrom my: ;irM Waiijpanntlipr i mmfiin? No! not ! xv?ule I 1 Au l s 1 ... . .... ....u l.r... 1 :.t i the surprised woman let it re,jU;ni anj crept away, w Col5M have coiih over yoi Oil leriti,T "what : mir master she ncver SjNV ili,n g0 wi'lu before." j And II irry stood and mused, and tha I rjt. f.,ir0pS coursed down his cheeks; he ' liKlU u,n xsslrda lcm. Ue had re-ard-' jl3 mother, as we have before sai l. ; sacred charge entrüste 1 wholly J to jjim a i,;m. 1 rt.;.i, 1.. an.i now privilege would be no longer his; 'twould i fr.r. ii ' r,i and hv tvlin-n? . r,r,i6ncc would'besacri'u g-.

i ; ... he

for Other's keein It seemed ,,u,re,l at his uukm luess. except to weep recollected the msny large uemanus liar- lap. Can tliat be Harry MerriU? Can tn

- :r ...ths n,r,ni 1 when h was alone or with Louise uev- rv had ol late made upon him lor money. he he who so Ions nso stood 111 thai

n 1 he hid wi-hed that it miht : er brealheu auht to her husbiu.l; Luit tnougii he hail not before given a thought j m all the pride ol beauti.'ul boyhood, hi

another was comin the hol v ' was l'ver trying to win his regard by j as to ho w his son could be appropriating cheek flushed with the excitement c

. .. . iainer .'.TiM,a ii,.,- onn,,. I'.ro 5c ih nr. .t ii r: jrTr cirifU(i Willi., d.p'pro, mit Li. J ... Tu' .iT.u...... i .t l ....r.;,, IU lllC UdllVIIC,JII.I IIIVUlUKll Hlfciouui. r.ilt3 iiihiiic- throu -h the -rove- and in a moment more thev 1 r were theri r Mrtil and his vouns bride, or as iu an-; ...imipd lit-rtn thf r hil.iren thier " mnther." Ah! 'twas well he was at taat mo ment too happy to observe the stranse, haughty, vet grief-stifled expression that came over the face of his Harry at the' isoul of the word "mother:" and then . piery flJSj,es that beamed from his dark, i burning eves, as he directed them to that , beautiful, gentle being! She kisseil them, ! , 'mi ir.irrv thev i jtlierd round her. i Ik came not near till 3I1.2 extended her i " w. , I . " - CI - I t I . 1 - 1. : . . , .1 l. A Ii ...... l.r. - j I.dll i lUWaiOS iillll, IUI i ich 1 vi i'u 1 ' not his hand, but iust bent his hea 1 ia a ! j bow so strangely cold and formal! His , lather looked at him with a Strang:, ; troubled expression, and said, "Harry!"' And the young creature at his side looked up to him with a surprised, inquiring face and quivering lip. CHAPTER. II. Mr. Merrill had indeed found one who was a mother to his orphans. She wis very young and she made herself as one of them almost gaiuing their hearts by the tender love and interest, with which she devoted herself to them. All but Harry loved her, and called her "dear mother." And how could they help it? She interested herself in all their liulu plans, soothed their childish griefs, was ready to be their interceder with papa, their teacher, friend playmate even. Harry's prediction was iu part fulfilled; for though they loved him dearer than bef .re, if possible, yet they came not to him so often for help, ror "dear new erstood all about thir lesI sons as well as Harry." "And." as Louise said, "Harry was preparing for college, and needed all his time, so if mammi j could help them, they would not have to hinder him so often. And then 'twas so; pleasant to read Corrinne to her. for she could pronounce the long French words' so beautifully for her when she stumbled upon one, that she could always imitate I her better than she could Harry, she S thouiht: and then she 1 Virgil . so! read well, and made their geometry so plain to them." " One dav soon after "new mamma" come. Harrv came home and found his father assisting to move the piano which had been his mother's from the place in the parlor where during her life it had stood, to the sitting room. With au ashy face and quivering lip, he sought his sister. "Louise, what is thit for?" "liecause papa has sent to Baltimore for a new piano for mamma, which will come this afternoon; and papa wishes il to be in the parlor. So he said th old one could be moved to the sitting-room." "The old one! Dear, dear mother, you are forgotten by all but me. They are taking everything from my sight that tells of you. They hare forgone n you, but nsver will j our Harry nerar." "Oh, Harry come and siiig this duett with me, please. Mamma is going to play, and it will be so pretty." And Louise put her arms about his neck, "just as she used to before she came," Harry thought. "Yes, de'ar Harry, please join with us; 'twill be right pleasant. You will, I know," said Mrs. Merrill. "Please not to address me by that term again-madam. For if you are mistress here, 1 am not aware of the authority by which you presume to uddress me so familliarly. And,' Miss Louise, did you think I'd mingle my voice with that piano? Know that when I am inclined for music, I go down to the sitting room, to

