mat“: the spot when the tracks were faint.
Suddenly he paused upon the brink of a deep
pit, reaching far down into the bowels of the
earth. A deep, dark, noisome place, from
which a reeking damp mist rose, and spread
about the cave, from side to side. Steeping
on the brink, the Guide listened, and every
man held his breath, and they heard a low,
murmuring sound, as of rushing water, far
below.

“ I don’t know what to make of this place,”
said the Guide. “I’ve tried to study it out
again and again, and have never succeeded.
Whether it is a subterranean stream, or a was
terfall, I can’t say, but it is water, and it’s hot,
or else where does this hot steam come from?”

“Don’t stop to speculate on that, my dear
Gilbert, but go on in the search. While we
linger here, Darromed is bearing Helen fur—
ther and further away from us. I beg you, if
you have any regard for me, to push on at
once, and help me to aid my darling,” said
Waterman.

“Impatient, like all boys,” muttered the
Guide. “I might have known it would be
hard to check him, once he gets his head set
on an object. Now listen to me, Clinton Wa—
terman; am I to lead in this affair, or are
you?”

“ Of course I must leave it to you, helpless
as I am in regard to this place,” replied the
young man, earnestly. “You should make
some allowance for my feelings.”

“As if I didn’t do that,” murmured the
Guide. “ As if I could shut fny heart to the
cry of sorrow from a human breast. The boy
don’t know me; or he wouldn’t say that to me.
He don’t know that my hopes, lying stranded
and withered on a desolate shore, show them-
selves to my heart like the bare ribs of ship-
ping, wrecked in the long ago. There; don’t
think me hard on you, lad, for I don’t mean to
be. I know how hard it is to lose loved ones;
I’ve lost them myself, and that makes me feel
the more for you, my poor boy. I’ll find your
Helen, if she lives, and if she dies, I will so
avenge her that the V‘Vyandots shall tremble
when the name of Gilbert, the Guide, is spoken
of in their lodges. Come aroundkme, you
three, and swear by all we hold holy and dear,
by our hopes of heaven, and a land of peace
where the ‘wicked cease from troubling and
the weary are at rest,’ that you will never
turn back from the duty of seeking this lost
child, or avenging her if slain, unless incapa—
citated by wounds.”

“ I swear,” said Clinton, solemnly, “and I
will be true and steadfast to keep this my
vow.” -

“ And so do 1, Handy Pat O’Driscoll, county
Antrim, and the divil resave me the day I turn
back like a coward from danger.”

“I cannot swear,” said Owasco, proudly;
“but I give you the word of a man who never
lied that I will not turn back, until the white
maiden is free or avenged, or another Ononda—
ga scalp hangs on the war-pole of a Wyandot
lodge.”

They joined hands, these four strong men,
and an electric shock seemed to pass from arm
to arm. Henceforth they were bound in a new
tie, by their solemn vow. Danger lay before
their path in the coming days, but they did
not fear it; privations were their lot, and they
shared them boldly; torture and great sorrow

came upon them, but never despair; but they
were faithful and true to each other in the
days before them.

“Now for work!” said the Guide. “Our
path is cut out for us and we must tread it un-
shrinkingly, even to the end of our weary
road. Some of us may grow weary, and lie
down to rest forever from the cares of the
world, but the rest must keep on unshrinking»
ly, if our course takes us into the very heart
of the Wyandot villages. Give me the torch,
Owasco, for I must study the course of the
chief from this point.” .

He took the torch and looked for the bloody
marks. They were faint now, as if the wound
had nearly ceased tobleed, and upon a rock
near by they found some pieces of stained
calico rags and buck-skin, which had evidently
been used to stanch the wound.

“ See this,” said the Guide. “It says to me
more plainly than words could that here the
Indian put Helen down and bound up his
wound. I should say that it was in the leg,
and probably a fiesh’wound, or he could not
have gone on so long, bleeding in that way.
Very likely be bound the girl while he attend—
ed to the wound.”

