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VOL. Ill N 0. 38.
RALEIGH, NORTH CAROLINA, SATURDAY, AUGUST 26, 1854.
WHOLE NO. 142.
SELECTED STORY.
From Godey's Lady's Book.
ALICE WARD; Oil HE'S COMING.
BY PACLINE FORSYTH.
At twenty-one, George Mowbray found him-si.-lf
not only " lord of liijnsolf," but of a hand
some fortune, which, by the early death of his
parents, had been accumulating for several years.
Some business connected with his property callr
ed him to a- small "town in the southwest "of
England, and detained him there for two or three
nioinhs. Finding but little congenial society in
the place, and being fond of an outdoor life, he
spent most of his time in rambling about the
- picturesque country around. There was one
' spot in particular to which he frequently turned
his steps,. attracted by its wild beauty and perfect
solitude. By the side of a stream, overhung
with willows and other trees, and from whose
banks on either side the ground rose in abrupt
and rugged, though not lofty, precipices, there
wus a large rock, in which a couch as comforta
ble. as a bed of stone could be, had been scooped
out by some fantastic freak of nature. The upper
part of the rock projected, so that the occupant
of the couch wffs not only protected from the
rays of the sun, but effectually concealed from
the curiosity of those on the bank above.
Here Gorge Mowbray would come, with his
lishing-rod and line, arid with a volume of poe
try in his pocket, and while away a long sum
mer's day 'reading aloud, when he was tired of
his sport, and making the air vocal with thoughts
or feel'tngs, soft, lofty, or impassioned, as the
fancy of the ' moment demanded. Sometimes
a few sandwiches, that he brought with' him,
sufficed for his noonday meal ; but oftenjer his
appetite demanded the more substantial refresh
ment he could obtain , at a country inn, some
two miles off. ' - -
Occasion ally., he would, compose verses him
? self", for he was in the very heyday of life and
feeling; and lie loved to lie and chant them to
. the soft summer breezes,, secure from all unsym
pathetic listeners, lie had a' peculiar turn for
improvising, and would 'sometimes amuse him
. self for hours. with his attempts at impromptu
. versilieation, turning into - rhyme not only his
own feelings and thoughts, but incidents and
stories that had aiiT impression upon him. The
burden of most of his songs was love, and the
object of them a certain Margaret, who figured
in various ballads, sonnets, lyrical pieces, and
even acrostics; for so low did Mr. Mowbrav
stoop, under a variety of names, from the stately
i Margaret through the simple Maggie, and frol
icsome Madge, down to the pet name; of Daisy,
which seemed to be his favorite. -
'iy the confidential and touching relations
thus made to the regardless earth, ai;r, and 'wa1
tcr around, it .appeared that, true as Mr. Mow
brav asserted his love to be, it had so far run
very smoothly along its course. Margaret had
smiled upon him,' friends had been propitious,
and, if no disaster intervened, which he implor
ed fa-te in a most pathetic manner to avert, a
few months would witness the fulfilment '.of. his
wishes. The thought struck him one day that
a poem somewhat after the style of " The King's
Qutiair " might be made, describing his first
meeting and subsequent love for his "elected
one." lie was engaged upon this for several
days, and was reading it for about the twentieth
" ami last time, when he was interrupted by a
stilled shriek. At the same time, something fell
from the rock over his head into the swiftly
flowing. stream beneath him.
He involuntary stretched out his hand to
grasp the object, aKl succeeded in breaking its
fall somewhat. He pulled it quickly from the
water, and a little girl, pale and trembling, with
curls dripping and mattted around her face,
tood before him, gazing upon him with widely
open blue eyes, from which all expression but
that of terror had fled.
"Please don't tell," said she at last, in a tone
of the most urgent entreaty.
. "Are you hurt?" asked Mr. Mowbray, tak
, ing no notice of her request. !
" No ; but don't tell any one." )
" Why, whom shouldT tell ? Wht is ypur
naih.e ? " . I '
"Kitty Jones." V
" "Well, Kitty, how did you happen to fall
into the water in such a surprising way ? v
: The child' began to cry ; but Mr. Mowbray
had a gentle, encouraging manner, and he grad
ually soothed her and induced her to answer his
questions. Her replies were given timidly and
- reluctantly ; but from them he gathered thatsh
had been iri the habit. for some lime of watch
ing for him, and, as soon as she heard his voice
' ,. in reading or recitation, of creeping close to the
edge of the overhanging rock, . where, sheltered
by the bushes and brakes around, she could
hear him while herself perfectly concealed. She
. had been so much interested by the story he
was telling about the pretty lady, she said, that
she leaned far oyer the rock to watch him while
he told it, and so lost her balance.