V l'ö do" 111 I it Sacrlee that lllS lath-. uc?i,al1 uuk uay iuuiup ms n iu, nnu u, nmtan ui unvaja euij iiigsuLii mu:. ur, iui iiicii; oic i.ii; jniiic iuuuuj, 3 II mn,,'lr t'"t nhw in' An I ths sweet child Louise would i demands without inquiry. raven locks, the same high, white, blueer stiouiu ever gr. e ano. i i.t-vjiav, , ,!., . ! n- r:.: : i r i i .1 u

l,.,,i ,.! l,m. l.!Mi ln,l h c : cep w.ieu sue 5nv net mouie. a up. ins nisi impulse w a3 iu nuiB unme-

i mi il,.-r'a Th. thmipht nt-nnv t(1: troubled, or siw her bending over the ia- ,diately to his son, tell him the crue? rU- seemed bursting.

!,. i . i f. ...l ,.J"rui. 1 strurnent to conceal her tears when Ihr- mors, and to implore him to assure him I ins; eves, now all

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Indiana, Thursday, Geichs? 6,

my dear mother's hallowed one." And

with ilishiug eves he left the room. i with the fondest delight, and i:i her let"Oh. if father were here now!"' said : iers to him would beseech him to come,

Louise. ''What if he had heard him then? lll.it, - it lfr.lllimlkl ivt tvl f I.1IIIT IT --ut ..iu ma m ..ü, '-Nver, Louise never, diriing, shall I te vnnr father, an I char' von not: to 11 l,03r llarrj cannot love me u lie musl uesPl5e in- 211 1 giit- v'ln "uteriy, "he is not to hlamo. And 1 uu-ht not tü uirmur wiien 1 have sj nnuy here "ho do love me. An 1 yet," she siid,"it iä so biltt'r U) kllüxv lUdt ou are !,ltefl-'1 to a"y. Why does llirry despise me? 0!l- if ,12 would let me love him and be Oh. if he would let me love him and be r strange step-son was ever trvins to win his regard by 'ml favors. And though bitter was her disappointment at his cruel repulses, ehe wold not turn against him, would not .... im ... n . . . . ..... .iiiLiY r.iz r.tiT rii . i i i ... w. w... - to play; and she would follow her brothnar.. was s in I I f i NJ'J ml I .. .... 1 . ..Tl 1. . .11 .. r.. crall'isav, Hurry, UJ l II y OU pe ralsl ; in this wickednets?' I ut lie would not be conquered. II remembered Louise's words, "She w ill l!La l,,ve lltr. aiul sllll ü5 i said, "She never ehail. j Ihere. was one diCiculty which perplextit A P t . ea ,ll,n Really. n e nave saui mat ue resolved never to call his father's Wl,e "mottier, and to mis ne uelermiuII I It tl It! Ciiiy adhered, lie wouiu not call her mother then w.!,at could he call her? And when he epoke of her, or was obliged to mention her name in conversation. had not the thought of the siufuhress of the principle whieh actuated him arisen, ! it would have been amusiu to observe his embarrassment. Mrs. Merrill observ ed it. and one day she said to him, "Vou may call me by name, Laura, or Mrs. Merrill;" just which may b most agreeable to you." A ad so he called her "Mrs. Merrill," and though his father knit his brows, auJ the little on.:s looked bewildered, yet none opposed it. CHAPTLil III. "Dear, darling Henry, don't forget me, do not forget your poor Louise, will you?" sobbed the weeping and aHeclionate girl, as she gave her brother a farewell kiss. "Don't forget me, for I shill not forget you. I will pray lor you every night and day, and wr:te to you- so oiten. And, I aear ununcr, will you not answer au my letters, won't you? ' "Yes Louise, I will answer your let - ters, and l shall not lorget you: oe sure of that, darling, and don't cry so, for," and he bent down and breathed it in her ear, "you can't think how glad I am to go; how I've longed for this day ever since t r t t 1 ehe came; I've longed for the tlay w hen I should leave for college; for, Louise, bhc, you know, will not be there." Poor Louise only wept the mere, and shuddered at this proof of his vindictivencss. "And you'il always come home on vacations, won't you?'' she sobbed, 'Terhap3 so," he hurriedly said, lie could not restrain his tears though he tried so much to, as he kissed little Willie and Eddie and Ellen, for the infants brought 1 ' mother to his mind. Ana lie went I anJ stot-i before that dear portrait, and I looked a long, long look, as If to fix the j expression of those features forever on his soul, and at last took it down, and pressed his lips to the senseless image. Then came the fathers farewell words and blessing; and having grasped h;s pa rent's hand, he wept as he felt on h's brow the fatherly kiss, and heard the trembling voice as it said, "God bless you, iny son, and keep you from evil. Y'ou aie going 1 far from us, but oh, my boy, though 1 j shall not be with you, do not sin. You j will be tempted but do not yield. Y'ourj father will always pray God to bless you.' He was going, but there was one yet to whom he had not said farewell. "Harry," said his father, "your mother." He turned to her, and with little less than his old coldness gave her his hand. 'Twas the first lime he ever had, and she! took it iu both her own, and burst into tears, through which she murmured, "that the Father may bless and protect you ev er, shall be my constant prayer." And he was gone. Three years had passed a. vay since Harry Merrill left his home for the University, five hundred miles away three whole years, and yet not once during that time had he visited that home. When his vacation came round, he would write to his father that some very dear cla3-mate had invited him to pass the vacation with him at his home: and that if his father did not object, he would prefer to do so, And so, notwithstanding poor Louise al-