“But how did he cross the chasm?” de-
manded Waterman. . “I should say it is ten
feet wide.”

“ He-did not cross it at all, I think,” replied
Gilbert. “Remember that he was forced to
carry the girl in his arms, for she is too high—
spirited to go with him willingly. There must
be some outlet from this point of which I know
nothing, or else he tried back from this point
to the opening we passed about a hundred
yards above.”

At this moment Owasco began to climb up
to a. sort of shelf which ran along the wall of
the vaulted passage, about three feet from the
floor. Something bright glittered in the light
of the lamp, and picking it up, he passed it to
his companion. Gilbert gave it silently into
the hand of the young soldier, who pressed it
to his lips with a joyful cry. It was a broad
gold ring, with a single small diamond set into
a tablet upon the top.

“ That belongs to Helen,” he said, quickly—
“ a gift which I made her in happier days,
when we were betrothed. Doubtless she man“
aged to slip it from her finger, in the absence
of anything else she could lay hold of, to guide
us in following her.” . ’

The Guide sprung upon the shelf by the side
of Owasco, and together they ran along the
wall, striking upon the rocks as they passed
along to see if any were loose. At last one
trembled under a heavy blow from the hand
of Owasco, and seizing it in both hands, he
plucked it out, and revealed an op ning be-
yond. The two men worked hard and soon
cleared a. passage through which they could
make their way, but before they passed in Gil-
bert examined the bottom of the passage, and
there, in the dust of centuries, they found the
tracks of an Indian foot, pressed heavily
into the debris, as if he had carried a weight.

“Didn’t I tell you so?” cried the Guide.
“ He carried her so far, but he can’t stand
that long, for the girl will make a heavy load
after a little while, light as she looks. Come
on, you fellows.”

He crawled into the low passage, closely
followed by Owasco, the Irishman and Water—
man. The place was very narrow, and yet
the air was pure and fresh—~11 strange char»
acteristic of these limestone caves. For some
distance the fine debris was thick upon the
stone floor and they could follow the tracks
readily, but as the passage grew wider and
higher the dust disappeared, until they again
stood in a lofty room, like that in which they
had left Helen, containing, if possible, more
beautiful specimens from the hand of that
wonderful architect and artist, Nature.

But the tracks had disappeared, and they

done before. For some distance there was no
passage, either to the right or left, but at last
they came to a place where the road separated,
and the object of their pursuit might have
taken either course. ‘

“Stay here until I return or call for you,”
commanded the Guide, dashing down the
right—hand passage with a torch in his hand.
“I won’t be long in finding out if she went
this way.”

He hurried on without paying any attention
to the entreaties of Pat that he might go, and
was absent some ten minutes, when he return~
ed, saying that the passage had come to an
end, and she must have gone by the other.
They hurried on to make up for the lost time,
and soon decided by slight traces, observable
only to the scouts, that Darromed had passed
this way.

“Don’t ask me how I know this,” said Gil—'
bert. “ It’s a part of my business to read the
earth like a printed book, and I see in this
bare rock, written as plainly as I care to read,
that this is the read he took. This can’t last
much longer, either, for this path inclines up~
ward and we are not far from the open air.”

“ It seems to me that we have traveled miles
under the earth,” said Clinton.

“ ’Deed have we,” said Pat. “Fifty av
thim, and Irish miles at that, and thim’s the
longest miles we know anything about, being
that St. Patrick measured thim in his coach.”

“We have not gone half‘ a mile in all,” re
plied the Guide. “ That is, if we measure in a
direct line. The circuit we have made is near—
er a mile, but it is hard to measure distance in
a place like this.”

“ Don’t thry to fool me now,” exclaimed
Pat. “ Sure an’ we’ve thraveled fifty mile,
and long wans at that.”

“ No more than I say,” persisted the Guide.
“ I ought to know something of the distance,
for a great part of the later years of my life
I have made use of such hiding-places as this."

“I suppose so; but look at this! As I- live,
here is another branch of the passage.”

