Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 10, Number 4, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 26 July 1879 — Page 6

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THE MAIL

A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE,

MARGUERITE.

A modest maiden, yet a wise. With chestnut hair aod basel eyes, Whose glance one always liked to meet, Bo deepTtsgase, so calm and sweet Clear beaming with a quiet gftadneas. Subdued by an unknown sadness Too truthful in its holy love For aught but purer worlds above. A low broad brow, with dreamy thought And no ale aspirations fratight. A subtle mingling in the whole Of earthy clay and heavenly souK^^S A face that, meet it where 1 might, a& 'h In Joy to day, in woe to-ulght, If Would cause (and why I cannot tell) The hot tears to my eyes to-swell. Twin so, one day she crossed my path, 1 half believed her not of earth. Bo swett that wistful gaze in vain 1 turned away, for look again I must: and then knew too well.

By thai, in which e'en lay the spell, That hidden sometting told too true,9 ,* A That ne'er in heavenly gardens grew,, Ae yet, this blossom, all too rare For earthy soli and earthy air. J«-J Ab sweet, shy flower, 'twas not for long That thou did'st mingle with the throng Yi thou, unconscious, shed'st a ray Of purity athwart their way. As thou their guardian angel wert, Though now with heavenly armor girt. I'd not recall thee, though my eyes Are dim with tears though choking sighs Fill my sad heart with many an ache, I 'a still them all for thy dear sake. —Chamber Journal.

BEYOND.

CLARENCE THOMAS.

Long is the flight and lonely the way As the bird flies home at clese of day, But calm is the sleep and sweet the rest After it reaches its downy nest. Damp is the mould and dreary the tomb Before the fair bud bursts into bloom, But sweet the fragrance and rare the hue When flist it is bathed in morning dew. Rough is the road and long seems the day AN life's pilgrim struggles on his way, But bright is the Joy and sweet the peace After this troublesome life shall cease. t:

Temple Bar,

:n Hatton.

A crowd, composed mainly of fisherfolk, whose rough lace and hands matched their coarse weather stained garments, hung about the shut door of the old town hall of Drinkwater. The occasion that had brought these people together was apparently grave enough to keep them silent, for none of the jokes, half words, and persiflage customary when a considerable number of men and women well known to each other are met together, flew about, and, save the occasional cry of a' petulant child, not a sound broke the stillness. There was something remarkable in the ^breathless, absorbed attitude of this crowd it listened, it looked—other emotions it seemed to have none—and it was plain that the dull gray walls facing them contained the object of their anxjety, lor their eyes were fixed upon the building as though they would by sheer force of will behold the scene that was being enacted within. being tried for his life. The court was smtHl, and so densel

A man was

said

'y

packed with human beings, that, though the time of ydar was winter, the air was almost suffocating in its closeness. They were gathered together, these people, by the sight of a fellowman being tried for his life—the most unnatural, piteous, moving sight God's earth can afford. At some period or other of this trial, each spectator has put himself in the place of the accused, nas in one lightning moment realized his desperate position, has tasted of his exceeding bitterness, felt his heart sick desolation, has said to himself almost in Bunyan's words. "There stand I but for the grace of God!" —has discovered how keenly he loves his life (valueless as it has often appearei to him)—how precious and beautiful a thing life is, and how blessed is he in that its treasure is not menaced. He has

to himself: "And yonder man

until now was even as I, bred in the same life and customs, hungry and glad, and sick and sorry as I was, in all things human, and now hcfstands there, cut off from his kind—alone! He is strong with life, lusty with health, yet he is doomed to die, not naturally or gradually, but suddenly, violently, of Mt purpose, thrust out of life like any beast ofthe field, who but fulfills his fate when the life is harshly dashed from his body!"

The languor of waiting has passed away so nave the quiver and stir of expectation that thrilled the court as with one pulse, when the jurymen retired one by one to their places with downcatt look that gave little promise of a merciful message.

The usual question has been pot to them, the answer dropped into the eager ear of the multitude, and it has floated out through the dark, stagnant air to those who wait without.

There is no longer anything to be feared or hoped, and the tense muscles relax, the hard set eager eyes soften, abort, quick exclsaaatioos^k/orth on every side, until the judge's voice, ctear and cold, rises above and silences hem all.

Prisoner at the bar, have you any Bresson to give why sentenceshould not bs passed upon you?"

And the answer follows the question without one moment of hesitation, "None, save that Iain innocent of the crime of which I stand accused."