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1853.

! wavs looked forward to these periods portraying the pleasures they would en joy toother, yet he came not. and bitterly would she weep at thess disappointmenis. Jjiit 12 wrote to her Clten and uueetionateiy, ami also 10 his lamer, out never to ins monier, uor uia us neraitudu to lur 111 any manner whatever. j j J j r5!l Un , wui All at once rumors reached Mr. Mr - that his sou was not doin well at the liversity; that be was going the down1 ward p3th to ruin; that bad associates could not believe them. Still, when he I as to ho w his son could be appropriating j such large sums, yet, now the question ; aroe in his mind, and he wondered he j had not before thought of and inquired .r. .. . ti t it mm it ...r-..,.. ...''. ctnni."...vfi.y.i. i nil iiuu iui n u. oiiuum iiuiutr u. ( . , it would break his heart to think that I i-uui u cil it I iai a a uu u u v w it io uci utj j in.....1.1 . .1 'i ( -t riir tii.ir. .I. i erwise. I will wait till I have more rea I Til j son to fear, I believe. And so lis wrote as affectionately and kindly as ever to the absent one, and ut - tered no word of the fears that were destroying his peace. And Harry, he wrote i n return, hut not as "of old." de grees a change came over the tone of his letters. First, they were a little less af fectionate, then short and strangely care less, at last quite, cold and reckless, con - taininga little save the desire expressed to be supplied with money, money, mon ev! no word of love for the children or j Louise. He had long since ceased to write to poor Louise those letters she prized so j much, saying as anexcuse that the duties' of his senior year were so numerous that! 1 he could find time only to write to papa,; land she must be contented to have him send her a word or two in papa's. And so for a time he sent her, in each letter to his father, some word of brotherly regard; and she tried to be contented; and to satisfy herself that his excuse was the real one. Cut now this was all over; no word ever came for her in the rude, cold, careless missives. Then it was that the cloud settled upon the father's brow, the dark cloud of trouble and crushing grief. For he could no longer doubt; he knew, he fell thathis body was altered, and he wrote he told his sou his fears; he besought him to come home, to tell him all, to pause ere it mi ight be forever too late. And the son j returned a disrespectful, cruel reply. which ended with another order fcr mon ey. This filled Mr. Merrill's cup of anguish to overflowing. "Oh! I could have forgiven him all he may have done, alt he may have sinned; I could have forgiven, forgotten all, but these words. But to think that he, my own, Harry, could have written thus to me. Oh, it is too much, too bitter." He wrote not to him again, but ice;i for he could stay from him no longer, and be the victim of such terribla doubts and fears. He must see his child, and lure him back, for he co-aid not think that this was impossible. And so he went. And j he found his worst fears realized. Aye, more than realized; for he had not dreamed of half the wretchedness to which his once innocent boy had fallen, and it well nigh killed the fond doating parent. He, the innocent boy who three years and a I half ago had left his arms so pure and no- ; ble, was no.v the inebriate, the gambler. Oh, how that heart-broken parent expostulated, reasoned, and prayed with that misguided, erring one! How he be sought him, in the memory of that saint ed mother, to reform! How he wept on his knees 3ye-, boiccd the knee to his child. But in vain. The once innocent, beautiful, noble boy, was degraded, and his heart was turned to adamant Then the father said, "well, let it be even so: do as seems to you best. But from this time forth, you ire no son of mine. Apply to me uot again for aid in any manner. Come not to us arain: I disown you, now and forever." Thus the father spoke, and though it ' broke his agtd heart, he meant it should be so; he meant never to recall those words. He returned to that home; he told the anxious ones there that they must ncver again think of Harry as one of them. "Mention him not, think of him not, for he is no longer a son or brother to us. He has sinned against God and me. He has broken my heart and he is no longer a son of mine." Anil poor Louise with what agony did she hear these words. "Her darling Harry, her beloved brother, who. ever since she could remember, has been such a friend to her. What could have come