“ And a good sign to go by,” said the Guide,
steeping at the entrance of the right—hand pas—
sage. “ This girl certainly has her wits about
her, for wherever she is likely to leave us at-
fault she has left a reminder. That looks like
a trinket I have seen her wear upon her neck.”

It was a small piece of amber, cut in the
form of a Maltese cross, which Waterman at
once identified as belonging to the lady, and
it pleased him that she should be so thought
ful.

“Yes, yes,” he said. “ She trusts in us to
follow and save her, but she does not know
how close we are upon the trail, or how much
this little token cheers us. It gives us a cer
tainty that she has as yet been uninjured, and
that she is cunning enough to outwit Darro-
med, though the scoundrel is no fool.”

“ Not he!” replied the Guide. “I know to
my cost that he has the ferocity of the blood
hound, the cunning of a fox, and the untiring
patience of a wolf. My heart beats strangely
as I take this little cross in my hand, and]

 

think that the darling girl has worn it on her
neck.”

“Come on, come on !” cried-the young agent.
“It is I who feel impatient now.”

“ You shall not accuse me of being slack in
my duty,” replied the Guide, quickly. “For-
ward!”

A few steps further they felt a current of
fresh air blowing in their faces, and pushing
on, they saw the star of evening, Venus, shin—
ing clear and bright above their heads.

They were at the bottom of a funnel-shaped
ravine, containing in the circuit of its circum—
ference perhaps a thousand yards. The sides
were fresh and green, and bright fiOWers
bloomed about their feet. Stepping so sudden-
ly from that strange cavern~home under the
light of the stars came like a shock to them,
and for a moment every one paused to drink in
the delicious atmosphere.

"' It is a beautiful world,” said Gilbert, “and
looking upon such a scene as this, one can only
think it strange that such a scene can be out—
raged by the strife and passion of man. And
yet without doubt, this peaceful spot has been
the witness of savage warfare, bloodshed and
death. Here ends our work for tonight, as it
is impossible to say which way the trail leads
until morning.” _

“Must we lie idly here all night, knowing
that every hour is placing a greater distance
between us and Helen?” demanded Waterman,
in an agonized tone.

“ It‘is useless to go on,” answered the Guide,
“ and yet the night shall not be lost, for I will
go to the camp of Mack and tell him what we
intend to do, and let him return to the fort.
But, will you not be punished for leaving upon
such an expedition without orders?”

“ I have them already,” answered Water—
man. “ Mine was always a roving commis—
sion, and Wayne told me that, after leaving
Helen safely at the post, I should make it my
business to examine into the state of the coun—

call on you for assistance. ”

“ Good; I am glad to know that you are not
likely to get into trouble on account of this un—
fortunate affair. I will leave you now, and
be off to camp.”

“ But, you will get back in time, I hope.”

“ If I am not here before daylight you can
go on without me, for I shall be dead or a pri—
soner.”

“Let me go wid ye, Gilbert dear,” said the
Irishman. “ ’Deed an’ I don’t like to stay
here, knowing that maybe ye are indunger.”

“ Cease your prate, Pat,” ordered the Guide,
sternly. “ Remember that you are under my
orders.”

“ I don’t forget it, avick,” said Pat. “ I’ll
keep my wurrud too, and obey ye in ivory
thing, but it comes mighty hard at times, ’dade
an’ it does. I’d like right well av I might go
wid ye widout breaking orthers.”

“It is better not,” said the Guide, more
kindly. “One can do this duty as well as
two, and there is really so little danger in it
that I would let you do it if you knew the
country well enough to travel in the dark.”

“ J ist as ye say, masther,” said Pat, submis~
sively; “but av ye don’t come back sorra re-
save me av I don’t write me name in bloody
letthers upon the back av any bla’g’ard Injins
I mate from that time. Good—night til ye.”