Mr. Mowbray felt a great many twinges on
hearing that his wild flights of fancy had liad
such an unwearied auditor. lie was crlad that
she was a simple, ignorant child, as yet incapa
' ble of ridicule or . criticism ; on the contrary,
, 4 Kitty evidently looked upon him as a superior
being. Her reiterated entreaties that he would
not tell led to other inquiries, during which Mr.
Mowbray learned that she lived in a lonely
place about half a mile from there, with a man
and a woman whom she "called uncle and auntl
a Mr. Davis and his wife. Mr. Mowbray iad
met Mr. Davis, or " old Andrew," as he was gen
eral!)' called, in his fishing excursions, and had
learned that he was a person of .doubtful charac
ter, who had moved into the country within the
last five years; aud, as lie was rarely known to
work, and had no ostensible means of support,
he was generally suspected of maintaining him
self by unlawful means. Most of the petty rob
beries and thefts of the country around were as
cribed to him, and he was a general object of ter
ror to all the children about.
Mr. Mowbray did not wonder that the slender,
delicate little girl who stood trembling before
Kim should dread that old Andrew or his surly
wife should know of her adventure, especially as
she told him that they had forbidden her to go
beyond certain limits, or to hold converse in any
way with any person. If she were ever address
ed, she was not to reply, but to hasten home un
der the penalty of a severe' beating. And, by
her shrinking terror as she told this, it was
evident that a beat'ng was not an unknown hor
ror to her. ,
lie promised her that he would not reveal her
involuntary visit to him, but urged her to run
home and change her wet frock. She turned
away with meek acquiescence ; and, unable to
continue his poem justl then, Mr. Mowbray took
up his fishing-rod. Two hours after, on his way
home, turning suddenly round a projection of
the bank, Mr. Mowbray came again upon Kittv.
She was sitting in the sun, trying evidently to
remove all traces of her late adventure from her
clothes. His compassion was aroused by her
uncomplaining patience and suffering.
He extorted from her the further confession
that she was afraid toW home till nip-lit ; that
her aunt often beat her for nothing, and would
certainly not allow a wet frock to go unpunish
ed ; .that she had had no dinner; that she often
had none. She ended by saying that she was
not at all hungry, which 'was contradicted by
the evident satisfaction with which she received
the few sandwiches Mr. Mowbray had to give
her.
" You say you like to hear me read, Kitty ?''
asked he.
" Very much. Better than anything in the
world." . ' -
"Then you can come every morning while I
am here and listen to me. You look like a very
quiet-fii?re girl," said Mr. Mowbray, for his pity
was of an active, not a passive kind.
Kitty's eye brightened.
" But if Aunt rhebe should find it out !" said
she, with afndde$ misgiving.
" 01), Til Hke care of your aHiit Phebe. She
shall not be angry with you. I have a charm i
my pocket that will make her quite amiable. If
have never known it fail with any autit Phebe
Kitty evi dimly did not understand him.
" If I can come, I w ill," said she ; " but you
will not telir . -
" Oh no, of course not." And Mr. Mowbray
went lightly on. his way.
For the next three weeks, Mr. Mowbray went
regularly to the same spot, where he was sure to
find the child watching for him. There was
something painfully touching in the sad, wistful
little face, over which a smile seldom flitted.
She had a staid, quiet, old-womanish way that
amused Mr. Mowbray, and he was especially
pleased by a certain supervision that, with all
her shyness, she assumed over him, watching
that he did not go too near the water, or wet his
feet, or allow the suii to shine upon his uncov
ered head, or leave his books and papers behind
him, and especially that he should take his full
share of the substantial lunch he was careful to
bring with him. On all these points she had a
positive, decided way of expressing herself that
admitted of no debate.
Often Mr. Mowbray would leave his little
companion for a solitary ramble ; but, on his re
turn, he never failed to see her straining her blue
eyes to catch the first glimpse of him. This
went on for three weeks ; then, suddenly, she
disappeared, and Mr. Mowbray looked for her in
vain. The idea occurred to him that she migiit
be ill, and he resolved to make some inquiries
after her, for she had interested him exceedingly.