It is an houeat, manly, pleasant voice that replies. If you did not know who was speaking you would say it proceeded from a broad chest, a bold heart and a fearless conscience. Knowing the man to be a murderer, you feel instinctive somewhat indignant that he should dftrfe tach too6, borrowing th© ways of men who do not bear on their richt hands the mark of Oain. Let us look at him as he stands with a ray of

wintry

sunlight taillog across his fece,

and wandering over his homely fisherman's garb. He appears to be about 30 roars old. and is broad-shouldered and bitt. In his rugg*d face there is little beauty, only an honest, faithful, tender •pir.t seems to look out of his gray eyes, and in bis mouth and chin there is no dorgad hardness or painful attempt at firmness, but a calm, steadfast endurance baffling and bard to read—hardest of all to those who have known and loved him in the past, tor they deem him a good man lost by one terrible crime, and could forgive him better if he appeared bowed down by shame and remorse—and th# tide of pity that was setlins in

so

life

strongly toward him a minute

ago (tor was be not as good as a dead man? and would he not soon be put ooth praiie and blame?) torna backward, and dies as the ASSERTION of In DOcsnce falls from his IJpa. B*h! it is enough to make one amlle--a He or two more or less during the trial did not much signify a man being tried for his life is justified in doing and aaylng a good dei! but to tell a stupid lie like that, wb«a the verdict has been given

and sentence airtEff passed, it is sense and those who look upon him begin to identity themselves leas with his crime, and bug themselves more oomplacently on their own unmolested seourity, and his words RO by like the idle breath of a suaimer wind at aventide. "And may God have mercy On your aoul!"

It Is all over the play is played out justioe has gained her ends, and may be supposed to sit smiling at her success, the doors stand wide open, the judge and jury have risen, everybody is going away, even he is going see, the jailor stauds almost at bis elbow, and touches his arm, not roughly, but rather as though his crime and approaching end invested him with a oertaln greatness. But hark! whose voioe is this that fills theoourt, making the judge turn back, and arresting the footsteps of the departing crowd? It is the voice of the prisoner, who speaks against precedent, against rule, stretching out his scarred, rough hands to the wavering, hesitating crowd: "Men, fellowmen, with whom a ha' toiled an' labored an' sorrowed anr joyed, with whom I ha' stood good times an' bad tiues, whose hand* I ha' taken, out of whose cup and platter I ha' ate and drank, ye believe that I ha' done this thing? As I was when I came among ye, a bit o' a lad wi' neither lather nor mother, so am I this day, as my hands were then, so are they this dayclean an' upon my soul no heavier sin lies than may have lain on your'n when you were young an' hot-blooded and heedless. Lads, do ye not know I am telling ye the truth? Could I have so vile a heart an' hid it so well from ye all these years? Ye know how I loved the lad, an' how he loved me, until just at the last. An' though we were both angered that night hy the river, an' blowB were struck, there was no thought of murder iu my heart any more than there was in his. When he comes back, as he will come back when I am gone out of your sight forever, ye will know that Stephen Hatton was no taker o' life, only a poor, sinful man, whom luck ran dead against from the very beginning. You will know it then, friends, but will ye no tell me that ye believe it now? shall not be able to hear ye then, not if ye all came and shouted it to me wi' all yeur strength. I can hear vou to-day before I go my wavs, so will ye not say it to me now, friends?"

The voice that had begun so fearlessly here broke and died away, as his eyes, wandering beseechingly over the orowd, met nothing but averted looks and downcast faoes, and a great bitterness and darkness fell on his own as he turned away. "Not one," he murmured, "not one" —but paused as a woman's voice cleft its way to him from the remotest part of the court—"Stephen—I know—I believe!"

He turned his bead toward the oorner from which the voice issued, and a quick gladness overspread his countenance. "Dinah," he said below his breath, "Dinah."

He turned and went out with a step as firm and vigorous as that of the man by his side.