“ Good—night, Pat,” replied Gilbert. “ The
same to the rest. And Owasco, if I do not re-
turn, and there is always a possibility of loss,
you will know what to do. Think of me as
one dead, and go upon your duty like men, and
never pause or falter.”

The dark figure of the Guide was seen dart—
ing up the green side of the bowl~like valley in
Which they were ensconced, and it stood for a
moment outlined against the sky, waved them
a farewell and was gone. Handy Pat gave
vent to a loud sniff of disapprobation as he
turned his back to the others to cover his grief
and sat down upon the turf rocking his body
back and forth with that utter abandonment
of grief of which only an Irishman is capable.
“ Ochone, ochone! And now who will fight
the battle or gain the day, whin the man we

 

 

could no longer follow in the way they had

rerd in danger, or so riddy to stand by a fri’nd
as he? Wirra, wirrasthru, but it’s dead an’
kilt I am wid graif.”

“ Don’t take it so much to heart, Pat,” said
W'aterman, kindly. “He’ll keep his word and
come back to us if he can.”

“Yis, an’ that’s thru; if he can. But, how
the divil can he all? the bloody Wyandots take
him, the haythen rid naygurs?”

“ Gilbert is very brave and cunning,” said
Owasco. “ No fear that he will come to harm;
for the Great Spirit is always near to watch
over the children whom he loves.”

“ Do you think that Darromed will travel
all night with Helen?” ,asked Waterman.

“ No,” replied Owasco, “ white girl very
brave, but she will be weary. He will give her
rest until he can see the trail.”

“ Then we ought to catch him before many
hours after daybreak.” ~

“Perhaps yes, perhaps no; who can tell,
since it is all as the Great Spirit wills.”

He wrapped himself in his blanket and lay
down at the root of a tree, and was soon asleep.
Overcome by fatigue, Waterman followed his
example, and did not wake until he felt a hand
upon his shoulder, and opening his eyes with a
start saw the Guide bending over him.

“Come!” commanded Gilbert; “it is time
to be on our way.”

(To be contimcd—comme’nced in No. 235.

m

Too late.

BY BESSIE P. STRONG.

 

 

You have been wronged: at least you think
so, and perhaps you are right. This is not
your first trouble with your mother: little dif-~
ferences have arisen before, and little differ~
ences have swollen into great ones, out of
which have grown angry words, and angrier
looks. You said some bitter things in these
moments, and afterward, when it has been
too late, you have longed to take them back.
For some time your mother has been growing
,more unjust toward you, so you think; more
irritable, but lately you have received a letter
accepting you as governess in a family living
in, a distant city; so, in this your last quarrel,
when you utter your time—worn threat of leav-
ing home, you read your letter to give it
weight, then you go into your room. andtake
a chair by the window.

As you sit there, some slow, grand strains
of music fall upon your ear, and looking down
the avenue, you see a body of soldiers crossing
below. That must be a funeral—march, you
think, as with almost nervous dread you watch
the ranks file slowly by: you hope you are
wrong, you do not care to think of death just
now. More soldiers; a carriage; another, and
behind that something larger; the trees hide
it for a moment, but you see waving black
plumes, and soon the long hearse comes into
View. Inside of that lies the coffin, and inside
of that—well,,you do not know, but some
one’s friend is dead: your friends may die.
The long line passes out of sight, but still the
dirge comes back to you: those deep, rich
chords with their sad rise and fall—what mat~
ters it to the corpse!

You leave the window and go down into the

 

try east of the Miami, in which duty I was to’

never live at home again. The past twelve

yet, as you look around and listen to those
strains of music, a deep yearning fills your
heart; you wish—almost against yourself—-
that you might live those months over; per—
haps you have a vague idea of doing better.
Ah! many have made that wish, but all in
vain. God tries us once, but he never gives
back any of the past!

The music is dying away: it has come to
you in the full force of its meaning: it is a
dirge for the past, now dead; a dirge for the
present, surely, silently dying. You are start-
led when you think how the moments are pass—
ing, and you reach out as if to stop them.
Your hand closes on—-—nothing; the leaves
wave to and fro, and time moves on. So the
moments grow into hours, and the hours into
days, and all creep slowly but surely by, and
take their stand among the things pf the great
past. Once they were yours, but now they
are yours no longer.