He soon found Mrs. Davis's dwelling, a dilapi
dated cottage, and, when the woman herself came
to the door in answer to his knock, he did not
wonder that Kitty stood in such mortal dread
of her, for he had seldom seen a- person with a
more repulsive countenance. Her manners, too,
were very forbidding ; and, when she discovered
the object of his visit, she almost closed the
door in his face, saying, as she walked abruptly
away, that " the girl was very well, and that
she needed no assistance in taking care of her."
AsrMr. Mowbray turned to depart, after his re
pulse, the woman thrust her head out of an
open window to say that "the idle good-for-nothing
was playing somewhere among the
trees near."
That this was not true, Mr. Mowbray con
vinced himself by a close search. Besides, he
was morally certain that, if Kitty had been at
liberty, she would not have left him so uncere
moniously. Befor this, he had had some vague
plans for making the child's position a pleas
anter one, byjrpposing to send her, at his own
expense, te village school or something of
that sort ; iblilTiow, stimulated by this opposi
tion, hedetermined not to leave the village in
which he was until he had penetrated the mys
tery with regard to Kitty's movements.
Not haveen anything of her for a week,
he again sought old Andrew's cottage. Receiv
ing no answe to his knock for admission, he
pushed open the door which stood a little ajar,
j and entered the kitchen ; there was no person
to be seen. He called loudly for Kitty, and at
last distinguished a faint sound in replying.
Guided by this, he found his way to the cellar,
Which was bolted on the outside. He opened
(he door, and the little pale face of Kitty was
ifted up towards his out of the darkness.
Mr. Mowbray could not induce her to venture
Out of her dungepu. She was in too great terror
of Aunt Phebe to take such a step. But he
learned that their meetings had been discovered ;
that for ten days Kitty had been confined in that
miserable place, from which she was not .to be
released until his departure. Many-other things
the little girl told him of the severity with which
she was treated, begging him all the while to go
away, for they had threatened to kill her if she
spoke with him again.
At last he yielded to her request, and, draw
ing the bolt and closing the outer door, so that
Mrs. Davis might not suspect his visit, here
turned to the village. But it was only to con
sult the proper authorities about the legal means
of rescuing: the child from the hands of such
miscreants. lie had great difficulty in doing;
tins, tor Andrew Davis and his wife resisted
with the most unaccountable obstinacy the at
tempts that'were made to relieve them from the
charge of the little girl, to whom they acted so
barbarously. First they claimed a right to her
as their niece. But it was proved that Mrs.
Davis had several times denied their relationship,
with the utmost bitterness. Then they brought
forward an indenture by which Kitty Joues was
legally bound to them until she was eighteen.
It was decided that, by their cruelty, they had
forfeited all claim upon her in that way ; and at
last Mr. Mowbray, having justice, mercy, and a
heavy purse on his side, gained his point, and
the little girl was given up to his charge, as, in
order to hasten the course of justice, he had
promised that he would be answerable that she
should not come upon the parish.
lie was not quite in such a dilemma at this
stage of the proceedings as the man who won
the elephant in a raffle ; but he was very much
perplexed to know what he should do with the
child. His own wishes would have prompted
him to have her brought up as a lady, for which
sphere he could not help fancying she had a
natural adaptation ; but he recalled a sage max
im that he had heard often repeated by some
whom he respected as older and wiser than
himself, to the effect that " it was a very unwise
thing to raise any one above the position to
which they were by their birth entitled." He
had often been accused of being enthusiastic and
injudicious when his feelings were interested.
He determined now to show himself very dis
creet, indeecL She had been evidently indent
ured as a sei'vant ; she should be trained for
one. So Mr. Mowbray placed her under the
care of a respectable but poor widow, who prom
ised to be very kind to her, and bring her up
carefully for her destined position ; a small
yearly allowance from Mr. Mowbray more than
repaying her for her trouble.
Pleased with having settled matters so well,
he took leave-of Kitty, resisting with great diffi
culty her earnest pleading to be allowed to go
with him. Apart from her love for him, which
had become very strong, she had a constant
dread of falling again into the hands of old
Audrew and his wife, and no arrangements could
convince her of the folly of her fears. It was
with the submission of despair that she at last
unclasped her slender fiugers from his arm and
allowed him to depart.