the waiting crowd looked and listened no longer it had broken up into knots and groups of busy, eager talkers, who discussed the verdict garrulously for out of the hundreds here assembled there were bnt few whose sorrow for the fate of Stephen Hatton was so deep as to permit them to lift their Voices loudly over the same. In all. not more tban half a dozen crept away home with flagsing steps and aching hearts, and of that half dozen only one believed in him or counted as truth the words he had uttered. "Sentenced o' Tuesday, hanged o' Monday week! Ah! 'tis quick work," said an old sailor, who stood in the midst of about a dozen people in the market place. "Stephen oughtn't to be hanged till the body's found," said another, with decision. 'Twould be strange If it had been," said a man in the dress of a pilot, "seeing what a river our'n is, an' how it runs into the sea. D'ye remember, Matthew, last winter, how that same river swept away the miller's house—aye, an' the miller an' his good wife as well—an' their bodies were never sighted to this day?" "We all mind that," said a withered old woman who leaned on a stick "but the river dpn't play such tricks every day, atf no one saw Steve do it. Seein's beflevin', I say." "You never saw the corn a growin', did yoa, Mother Lisa?" asked pt young fisherman "but you've seen the grain put in, haven't you, Mother Lisa? No one sayf Steve kill Maurice, but we know'd well enough how he hated him, and why. an' the last time Maurice were viewed alive, he were quarrelling with Steve like mad by the river side, an' though Steve came back safe an' sound, the other didn't." "P'raps not but Steve cHdn'l kill him for all that," muttered Liza. "Who saved more lives on this coast than any other man for fifty miles round?" she cried, with a fiery ring in her quavering old voice. "Who dared an'aid while other men looked an' hesitated? Who was as good a frien' to the women as he was comrade to the men? StephenStephen!"

1

"You apeak the truth, mother," said the pilot "the lad Vas surely a brave one, an' his life was always clean, until he spoilt it all—all by a cowardly, black crime." "Maurice was a ne'er-do-well," said Lizi, stoutly "and if he's really dead, it's all of his own dotn'a,and not Stephen's," "Lisa is a clever woman." said the red faced wife of the pilot "but she don't consider facta. If Steve had naught to do wi' it, why were his close all torn an' his hands red wl' blood when he came back the night that Maurioe disappeared?" "They met an' quarrelled," said Lisa, doggedly. "I don't deny that an' if a man ever bad cause to be angry, it were Stephen. Why did Maurice come between him an' Dinah?" 'Tts the women that is ths ruing of everything," said old Jacob, signing. "Both the lads 'od be walking about among us this very minute if it hadn't been tor Dinah." "Steve was badly used there," said a comely young fishwife, "for he'd loved her always, from the time she was that hijrb and aba laid her hand on the bead of the toddling child by her aide. "He altera looked upon her as hls'n, for no other man ever came nigh her to speak a word of love, tor all considered her Steve's an' then Maurice came in between 'em, and it want to be believed Stephen would let her go without ever a word." 'Twaa the lass's fault," said the pilot's wife. "She ought to have stuck to SKqpheff, Ha a poor love that's turned by a finer shape or a better face—not but what Maurice had a way wi' him— he were like a bit o* sunshine come in to a house, an'however dull an' troubled foiks was when he came among •em, he'd cheer 'em all up an' leave 'em aomln'. Poor lad—poor lad!"

Tears stood in her hard eyes aa the

TERRE HAUTE SATURDAY BVENnTOMAII/

broke off, and from the aoftening of all

aatfacss

around aave Lisa's, it waa plain Stephen had been the darling of her eyes. "He had the voioe of an angel," said the young fish wire, sighing. "Ah' a heart as false aa Satan," muttered Lisa, inaudibly. "So he bad," said the pilot.