TT7K 1 - TST-,WU QQ

rJigy ,t y f m .Via over him? It was wicked companions, she lv he would always think so. She loved him now wore than when ha was cood and with her. And papa j could not n'can lI,at he should never come anions thein anv more. Oh, if he would onlv let her p,o to him, she knew ..vUlUvmv-uUmv, Lilt tier lather was inexorable. '2o: j said, though they saw it was killing 1 him. CHAPTER IV. II ark what t;mult is that in the hall? what footsteps arc those rushing, hurs open into the ? See fallen at about ' the old man, and his hands fall upon his at room cheek flushed with the excitemeut of j youthful and virtuous ambi j that weary, trembling, haggar mbiiion? Can aggard. kneeling supplicant be he? Y s. it is even so. It I m iiv r.A. ... t (i . . ...... ...v. p.i A n i nf 1 11 .1 c t .i I 1. 1 1 1 r u luieueau, luougu mc .eins uu.i the same proud, flashswollcn and bloodshot re on his knees, while vus cuitiii u tiyu uit uy ui;iuuit.u n n n - i r n ! i r f r nr.fl I rv t, t . ; speak. And the poor old father looks i u ii ii ii - -un j. iiii ii i hi a j uur. in ii ii ii.il i r(iin un..i Im.i n-.t . n in ti'hiftll fi.lnl i and sternness are nung.ed, as if he were ; struggling between the impulse to lift j him and clasp him to his heart, or spurn j and throw him from him. At length j the boy raises his head, and in a voice i hoarse and shaking with -fearr screams out "Father, give me two thousand dollars or consign me to a prison cell! And quick! they are after me the officers! j they are on my track; they know I am ! here. Quick!" and he sprang to his feet j with a look and gesture of anguish ami i fear. Now the father rallies. "Father! And how dare you? 15 y what authority do you call me father? Did I not tell you never to call me father that you were none of mine? And I meant so. Depart !rom here. Ask me not for two thousand dollar?, neither fo' one farthing. I ncver will help you more. Away! Yon are none of mine." And he pushed the clinging arms from him, for the boy had again knell at hid feet. '0!i, my father,'' sobbed the supplicant, "you arc still my father. I Kill call you so, for you are all I have iu the world. If you forsake mc, to whom can I go? who will be my father? Oh, will you forsake 3 our wretched son? Do, oh do forgive me. I have siuued, but oh. j how I grieve, repent. I was led away, I j was so tempted, and was not strong enough to resist. I have gone from sin to sin, till now oh curse me not I have done such a sin I have " and he bent to his father's ear and whispered the fearful crime, for it was too awful to be breathed aloud. He meant the tone should have been a whisper, but in his agony he hissed it forth, so that all in the room heard, as though he had loudly uttered it; and oh, what a shudder thrilled each frame' Louise, with a moan, sank swooning in her. mother's arms. "Yes, father, even this your poor boy has done. They are coming I tell you they arc in pursuit of mc! But oh, only give me the sum I ask, and 'twill save perhaps my life." "No!" thundered the father. "Get up from your knees. Ask no pardon of me! Away with you! cr stay till Ihey come, if any are in pursuit of you. I will not save you from their grasp. Truly, I knew you had grown an adept in evil, but never could I have dreamed that her child," pointing to the portrait "could commit a crime so fearful as this. But you are not mine; up from your knees! I went on my knees to you, once, and you would not listen to ma.. Aye, on my very knees, you heeded me not. And now, I heed you not." Harry said no more, but seemed to have yielded to the power of unutterable fear and anguish. Now he would weep and sob convulsively, and then, fixing his gaze upon his mother's portait, would become calm, as if her spirit were communing with him, and whispering hopa in his ear from her home. above. And poor Louise roused herself, and, winding her arms about her father's neck, wept, and pleaded with all the strength of her childish eloquence, for that brother she loved so well. But in tain. He put her from him, saying, "it is impossible, seek not to make me; he is not fit to be of us, and he shall not." There was a silence, a deep and awful silence, save now and then a smothered moan of despair from the terror-stricken and repentant boy, as he wildly turned his burning eyes towards the windows, expecting to behold his pursuers. Tha father buried his face in his hand, and Louise, who had flown to Harry as if she would protect him, when she found her