Four moiiths had passed away, and Mr. Mow
bray's wedding-day was now but six weeks off.
He was in the midst of preparations for that
event, and for the long tour that was to follow;
it, when he received the -intelligence that Kitty
had disappeared. As Mr. Davis and his wife
had left the country at the same time, there was
little doubt but that the child was again in their.
possession. For a few days, Mr. Mowbray con
tented himself with writing letters and offering
a large reward for Kitty's recovery ; but, these
producing no effect, he resolved to carry on the
search himself. For he was a man of a most
persevering nature. He had seldom been known
to give up or to fail in an undertaking.
Mr. Mowbray was then in London, where
Margaret Ward, tle lady to whom he was en
gaged, resided. After a consultation with her,
in which she promised to find a home for Kitty,
if he should recover her, he set out upon his
search. On arriving at the village where he
had left Kitty, he found the people generally
interested in recovering the child, but quite at a
loss as to the course he should pursue. Each
one had a suggestion to make or a plan to pro
pose, but none could give him the le.ast clue that
would be of any real assistance to him. He was
obliged to rely entirely on his own sagacity, and
the indications by which he was guided were so
faint and doubtful, that he hardly knew himself
whether they were not the creatioua of his wishes
and imagination rather than the work of reality.
After wandering a day or two among the
hills and valleys of Wales, he came upon the
little girl suddenly, more by chance it seemed
than by his own. good judgment. He did not
recognize her at first, for her curls had been cut
off, her fair skin stained brown, and her dress
changed But her delight, almost painful in its
silent intensity, and her large blue eyes, soon
convinced him that she was the child for whom
he was seeking. Within an hour they were on
their way to London. As soon as they arrived
there, before going to his own residence, Mr.
31owbray sought Miss Ward and placed Kitty
in her charge. . It was well he did this; for,
rapidly as they had come to London, old Andrew
was there before(theni, and Mr. Mowbray, as he
alighted at his own door, saw the old man
loitering near, trying to conceal himself from
observation as he watched eagerly, evidently ex
pecting to see another person follow Mr. Mow
bray. Feeling sure that such conduct could only be
prompted by some reason as strong as it was
mysterious, Mr. Mowbray resolved to proceed
with the utmost caution. His prudent resolve
to bring Kitty up for service was laid aside ; he
decided, and Margaret agreed with him, that she
was too gentle and delicate for such a life.
There was something exquisitely winning and
confiding in her 'manner, a singular degree o1"
natural refinement about her that interested
every one, while the sad dejection that was evi
dent in her countenance awoke pity. Miss
Ward adopted her at once as a sister, changed
her name to Alice Ward, and was at great pains
to find a boarding-school where she would be
safe and happy and well-trained.
One comprising all these advantages was at
last discovered. It was in the country, at some
distance from London ; and there Alice was
sent, under the chlirge of a lawyer, a relation of
Margaret's, as Mr. Mowbray; perceived that he
was closely watched, thought it better not to
appear in the matter. It would have been hard
even for old Andrew to recognize in the well
dressed little girl, who called Mr. Ward uncle,
and whom he called Alice, the ragged and half
starved Kitty Jones. I
Immediately after his marriage Mr. Mowbray
left for Italy, intending to spend the winter
there on account of his wife's health, which had
long been delicate. He remainedlthere for eight
years, all his intercourse with his 'protege being
carried on by letters, which were regularly ex
changed four times a year.. During the second
year of his residence in Italy, his wife died.
His grief for her loss was very great. He could
not resolve to leave a spot endeared to him by
so many associations. Besides, a real and strono
love for art rendered Italy full of interest to
him. Although his wealth precluded all neces
sity for exertion, he had a studio where he
worked as earnestly as though his livelihood
depended upon it! This occupation, which he
had first taken up as one means of preventing
his mind from dwelling with morbid intensity
upon his loss, became at last a source of great
intellectual "enjoyment to him, and he was
thought to display no mean genius in the art he
had chosen;
At the end of eight years, he was recalled to
England by the loss of nearly all his fortune.
The same mail that brought the intelligence of
that disaster also brought to him a letter from
Alice. She reminded him that she was now
nearly nineteen, and, thanking him for all that
he had done for her, said that she needed no
longer to be a burden upon him, and only waited
his permission to accept the proposal that had
been made to her of becoming a teacher in the
school in which she had passed so long a time.