f,I

mind

how you wlmmiu was all In love wl' him when he firut came. He had a rare way wl' him, but all the same, he want so much of a wimmin'a maa as a man's man." 'Twaa his ways took Dinah's fancy," said the pilot's wife "for Stephen never were much of a iigger of a man, and bad no polish in bis manners. Often 1 were struck with the difference atween 'em, for they were always together—always an' 'tis a year au' a month siuee Maurioe came among us, and said he would learn to be a ttsheruaau and live the way we did." "Aye, an' he did, too," said the pilot, "though we looked keenly at him at first but soon we found out he war of good stuff, an' them white hands of bis 'ud do as good a day's work as any pair o' our own^ an' alter that we—loved him." "Don't be afraid," croaked Lisa "herll come back, never fear—bad pennies alters do! "Poor soul!" said the young fishwife aside "she waa always a little mad!" Aloud: "You forget one thing, Mother Lisa—Dinah. Ah!" she added, drawing a sharp, quick breath, "my God, how he loved her! au' do you think he would stay away from her all this time o' his own free will "There are other wlmmin in the world besides her," said Lisa, nodding. "Did ye ever see a fair man with blue eyes and a gay smile stick to one? How d'ye know he's not gone off wi' somebody olsot" "He left Dinah in the morning, saying he would be back to spend the evening wi' her, as be allers did, and she never seed him agen. He war on his way to her when he met Stephen," said the pilot's wife. "My little Mary fell down as she was coining from class, an' he picked ber and her books up an' brought her to the bouse door, an' said ho, 'I can't stop a minnet, for I'm going to see Dinah.' He spoke as gay as a lark." "An' no one ever saw bim after," said the young fUh-wife, turning pale, 'cept Simon, who saw Steve an'nlm standin' together by the river side as be passed to his bis'ness. Coinin' back he heard sounds of fightin', but on reachin' the place he found no o.ne but Stephen, with a knife in his hand, and upon itblood "And when Simon asked him who he'd been quarrelin' with," said Jaoob, "be answered ne'er a word, but just turned on his foot an' went straight to the 'Three Apples' an' sat down, never seemin' to heed what he had on his hands* He wor like one asleep, seemed to ha' lost bis senses but when the men came to 'rest him, be stared at 'em like they was ma J, and went away wi'out a word!" "An* folks say." said the pilot's wife, "that be have niver said a word about that night's doin's, not even to the man as stood up in court for him. Eb! but 'twas a wild speech he made in court this noon! An' 'twas a strange thing the way Dinah up an' answered him, as though she were his sweetheart, not Maurice's. One 'ud have thought she'd hate him." "Dinah know*," muttered Lisa. "Oh. yes, Dinah knows." "Steve had a very wonderful love for Maurice," stid Jacob. "It used to be a sight to see the two lads together. Maurice, he took to Steve uncommon from the very day he came an' so 'twas alwas till wimmin's love came between 'em—that's the way most men's friendships is broke." "And Steve got his reward in havin' his sweetheart stole from him," said Lisa. "Maurice got tired of his life here an' so he went away." "Chut!" cried the pilot. "Was he tired of our Dinah, thou foolish old woman? An' wasn't she to have been bis wife o' Monday week? Stephen's hanging day!" he added. "Goin' to be banged for killing a man as is walking about on bis own two legs," said Lisa, bitterly, as she drew ber red cloak about her and hobbled away. "Poor soul!" said the pilot, looking after her. "She'll miss Steve he were rare and kind to her. Will any of you be goin' to wish Steve good-by?" "1 don't reckon I will," said Jacob 'tis an ugly thought to take a murderer's band—seems as if some o' the guilt must needs stick. D'je think he'll confess it all afore he goes? 'Twould be a kind of awful consolation to hear the full perticlers—whether Maurice died o' one blow or two, an' if be died bard, ai}' the whole history o't. P'raps he'll tell Dinah a bit about it." "No, no be wouldn't lose ber pity for iver so. Did ye hear the way she said she oreditq.1 hime It should ha' made Maurice's bones turn."

At this moment the judge's chariot came by, and thegosslppers divided and went tbeir ways—some to the shops some homeward, and in half an hour the market place was entirely deserted.

A young fisher girl fat in one of the oottages close to the seashore, mending nets oy the light of a small lamp that stood on a table near bv. A fierce, bitter wind was holding high revel without, lashing the sea into atempestous fury, shrieking and moaning about the slightly built house as though it would tear it in pieces, uttering eldridtoh cries that sounded like echoes from the drowning, shipwrecked mariners yet the girl never lifted her bead or ceased her work for one instant indeed, but for the rapidly moving hands one might have taken her lor some fair saint turned to stone by a wicked, malignant fairy. She waa only a fisher girl, in the coarse dress of the women of her class: but she was so exquisite that on looking at ber the dull room and all her common homely surroundings faded away. Her faoe caught tbe eye and held it ber ex

ft

aa

sjr&

treasion touched tbe heart and wrung for her beauty bad evidently been on tbe sweet, gay, debonnalre style, and tbe impress of misery now stamped so deeply upon it struck one with a painful sense of discordance. Life should sure ly have held more of sweet, leas of bitter, to tbe lips of such a one as "our Dinah." Now and again, among some rough fisher population, you will chance upon some such dower aa this growing up, rare and delicate, in the midst of their unbeautiful work a day lives, seemingly sent from heaven to prove that God does not keep all His fairest bloasoma for the gently nurtured and the purely born, but bestowa His royal gift of beauty as generously on tbe poor as on the rich, on those who toil and spin ason those who live like the lilies. And so for ber beauty and sweetneas' sake, this young girl was tenderly loved by those poor people, who strove to shield ber from hardships and ward off a rtune from her. Yet trouble passed them all by to take ap his resting place with "tbeir Dinah." No woman surely ever sat pondering over a sadder fate tban dia she that night, vet her eyes were dry and her lips calm, and th