Often during that last week you find your
mother making some little things for you; once
you see traces of tears on her cheeks, and a
sudden impulse prompts you to beg her forgive»
ness for your harsh words, but something holds
you back, and you pass through the room in
silence. ,

The day has come at last; almost the hour.
Your trunk is packed, your traveling-dress is
on, and you go down into the yard, to see it
once more before you leave. You sit under,
the old apple-tree, the apple-tree under which
you played so often when you were a little
girl; your mother used to make tea—parties for
you out there,- and some imes she would join
you, and pretend she was company, and how
you would laugh at her droll efforts to get into
one of your doll-chairs: she laughed too, then
~—somehow or other you have not heard her
laugh much lately. And musing so, you find
yourself, before long, with tears rolling down
your cheeks. Oh, God! could you only go
back to those happy days! Ha, no! you‘; can
not go back! you are going forward, steadily
forward. Close by is the little summer—house
covered with honeysuckles, and inside is the
deep, cool well. You remember as you look
that way, how often you have come from
school, hot, dusty and tired, and have quench-
‘ed your thirst at the well in the shady summer-
house, and with this picture, comes the image
of your mother standing in the _open doorway,
waiting to welcome you. She does not seem
so glad when you come home now, but that
was years go, and both you and she have
changed since then. Those careless, happy,
school—girl days! they have all gone, too!
Again the hot tears fill your eyes as you turn
from this picture. You look at the vine-cov-
ered arbor, and recall the many times you
have sat there, and laughed and chatted gayly
with your young friends, but as you .go over it
all in your mind, you remember how some—
times your father was away, and your mother
sat by the window alone, and you wonder why
you never thought of that before as you do
now.

Ah, well! even those days of fitful pleasure,
alternate joy and grief, have all gone by, and
now—the leaves of the trees stir and rustle in
the summer wind; there was always something
of mystery to you in this silent, ceaseless mo~
tion of the leaves; you always felt they were
talking, and today as you watch them, they
seem to repeat over and over some rhyming
lines you once wrote: “ If you pause now and
think there is this to remember; the summer
is passing, ’twill soon be September, and the
fall of your life, like the fall of the year, is ra-
pidly, rapidly drawing near.” Yes, July is
nearly over, only August will be left then.
You are twenty-one now; when you were six—
teen you looked at those figures us a long way

 

like so well is gone? Who so brave or so for-

ofi:‘, but they have come at last, and twenty-

yard: two weeks more, you say, and you will

months have not been happy ones for you,

two will soon follow. You turn to go in but
stop for one more look; the leaves swing gent-
ly to and fro—a strange fear creeps over you:
you feel that the next time you watch that
motion something will have happened. For a
few seconds you falter, divided as it were
against yourself, one self says stay, the other
go, and a fate impels you to obey the latter.

The two weeks are ended, and you say good-
by; then you step into the carriage and ride
off. Eagerly, almost feverishly, you watch
them all, father, mother, sisters and brothers,
till one by one they go in; but as you watch
the house you see some one come out on the
porch again: it is your mother. You must go
back! you must speak just one word to her!
You rise to your feet and call the driver, but
your mother turns and goes in, and you sit
down again, and look back till the old house,
with its porches and climbing roses, fades out
of sight. ’

 

A governess’ life! it drags slowly enough!
Three months have passed, and you sit in your
room one October afternoon, reading. A ser—
vant comes in and hands you a telegram.
“No bad news, I hope, Miss.” “I hope not,”
is all you say, but yOu lay it down to wait till
she leaves the room. Then, with a heavy
sinking at your heart, you open it, and read:
" Your mother is very sick; come home.” You
cover your face with your hands, and sit
crushed as one who has realized a foreboding.