She did not allude to his pecuniary misfortune,
though she was evidently aware of it. Mr.
Mowbray was pleased by her letter, but delayed
answering it until he saw her in person.
His first visit, after an interview with his
lawyermmediately on his arrival in London,
was to-'-the secluded village in which Alice had
been placed. He could hardly realize that the
pretty graceful girl, with manners at once sim
ple yet agreeable, was the poor child who had
formerly awakened his compassion. The tie
that united them was a strong and peculiar one.
He was the only living being on whom Alice
could feel that she had the slightest claim, and
consequently her affection' for him had in it a
kind of devotion and of intensity that made it
akin to love. On his side h was almost equal
ly a'one. He had no near relatives, and the in
terest of his more distant connections had been
cooled by his long absence. He found his
friends scattered, and all his social ties loosed or
broken. It was refreshing to have one to turn
to whose trust in him almost amounted to reve
rence, and who gave him the sympathy and af
fection which are so necessary to the happiness
of most persons.
The result was what might have been antici
pated, when an unfettered gentleman of twenty
nine and a lady some ten years younger are
thus brought together. Six months after his
arrival in England, Mr. Mowbray and Alice
Ward were married. One of the few things that
still remained from his former large fortune was
a, cottage, with a few acres of ground around it,
in a town in the North of England. There he
carried his wife and established himself, intend
ing to add to their very small income by the
practice of the only profession for which his
previous life fitted him, that of an artist.
He succeeded in this beyond his expectations,
owing, in a great measure, to his unremitting
industry. After painting all the morning, he
would spend the afternoon in rambling over the
adjoining country, sketching whatever struck
his eye or his fancy. On his return from these
excursions, he was alwrays sure to find his wife
awaiting him, either at the window or in the
porch, or, when the weather would permit, by
the cottage door or gate, her sweet, thoughtful
face lighted up by the smile of welcome as she
perceived him in the distance. After a while,
an infant came to cheer the lonely hours of her
husband's absence ; and Alice, as she watched
its daily growth in strength and beauty, won
dered if in all England a woman could be found
happier than herself;
There was an old mansion, somewhat dilapi
dated, but still grand and picturesque, about five
miles from Mr. Mowbray's home, towards which
he often directed his steps. The peculiar beauty
of the building and Of the grounds surrounding
it, in which neither woods, hills, streams, nor
waterfalls were wanting, afforded an infinite
and always pleasing vantvr of landscape. He
learned that the property had long been held by
a family of the name of Lenthal, but that, by
the marriage of the heiress, it had passed into
the possession of a Colonel Fairchild, who, on
being left a widower, went to London, where
for many years he was known as one of the
most fashionable and dissipated men about town.
Mr. Mowbray remembered distinctly having
met him during his own short stay in London,
and being struck with his great personal beauty,
and fascinated by his peculiar chai-m of man
ner. About five years after that meeting, a se
vere and incurable illness had put a sudden
stop to Colonel Fairchild's "gayety, and he had
retreated to the country, where, weakened in
body and mind, he w4s said to be under the en
tire control of his housekeeper, a Mrs. Daniels.
She had dismissed all the other servants but
one, and often, for weeks together, would allow
no one but herself or her son, not even the phy
sician, to approach the sick man.
Mr. Mowbray had been informed that, in the
picture-gallery of the old mansion, there were
some fine paintings, undoubted originals from
the best masters, and he had a great desire to
see them. By all that he had heard, he knew
that it was in vain to apply to Mrs. Daniels for
permission to examine them ; but he was cer
tain, from the slight acquaintance he had had
with Colonel Fairchild, that his great courtesy
would induce him to grant so slight a request,
if it could be conveyed to him. After waiting
for some months for an opportunity to prefer
his petition in the absence of the female Cerbe
rus, Mr. Mowbray had the satisfaction of catch
ing a glimpse of Mrs. Daniels seated in a chaise
driven by her son in the direction of the village.
He was at that time sketching a waterfall near
the road, but hidden from it by a grove of trees.
He lost no time in approaching the house.
A stupid country girl answered his summons,
who at first refused positively to allow him to
enter, but softened somewhat when a crown was
slipped into her hand, and at last consented to
take his card up to her master. The bit of pa
per could do no harm, she said, but she jealously
shut the door in his face when she left him.