Br"She

$ I 1 i'

bright, thick hair waa woven round her little bead aa cunningly as ever but, oh! no one could look on ber faoe and doubt that, as far aa god nermita human hearts to break, hers baa broken. An old woman slept soundly on a settee by the side of tbe fire, a dog lay at ber feet other companions Dinah bad none. Tbe clock struck eight, and the girl lifted her head, mechanically oounting the strokes aloud, repeating the last with a look of horror in her face, as though it bore some fatal significance to ber mind. The nets Blipped from her hands, and from her bosom she drew a plain gold locket tbat looked out of place with the coarae garments she wore. It contained tbe colored likenees of a very fair blue eyed young man, whose gay, suuny smile seemedjto mock tbe pale girl who looked at him. Long and carefully she examined it, line 'by line, feature by feature, less as though she were welcoming a beloved face tban ifabe were seeking something that one moment seemed within her grasp, tbe next eluded her. "Was he false?'' she says to herself—"is he false? for I am sure tbat he lives

wonder, even at the beginning? They all thought he loved me so, and perhaps he did—just for a little. I wasalwa cold and proud to Stephen, and I thought I 4id not love bim, and thought so, too and then Maurice came and took my fancy. Did he not win the heart of all women, ave, and men? And I was false to Stephen and to all my better instincts there was a mist over my eyes, and I could not see, only somehow I never felt suro of Maurice's love, as I had Jdone of Stephen's. Perhaps it was because I was not sure of my own—but I did not know tbat till later. And Stephen never blamed me— never shamed me by a word, only one day we came faoa to face suddenly alone and be said,

4You

are happy, Dinah?'

and I answered 'Yes.' 'Then so am I, dear,' be said, and went away tbat was all. And I think it was soon after that when Maurice's love was at its hottest and maddest, I began to suspect he was not good—not like Stephen. He dropped strange words sometimes of other women, and used to call me little Puritan and a spoiled Baint and I remember one day it came over me in a sudden flash that perhaps he bad loved those other women as well as he had loved me, and I saw his fickle, passionate nature quite clearly, and

Beemed

1

to see

myself some day alone, just as he bad left those others, when once bis love fever for me was past. And then—then —I think my heart went back to Stephen, when I saw bow idle my fancy had been but it was too late our wedding day was fixed, and though I knew it was a terrible mistake, still, as I had made my bed, so must I lie on it. Sometimes I thought Maurice had found out I loved Stephen best but I could not be sare—only toward the end I fancied be cared for me less, and I was glad, for I thought perhaps he would release me from my promise. None of the neighbors ever suspected what was in our hearts they reckoned him the pattern of lovers, and indeed be was a brave one, wooing me in fifty delicate ways that Stephen could never have thought of but then Stephen was only a plain fisherman, while Maurice—no one knew whence he came or why be took up this life—it was done for a whim, some said. And then came that terrible night when Maurice did not come, and they oame to me telling b°w Stephen was arrested for his murder. I knew then what bitter fruit my falseness bad caused to ripen, but I knew also tbat Stephen was no murderer—it was not in him and if Maurice died tbat night (and I do not think be did, for I loved him once, and I should feel it—know it—if he were dead) it was by accident, not through Stephen. It is true no one ever heard of him from that day to this, and tbat he baa been advertised for, 'and great search made for bim, all to no purpose, but I feel sure he is alive and well at the present moment. Ah, Maurice! Maurice!" she cried, bitterly, "you worked Stephen harm enough, but you never did him a crueller wrong than when you went away like that,

and

left

Stephen to be called muderer." She put tbe locket away, and covered her face with her hands. "To die," she said below ber breath—"to die like that, and it is all my doing—all. Why did I not love him first instead of last? What were Maurice's ways to his true and steadfast heart And I have all tbe rest of my life to live out alone!" 1

It was Sunday evening, and the fdw friends who desired to wish Stephen Hatton farewell had done so and taken their departure, Lisa last of all, sobbing bitterly aa she went. Neither father, mother, brother nor sister had he, nor any other kith or kin with him, so that the sudden suspension of bis life would leave no gap in any home circle and as to his acquaintances, why, they would bear his loss with the equanimity such people always manifeat so long as neither themselves, their wives, their children nor their cattle come to signal

will not come now," aaid

Stephen, half aloud. He waa pralking restlessly up and down hia cell, with a bitter disappointment written on his face. At that moment the heavy bolts and bars of the cell door were with drawn, and a woman came in, cloaked and hooded—it was Dinah. "For a quarter of an hour," aaid the a a a pa

Neither spoke until bis steps bad died away in tbe distance then Dinah crept closer to Stephen, and would bate taken bis band in hers,' but he put tbem behind his back, looking her steadily in a "Would you take a murder's hand, Dinah be said.