A few days later, and you are riding up the
long avenue; you lean far out of the window
and strain your eyes as you look ahead. Near
er, nearer you come; further you lean from
the window, breathlessly, hopelessly. Yes, it
is there! you see it at last; gently in the au-
tumn breeze, back and forth, to and fro, just
as the leaves moved, swings the long, black
crape. __

Archie meets you at the door: “ Oh, sister!”
he sobs, “Mother is dead!” “Where is she?”
you ask. “ In the front room.” You pass
him quickly, and go up—stairs. At the door
you pause a moment. How still the house is!
She is lying on the bed. Asleep? Yes; she
must be! she cannot be dead! You take her
hand, but start back and let it fall heavily.
Great God! how cold it is! Then you kneel
by the bedside and wait to see when she will
wake. There is a sad, weary look on her face,
as if she had been very tired. Perhaps she
was; you never thought about it much before,
but she had a great deal to do. Her hair is
streaked with gray, and there are lines of care
and sorrow on her brow. Did you ever cause
her sorrow? One by one the great tears roll
down your cheeks. Oh, could you only go
back to your happy childhood when you used
to play under the apple tree! or to those school-
girl days! could youonly begin back there,
how much kinder you would be to your moth-
er! You had never thought of her dying! God
knows if you could only have had that picture
in your mind, you would never have said those
words. “There is now the memory of her in-
justice and unkindness, with which you used
to stifle your pangs of remorse when she was
living? Gone! all gone! Instead, '‘there only
comes a troop of gentle, loving acts; you re-
member how oft—for you were a sickly child—
the single word “mother,” uttered in the dead
of night, has brought her to your bedside; how
she has bathed your fevered brow; moistened
your lips; smoothed your pillow; and with ca—
resses and loving words, made you forget your
pain. Ah me! have you forgotten the dear
old songs? the voice that forever is still! And
is there only this to think of now?

 

Nay, there is more: you remember how once
she broke down, and sobbed because you had
been very harsh to her, and how your heart
was wrung then, and you knelt down beside
her and begged her to forgive you, and tried to
soothe her grief; and she forgave you, but oh,
her face! Great God! can you ever forget
it? and now you creep close to her, and lay
your face on hers, so cold and dead, and you
call her, but she makes no sound. Oh, how
thin and tired her hands are! Would you wish
to bring her back to earth? God knows you
would! If only for one short hour! You
would take her dear hand in yours; you would
stroke her hair and face, and say, “Dear, dear
mother!” Then y u would clasp her round
her neck, and with your head upon her shoul-
der, sob, and tell her how you‘ love her, and
how sorry, oh how sorry youare, to think you
have ever grieved her. You sob all this out
now, but the cold, dead lips cannot kiss you,
or say as they once did," “ Dear child, we have
both been wrong; let us begin anew.” Begin
anew? Ah no! it is too late! The past has
gone to eternity, and no tears or prayers can
ever recall it. You had a mother once, but
you were unkind to her; now, God has taken
her home. .

Rip Van We.

THE GERMAN LEGEND OF PETER KLAUS.

 

 

 

This legend has a peculiar interest, as being the
source from which Washington Irving is said to
have obtained the idea for his " Rip Van Winkle.”

PETER KLAUS was a goatherd of Sittendorf,
and herded his flocks in the Kyifhausen moun-
tains; here he was accustomed to let them rest
every evening in a mead surrounded by an old
wall, while he made his muster of them; but
for some days he had remarked that one of his
finest goats always disappeared some time af-
ter coming to this spot and did not join the
flock till late. Watching her more attentive-
ly, he observed that she had slipped through
an opening in the wall; upon which he crept
after the animal and found her in a sort of
cave, busily employed, in gleaming the oat-
grains that dropped down singly from the
roof. Helooked up and shook his ears amid
the shower of corn that now fell down upon
him, but with all his inquiry could discover
nothing. At last he heard above the stamp
and neighing of horses, from whose mangers it
was probable the cats had fallen.