She soon returned and asked him to follow her,
saying
" The master be in a terrible way ;" and before
Mr. Mowbraj had time to question her as to her
meaning, she ushered him into the presence of
the invalid.
Mr. Mowbray saw before him a pale, emaci
ated, shrunken man, with no trace about him of
the once splendidly handsome Colonel Fairchild,
but two brilliant eyes, which flashed and rolled
with something of the uncertain glare of insanity.
" Be seated, sir," said he abruptly, yet with a
little of his old grace, while his fingers played
nervously with the card that had just been sent
up. " Excuse me, but I have no time for cere-.
mony. I have long been desiring a personal
interview with you ; but your letters have never
given me a hope of seeing you here. If I were
not the miserable helpless wretch you see, I
should have sought you myself long ago."
" I leg yur pardon, but I have received no
letters from you."
"Your name is George Mowbray?"
"Yes."
"You are the gentleman who once passed a
summer in the south of England, and obtained
possession of a little girl named Kitty Jones, are
you not ?"
"Yes."
"You have resided principally in Rome ?"
Mr. Mowbray bowed.
" Within the last four years, I have written
no less than twenty letters to you there," con
tinued Colonel Fairchild, " to most of which I
have received answers. Here they are ;" and
he drew from a writing-desk near him a bundle
of letters, which he handed to Mr. Mowbray.
" These were not written by me," said Mr.
Mowbray, examining them. "Some of them, I
see, are dated, within the last two years, from
Rome,' but since that time I have been living in
this country."
"I suspected as much," said Colonel Fairchild.
" Will you tell me if Kitty Jones is still liv
ing ? These letters assert and offer to prove her
death."
"That is as untrue as their signature. Kitty
Jones is now my. wife, Alice Mowbray;" and
Mr. Mowbray related to his agitated listener the
history of the child, from the time' he had re
covered possession of her, until then. During
the narratioji, Colonel Fairchild gradually re
covered his composure. When it was finished,
he drew from the desk a number of papeit care
fully arranged and tied together. These he gave
to Mr. Mowbray.
" I have been guilty of agreat crime," said
he ; " for the last four years Piave been trying
in vain to expiate it. I thank God that I am
enabled to succeed in doing justice at last. Those
papers will explain everything to you. I am glad
you have come to relieve me of them, for I hava
dreaded every day that Mrs. Daniels would find
them and destroy them. But yet she seemed so
kind and devoted that I feit as though I were
doing wrong to suspect her," continued he,
mournfully. " She is the one whom you know
as Mrs. Davis."
" Is there anything to be done about these
papers?" asked Mr. Mowbray, seeing that Colo
nel Fairchild was sunk in a gloomy reverie.
" Yes," said he, arousing himself ; " read them
to-night ; you will then understand matters, and
come here to-morrow at this time, with a lawyer
and any friend of yours as a witness. Insist on
being shown to my room, and the rest I can at
tend to myself."
Mr. Mowbray found his wife sitting in the
bright moonlight, with her child asleep on her
lap, looking anxiously for him. He was later
than usual, and she had begun to feel a little
anxiety at his delay.
"I have been hearing something that interest
ed me very much, about a little Kitty Jones that
I knew a long time ago," said Mr. Mowbray in
answer to her questionings, and he related the
incident of the afternoon.
When tea was over, they turned with eager
curiosity to the examination of the papers. The
first one they opened was written by Colonel
Fairchild, and dated a few months before. It
gave an account of his marriage with Mrs. Gra
ham, the heiress of the Lenthal property, who
was then a widow with one child, a girl of two
years old named Catharine; of Mrs. Vairchild's
death a few months afterwards, leaving by a will
made just before her second marriage, a large
annuity to her husband, but the bulk of her
property to her child: In case of Catharine's
death, it was all to revert to Colonel Fairchild.
There was a later will found, but as it was in
complete, it was thrown aside. By this she had
reversed the decisions of the former, giving the
estate to her husband and the annuity to her
fchild.