She shrank back a atep. "A murderer's she repeated "They have been stained with blood," he said, slowly "Maurice's. Will you take tbem now?" "You killed him?" she whispered, "and I, oh my God, I have believed in you." "Idid not kill him?" aaid Stephen "and so ye believed in me, dear?"—-he stretched out hia hand and took one oi hera—"tbat day in court, when ye answered me before them all. I thought afterward I must have dreamt it it waa like a voice from heaven."

A faint smile gleamed across his rugged, pale faoe, as though be were listening to some exquisite song in the distance. "I think I ahail die with thoae words o» yourn in my earn but ye loved Maurice, Dinab, and ye knew all along tbe blood on my hana was bis, and so how oonld ye pat such a great faith in me "I knew Stephen before I knew Maurice." ahe aaid, aoftly. They were sitting on the edge of the pallet by tbem, and be was stroking her little band between both bis own. ••Could ye hear it, dear, if I told ye the truth, before I go?" he aaid, gently. "Twill be bitter as call to tell and to bear then "would be ill that you should live and die misdoubting both your lovers, and believin' neither of them to ha* been honest men." "Ttell it me," she said gently, "I can bear it—loan oear anything—as ye losing yoa," ahe added, to herself. fie laid ber hand apon her lap as he

began to speak, and drew his own away, lookli

ing down at the flags at his feet— not at the face of his companion. "I must tell it quick," he said "quick, or it will never be told at all. Ye mind what fren'a Manrioe an' I waa, an' how we loved one another till juat at the last. I don't deny 1 bated him when he stole

Je

Did he ever truly love me,

from me but afterwards, when I saw ow happy ye looked, I forgave him, Dinah, tor I sed to myaelf, 'He will suit her better tban 1 should ha' done wi' my rough fisherman's ways,' an' of course your bsppmess

was the first

I' I

consideration wi

rme.

me. I knew he was

a bit changeable with women, but it never entered into my thoughts that he could slight such as you, Dinah, until one night—come a bit closer, girl, listen—I oame upon him, miles away from tbe village, with a brown, laughiu' gypsy rtbiog in his arms—ber eyes were like great, shiny stars, an' her Bcarlet mouth was pressed againat bis, an' he was calling her by hot namesjust such names aa once and again I bad heard him call you." Be stopped a moment. "But she was not like you, Dinab," be went on, with a fine scorn in bisyoioe "she waa a different sort o' a woman altogether. 'Twas a lonely, desolate part of the coast, and they didn't see me. and I got myself away: but, Dinab, I'd rather God had struck me blind tban tbat I should ha' seen tbat sight. I kept out o' his way all next day, but in the evlnin' we came face to face by the river side, an' I made for to pass him, for I hadn't worked it out in my own mind what I was to do— whether! should tell ye, or what I was to *ay to him. He caught me by the arm an' asked me where I was going so fast. I don't rightly know what I answered—the truth, I fear an when he found out I knew how he had used ye, be seemed mad like, an' In a minute we werestrugglin' together. But, Dinab, I did but protect myself. He Btruck the first blow, an' then served me a coward's trick by whipping out his knife, an' God forgive bim, tried to stab me wi' it but I got it way from him, an' in so doin' cut my hands an', made them bloody. Then he disappeared, an' old Simon oomin' up, found me standing alone, an' it had an ugly look, Dinah, a very ugly look, for tbe river was deep an' strong, and there Was never one sign of bim from tbat hour to this. Fo' he left bis money an' bits o' things in bis house, an' though be was 'tised for months, nothin' was ever heard." "Why did yoa not tell all this in court cried Dinah, starting up and wringing her bands. "They must have believed you they could not have helped it. Stephen, Stephen! why did you not do it for my sake "It was just for your sake tbat I didna speak," saik Stephen, gently. "Do you tbluk I would have made Maurice's unfaithfulness to ye the theme of ev0ry man's tongue An.' ib wonldn't ha' done me a bit of good wi' judge and jdry, dear. They'd ha* said I was lying, 'for all knew I loved you, Dinah, an' they thought I killed him to clear the way for myself. May be the truth will come to light some day, an' then those1 as doubted me will do me justioe."