Peter was yet standing in astonishment at
the sound of horses in so unusual a place, when
a boy appeared, Who, by signs, without speak-
ing a word, desired him to follow. Accord—
ingly, he ascended a few steps and passed over
a walled court into a hollow, closed in on all
sides by lofty rocks, Where a partial twilight
shot through the overspreading foliage of the
shrubs. There, upon the smooth, fresh lawn,
he found twelve knights playing at ninepins,
and not one spoke a syllable; with equal si—
lence Peter was installedin the office Lf set-
ting up the ninepins.

At first he performed this duty with knees

“that knocked against each other, as he now

and then stole a partial look at the long
beards and slashed doublets of the noble
knights. By degrees, however, custom gave
him courage; he gazed on every thing with
firmer look, and at last even ventured to
drink out of a bowl that stood near him,
from which the wine exhaled a most deli-

 

cious odor. The glowing juice made him feel

 

 

as if reanimated, and whenever he found the
least weariness he again drew fresh vigor from
the inexhaustible goblet. Sleep at last over-
came him. Upon waking, Peter found him-
self in the very same inclosed mead where he
was wont to tell his herds. He rubbed his
eyes, but could see no sign of dog or goats, and
was, besides, not a little astonished at the high
grass and shrubs and trees which he had never
before observed there. Not well knowing what
to think, he continued his way over all the
places that he had been accustomed to frequent
with his goats, but nowhere could he find any
traces of them; below him he saw Sittendorf,
and, at length, with hasty steps he descended.
The people whom he met before the village
were all strangers to him; they had not the
dress of his acquaintance, nor yet did they ex-
actly speak their language, and when he asked
after his goats all stared and touched their
chins. At last he did the same almost invol—
untarily and found his beard lengthened by a
foot at least, upon which he began to conclude
that himself and those about him were equally
under the influence of enchantment; still he
recognized the mountain he had descended for
the Kyfihausen. The houses, too, with their
yards and gardens, were all familiar to him,
and to the passing questions of a traveler sev-
eral boys replied by the name of Sittendorf.

With increasing doubt, he now walked
through the village to his house! It was much
decayed, and before it lay a strange goatherd’s
boy, in a ragged frock, by whose side was a
dog worn lank by age, that growled and snarl-
ed when he spoke to him. He then entered the
cottage through an opening which had once
been closed by a door. Here, too, he found all
so void and waste that he tottered out again
at the back door as if intoxicated, and called
his wife and children by their names; but none
heard, none answered.

In a short time women and children thronged
around the stranger with the long, hoary beard,
and all, as if for a wager, joined in inquiring
what he wanted. Before his own house to ask
others after his wife or children, or even of
himself, seemed so strange, that, to get rid of
these questions, he mentioned the first name
that occurred to him, “ Kurt Steffen?” The
bystanders looked at each other in silence, till
at last an old woman said, “He has been in
the churchyard these twelve years, and you’ll
not go there today.” “ Velten Meier?” “ Heav-
en rest his soul! he has lain these fifteen years
in the house he will never leave.”

The goatherd shuddered, as in the last speak-
er he recognizcd his neighbor, who seemed to
have suddenly grown old, but he had lost all
desire for further question. At this moment
a brisk young woman pressed through the an};-
ious gazers, carrying an infant in her arms,
and leading by the hand a girl of about four-
teen years old, all three the very image of his
wife. With increasing surprise he asked her
name. “ Maria!” “And your father’s?” “ Pe-
ter Klaus! Heaven rest his soul! It is now
twenty years since we sought him day and
night on the Kyffhausen mountains, when his
flock returned without him. I was then but
saven years old.”

The goatherd could contain himself no lon-
ger; “ I am Peter Klaus,” he cried; “ I am
Peter Klaus, and none else ;” and he snatched
the child from his daughter’s arms. All for a
moment stood as if petrified, till at length one
voice, and another and another, exclaimed,
“ Yes, this is Peter Klaus! Welcome, neigh~
bor! Welcome, after twenty years!”