Colonel Fairchild persuaded himself that, as
this was his wife's real wish, he- could not be
acting very wrong if he carried, it out. Mrs
Graham's wealth had been her chief attraction
in his eyes, and to have it taken from him when
it was almost in his grasp, was a bitter disap
pointment. He was ambitious in his own way,
fond of pleasure and distinction. To have the
means of gratifying himself in these aims with
held from him by a little child incapable of
appreciating them, was more than he could
patiently endure. After contending with these
unlawful hopes and wishes for two years, he
at last yielded to the temptation when it came,
accompanied by a favorable opportunity.
A little girl, daughter of Andrew and Phebe
Daniels, was a favorite playmate of Catharine's.
One day, when they were both together near the
river, Annie Daniels fell in and was drowned.
Colonel Fairchild came by as Mr. Daniels and
his wife were trying in vain to recover their
child. He knew them both well, and, as soon
as they would listen to him, he promised them
a sum which seemed immense to them, if they
would only testify to the death of Catharine at
the same time. He knew that they were people
to whom money was all powerful as a motive,
and he did not judge them hardly. They con
sented. Catharine was hurried oft' to their cot
tage, and kept concealed until they could leave
the country. Col. Fairchild detailed minutely
all the steps he took to avert suspicion, and said
that he succeeded beyond his expectations. The
yearly allowance he made to .Andrew and his
wife was ample to enable them to bring up
Catharine in comfort ; but he feared, from some
circumstances that had lately come to his knowl
edge, that his wishes in that respect had been
disregarded. He told about his efforts to recover
the child after Mr. Mowbray had taken posses
sion of her, and said that for four years Mr. and
Mrs. Daniels never lost sight for a week at a
time of that gentleman, but in vain.
Then this sudden and prostrating illness had
fallen upon him. He retired to the country,
where he was soon followed by Mrs. Daniels,
who, being left a widow, installed herself as his
housekeeper and nurse. At the time she did this,
Colonel Fairchild wrote that he was too much
weakened in mind and body to make auy oppo
sition, and she soon gaiued great control over
him, so much so that, having assured him that
Catharine was dead, and letters from Mr. Mow
bray having confirmed this fact, he had several
times been on the point of making a will in fa
vor of Mrs. Daniels and her son. Within the
last six months, his mind had recovered some
what of its former vigor. He recalled various
circumstances that made him think that he was
about to be made the dupe and victim of the
same base love of gold through which he had
been led into a similar crime. He wrote this
paper, he said, in hopes that if he died without
having been able to verify Catharine's death, or
to do justice to her if she were still alive, some
other person might undertake the office.
" I' always knew I should turn out a fortune
to you at last," said Alice joyously, when they
had finished reading Colonel Fairchild's revela
tions. " I had dim reminiscences of my earlv
life, so very dim that I did not like to speak of
them ; but I see now that they were real."
Mrs. Daniels's impotent anger and dismay
when she found her plans foiled would be diffi
cult to describe. But Colonel Fairchild's con
science, though late in its awakening, was too
thorough in its work to leave her any hope of
being able to accomplish her desires. The next
day he made, in the presence of Mr. Mowbray
and the friend and lawyer who accompanied
him, not only a full confession, but an entire
restitution of all the property to its legal mistress.
At Alice's earnest request, the real facts in the
case were kept secret as far as possible from the
world. Colonel Fairchild was left in possession
of the Lenthal mansion until his death, which
occurred within the year ; Mr. Mowbray and
Alice meanwhile showing him the kindness and
attention of attached children. Mrs. Daniels
disappeared with her son from the country,
taking with her a large sum of money which she
had gradually amassed in her long and wicked,
service. It was discovered before her departure
that ehe had early recognized Mr. Mowbray a
the one whom she had met under such peculiar
mreuinstancesdong before, and in his Wife her
former victim, and therefore had jealously avoid
ed being sejm byUhem. Even after so many
years, and under such different circumstances,
Alice could not meet her without a shudjer, and
was greatly relieved at her departure And
though Mr. Mowbray's subsequent life was a
highly prosperous and quiet oile. she nlwl u
her happiest years were the two she spenjt in the
lit,- ,1 A A
mue wiue as tne wire ot an artist, ask-et un-
inuwu io iame.
MISCELLANEOUS.
HINTS ABOUT AVOIDING FlitES.