Dinah had sat down again, and he passed his hand over her beautiful hair, smoothing it as a mother might. "Don't fret about him, dear/' he said "he wernt worth it p'raps the loss o' him will oome easier to ye now. I ha' thought since tbat he must ha' gone away wi' that gipsy lass p'raps he was afraid I would tell ye." "Who are you talking about?" Bbe cried,lifting ber wild, white face. "Him* There is only one man in all tbe world to me, and he is here, Stephen, he is here She knelt down by bis side, and rested her forehead against his breast, and in tbe momentary silence she heard the frantic beating of his heart. "You will think I tell you this because I am angry and jealous with Maurice for preferring another woman to me," Bbe said "but for what he does I care not, and it gives me no pang to know tbat she possesses the love that was once all my own. No and if be came back to me and asked my forgiveness, I could forgive him from tbe bottom of my heart: for, if he has been inconstant, so have I, and sometimes I have thought that he guessed it, and that was what drove him to love some one elsO—1 want to tell you, Stephen, tbat I—love —you! And, now that the mist has cleared away from my eyes, I think I have loved you always, from the viery beginning, and Maurice only came between us like a shadow, and passed away as on^—when you were taken, and all said Maurioe was dead, it was of and your danger I thought—rarely of him—and my heart broke, Stephen, hot for his sake, out yours—"

But Stephen never spoke—never moved, he was stunned with delicious joy for a moment, then—"Too late, Dinah," he said with an exceedingly bitter cry, as he laid bis arms about her, and bowed bis agonized face over (ber head. The atepe of tbe jailer approached, the key turned in the lock, the last moments bad arrived. "1 have never kissed ye," said Stephen, passionately, "and I never will. He bad your kisses, Dlnah—I have your love J" "Time's up," said the jailer, appearing. "We shall meet again,"- said Stephen, taking hia last look at tbe girl he loved so desperately.

She lilted ber hand and pointed upward. "I shall not be long/' ahe said, and Stephen Hatton was alone.

Dinah stands at the cottage door in the bitter coldness of tbe dark January morning. The clock within atrikea 8, and she clenches her hands wildly as the strokes sound, for yonder, st this very moment, a soul is passing away to its Msker. With tbe last stroke the boom of a gun rang oat, and ahe fell forward senseless, and lay across the threshold. The flr*t to discover ber was tbe village postmaster, who bore in his hand a totter lor tbe cottage. He carried her in and aprinkled cold water over her face, and so brought her to her senses, after which, being a man of business as well as feelings, be banded her tbe letter and ok bis departure. Shortly afterward the missive Isy open In In ber lap, but silrely other fingers than Dinah's bad opened It. for she was dumb and senseless—had been so ever since the firing of that gon. little ltter she waa reading the same letter, and still it seemed to her that some one was reading it to her and this to what it aaid, and it was dated from some faraway country of which Dinah had never even beard:

Dinab, do not expect to see me again, for I aball not come back. I stole yoa from Stephen, who was worthy of yon so I went away thai I might not longer come between yoa Mia yoa always loved him best, alwaya. I never could be too faithful to yoa, Dlnah—I never oould be to any woman and it la better that yon should know me to be vile than that I aboald have made yoa and Stephen wretched* So, yoa will not regret me, Dinab, and happiness will oome to yoa—and him.

MACKICS WILDER.

And so it cams to pass tbat Stephen Hatton rested peacefully In consecrated groand, and those who had called bim murderer stood by his grave and called him martyr. And when tome three

years after their Dinah laid down the* burden of her desolate life, they buried her by his side, and planted delicate^ flowers over their heads, for she bad a stranee fancy that, though they so soundly asleep, they knew tbat those above loved and remembered them and perhaps they did know, and maybe talked of them, in tbat fair, mysteriousland, where they sojourned, let us hope, forever. .«».

Malarial Fever.

Malarial Fevers, oonstipation, torpidity of the liver and kidneys, general debility, nervousness and neuralgio ailments, yield readily to tbe great disease conqueror, Hop Bitters. It repairs the ravages of disease by converting the food into rich blood, snd it gives new life and vigor to the aged and infirm always. See "Proverbs" in other column

A CARD.

To all who are suffering from the errors and indiscretions of youth, nervous weakness, early decay, loss of manhood, rec., 1 will send a recipe that will care yoa, FREE OF CHARGE, This great remedy was discovered by a missionary in South America. Send a self addressed envelope to the REV JOSBPH T. LNMAN. Station D, New York City.

Stop Tbat Cough.

If yon are suffering with a cough, cold asthma, bronohitls, hay fever, consumption, loss of voice, tickling in the throat, or any affection of the throat or langs, use DR.1 KINO'S NEW DISCOVERY for consumption. This is the great remedy that is causing so much excitement by its wonderful cures, curing thousands of hopeless cases. Over one million bottles of DR. KINO'S New DISCOVERY have been used within ihe last year, and have given perfect satisfaction iu every instance. We can unhesitatingly say that this Is really the enly sure cure for throat and lung affections, and can cheerfully recommend it to all. Call and g-t a trial bottle for ten cents, or a regular size for 91 00. Qullck A Berry, druggists, corner Fourth and Main streets, Terre Haute, lud.