T0 AD VERTISERS.

3%“ A few Advertisements will be inserted on this
page at the rate of fifty cents per line, nonpareil
measurement.

 

 

A FORTUNE FOR ONLY $10.00. ,
U 0 U in PRIZES in Alabama State Lot-
0 , tery. To be distributed among the

Ticket-holders, on Wednesday, Oct. 14, 1874.

1 Grand Prize of.....$100,0002 g Tickets $10.00
1 Grand Prize of.  50,000 <4 % Ha‘iVes 5.00
3,030 Prizesamounting to 350,000 ; Quarters 2.50
Information free. Address all orders for Tickets to
240-10“ J. Y. SLATER 8: 00., Box 5,431, New York.
Clear and Transparent.

G  S c A R D Your Name Beautifully

printed in GOLD! on 1 002. fox-500. pest pd. 3 (102. $1.
Must have Agents everywhere. Outfits 250. Sam-
ples 30. F. K. SMITH, Bangor, Maine. 236-4t-eow.

 

RED, BLUE, WHITE,

 

$10 to $100—Iuvesled in stocks and Gold pays
200 per cent. a month. Send for particulars. Tum-
bridge & 00., Bankers, 2 Wall St., N. Y. 240-13La

 

A WEEK to Male and Female Agents, in their
1 localitv. Costs NOTHING to try it. Particu-
lars free. P. 0. VICKERY & CO., Augusta, Maine,

 

237—1yr.

per da at home. Terms Free. Ad-

§5 g  dress GEO. STINSON & 00., Portland,
sine. , 007-1y.

 

9 EACH WEEK. Agents wanted; particu-
$7u lars free. J. WORTH & 00., St. Loui;.3Mo. *
9-4t.

 

This Is No Humbug.

Y sendin 35 Cents and stamp with age, highs,
B color 0 eyes and hair, you will receive by re-
turn mail a correct picture of your future husband or
wife, with name and date of marriage. Address W.
FOX, P. O. Box No. 88, Fultonville. N. Y. 240-131;.

ANOTHEliQHANCE 1
FIFTH AND lAST GIFT CONCERT

IN AID OF THE

Public Library of Ky.

POSTPONED T0
November 30th, 1874.
DRAWING ossifi— AT THAT DATE.

LIST OF GIFTS.

 

 

 

one Grand Cash Gift... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. $250 00
One Grand Cash Gift .................... .. 100008
One Grand Cash Gift .................... .. 75,000
One Grand Cash Gift ................... .. 50,000
One Grand Cash Gift .................... .. 25,000
5 Cash Gifts, $20,000 each ...... .. 100,000

10 Cash Gifts, 14,000 each . . . . . . .. 140,000
15 Cash Gifts, 10,000 each ...... .. 150,000
20 Cash Gifts, 5, 00 each ...... .. 100,000
25 Cash Gifts, 4,000 each ...... .. 100,000
30 Cash Gifts, 3,000 eac ...... .. 90,000
50 Cash Gifts, 2,000 each ....... .. 100,000
100 Cash Gifts, 1 08 each ....... .. 
g0? 3:311} gig? loo $3311 """ " 50’ 0
19,000 Cash Gifts; 50 each ....... .. 950’000

Grand Total, 20,000 Gifts,_all cash... . sis—00,000
PRICE OF TICKETS.

 

Whole Tickets ........................... ..$ 50 oo
Halves . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 25 00
Tenths or each Coupon ............ .. ., 5
11 Whole Tickets for .................... .. 500 00
22 1-2 Tickets for ........................ . . 1,000 00
For Tickets or information,
Address

THO. E. BRAMLETTE,‘
Agent and Manager,
Public Library Building, Louisville, Ky.,
0r, 'I‘HOS. H. HAYS a 00.,
609 Broadway, Ne‘v York.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

233-4t.r I

     
 
 

 

 

WMkLfi,  . ,. f A“ .