Ve copy the following iudicions
this subject from a late number of the American
Agriculturist. They are doubtless from th
of Orange Judd, a practical chemist an one of
tne editors ot that paper :
Very many large fires, as well as many severe
burns, may be avoided by understanding that
air is necessary to produce combustion, knd that.
the exclusion of arr is as effectual as an appli
cation ot water. Indeed, in extinguishjing fire,
water chiefly acts by shutting oat air, and any
other means of shutting out the air is just as ef
fectual. We have shown this frequently in
lectures on heat, by pouring upon tht table a
quantity of spirits of turpentine, alcohol, or
ether, and when set on fire so as to pioduce a
large flame, we have instaiitly extinguished it,
by quickly spceading over it a silk handkerchief
or piece of paper, which for the iustaut shutout
the air.
A week or two since a young lady in Dan
bury, Ct., upset a camphene lanity the contents
of which spread over her dress and enveloped
her in flames, but she seized a blanket from a
bed, aud immediately wrapped it closely around
her, and thus smothered the fire, (shul out the
air) and escaped without injury; ,,Fi ,e years
since we were transferring from one vessel to an
other, two gallons of mixed sulphuric ejther and
chloroform both very inflammable sutstances,
which burn with a great flame when L person
in the room carelessly brought a lighted lamp
near, and set the whole on fire. We Instantly
snatched a table-spread from a table near by,
and with tliis entirely covered the fljame and
extinguished it. . We sacrificed the djhes and
food upon the table, but saved the house, per
haps the block of buildings, and perhaps our
Jives, as a moment's delay would have enveloped
the whole room in flames. I
Two years since a servant girl, contrary to
oft-repeated and positive directions, undertook
to fill a fluid lamp while burning, and, as was
certain to be the case, the can of liduid took
fire, ("not exploded,") and was dropjed upon
the floor, setting her under garments on fire.
She ran for the door, but another domestic hap
pened to catch hold of her outer clothes in
such a way as to draw them closely arc und her,
and thus unwittingly smothered the flame, while
a member of the family extinguished tie burn
ing lamp, can, and fluid upon the floor by
spreading an ironing cloth oyer it.
Some dozen years since, one of the boys on
our farm, was at work in the horse and carriage
barn before light one winter morning. When
called to breakfast he left the lantern where it
was knocked down by one of the horses, and a
large mass of straw for bedding was sen one fire.
When discovered, the whole mass fo :ir or five
feet in diameter was in a flame thiit nearly
reached to the hay hanging down from a mow
above, containing several tons. In this case, a
horse blariket was at once thrown dpon the
centre of the flame, and others quickly added,
and the fire extinguished without damage, al
though larger volumes of smoke poujred forth
from the doors and other openings, arid almost
prevented, any one from entering. J
We have known of instances of rooms being
found one fire, where by closing theip up, the
fire has been confined, aud kept in a smothered
state until sufficient help with abundance .of
water could be procured to at once extinguish
the flames. In a great number of instances, ex
tensive conflagrations could have been! avoided,
had the fire been kept where it originated till
efficient aid arrived. This could have been done
by simply closing up the doors and windows,
instead of throwing them all wide o en, as is
usually the case.
We have thus given a few instances and we
might add many others, where serious injury
has been averted by applying a simplej prevent
ive, that of shutting out the free access of air,
which is.necssary to feed the flame. Let. every
person fix it in their minds, and in the Jmihds of
every member of their families, old ant . young,
that other means than water may bi used to
smother fires. Do not teach this by pr scep't on
ly, for in the excitement of a fire mere precepts
will lbe forgotten, but let a few experiments be
made' before the family to illustrate the principle.
For example, pour upon the hearth-j or bet
ter, upon a flat stone br board out of $oors -a
quantity of alcohol, turpentine, burning fluid,
oil, ether, or other inflamable substance set it on
fire, and then extinguish it by spreading a cloth
quickly over it. Re-light it and extinguish, it
with , a newspaper, and repeat the experiment
with a handkerchief, an apron, a dress, a cloak,
a table-cloth, bed-quilt, &c It would also be
well to make the experiment with J burning ,
shavings, straw, fcc. The experiment) may be
varied by smearing an upright block, tarreL or
post with oil, alcohol, or otherwise, aiid when
on fire,'extinguish it with a cloth or old garment.
Some simple experiments like theso are al
ways interesting they develop thought,..- and
prepare ;one , for acting coolly and effecjtually in
an emergency. They are drilling and manceuyre
ing soldiers previous, to battle. . J ... . .
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