Kpt" (3) We Challenge (he World. When we say we believe, we have evidence to prove that Shiloh's Consumption Cure is decidedly the bast Lung Medicine made, inasmuch as it will cure a common or chronic Cough in one half tbe time, and relieve Asthma, Bronchitis, Whooping Cougb, Croup, and show more oases of Consumption oured than all others. It will cure wbere they fail, it is pleasant to take, harmless to the youngest child and we guarantee what we say. Price 10 cents, 50 cents and fl.00. If your Lungs are sore, Chest or Back lame, use Shiloh's Porous Plaster. Sold by Guliok fc .. ii

(w

Do Ton Believe it.

That In this town there are scores passing oar store every day whose lives are made miserable by indigestion, Dys-

Vitalizer, guaranteed to oure them. Sold by Gulfok A Berry Tbe most popular and fragraut perfume of the day, "HACKMETACK." Try it. Sold by Gulick fc Berry.

TARAXINE

THE GREAT, f»

Vegetable jLIver Corrector,

Is an Infallible remedy for all diseases arising from an in Inactive liver. It contains no calomel er mineral of any kind. Its main ingredient is the ooncentrated medical principle of theTARAICUM or DANBELlON. TARAXINE never falls to care the following diseases (every bottle warranted):

CHRONIC AGUE.

It Beats the Doctors—Agne Permanently Cared. CARVEL, Ind., October 1, 1878.

MR. A. KIEFER—During the fall of last year I took the agu6 so prevalent iu this country. I at once put myself under the treatment of my family physician, who gave me the usual remedy, quinine and clnchonidia. He had nodlfflp-uity in breaking the ague, but it returned again and again,and 1 becime so discouraged OH almost to lose all hope of a permanent cure. Having paid not less than 975 lor doctor's bill and medicines, it looked hopeless, but at the suggestion of Mr. N. G. Hanoid tried yonrl'araxineand two bottle* did the work so oompletely that 1 have had no chills since, and I am in perfect health.

W.JEKFBFK.

CONSTIPATION.

&

Bead the following from the Bev, E, Kent, a prominent Preabytorlan Minister or Shelby

County, Indians.

About fonr months ago I need two bottles of Taraxinefor habitual constipation, with which I had beeu troubled greatly for many years. It gave me complete relief out I did not need to use as full doses as recommended. It also removed a continued feeling of soreness and oppression over the regions of the liver and stomach, and also greatly improved my digestion, which had be»*n very poor for many years. I have taken none tor the iAst two months, but ray improved condition still continues. I might say I have thoroughly tested several popular stomach bitters, and can confidently say I r«gard tbe Taraxiue lar superior to anything I have used.

RBV. EL.IPHAI.ET KSNT,

June 10th, 20.1874. ishelbyvlllo, Ind.

DYSPEPSIA & INDIGESTION.

Bead WkM tbe Bev. W. w. Walden Bays BEDFORD, Livingston co.. Mo.. 1

June 26,

W5.

"ATitiBFBR: Dear 81 r—Ilook upon pUent medicines as nostrums

Bent

abroad merely

tor the purpose oi making money as a general thing. I nave been a subject to dsrsindlaestlon. and liver complali

pepsla

or indigestion, and liver complaint foryeara, and fer five months the past winter was not able to get out or attend to any business whatever. 1 tried several remedies, but with lltUe benefit. Finally I concluded to test tbe virtue of your Taraxlne. and feel proud to say have received groat benefit, and believe It to be the b«st remedy of the kind in use and can. withont hesitation, recommend it to all like sufferers.

Respectfully, W. W. W ALB ex.

Liver Complaint. Sick Headache-

Bow It Effects Derangement of th» Whole System. S1* HOMER, III., June 1, LIFRL.

MR. A. KISVSR—Dear Sir I have been, afflicted for the last four years with derangement of the liver, causing dyspepsia,, headache, nausea, ana general derangement of the whole system, have tried a great many preparations, bnt found no relief until tried one bottle of your Taraxine, which has permanently cured me. I also found it to be good for ague. I commend it to all who suffer with derangement of the liver. Very truly yowr*,

Rav. THOMAS W HITUOCR.

FOR SALE BY ALL DBUQOIAW.

A.KIEFER

5

PROPRIETOR,

INDIANAPOLIS.