‘ply, after a moment’s scrutiny.

‘ mini‘f駥

   

 

w

from their covert. But even his tongue tired, {

and he relapsed into disgusted silence. Evi-
dently the enemy were resolved to await the
coming day.

“ They’s no use in our both stayin’ awake,”
at length said Zimri, to the boy miner.
“ Them cowardly rips don’t mean to do nothin’
more tonight, an’ one pa’r 0’ eyes kin do all
the watchin’ needful. You lay down fer acou—
ple 0’ hours, then I’ll roast ye out an’ try a.
snooze myself. No back talk—do as I tell ye.”

It was a dreary watch, and more than once
Zimri caught himself wishing for the day—
dawn. The moon rolled steadily along, soon
dipping beyond the western rearrange, throw-
ing the little valley into deepest shadow, and
though the stars twinkled brightly, their rays
served only to ‘render darkness visible—to in-
crease the many shadows which seemed to be
creeping here and there, each one taking the
shape of a bloodthirsty enemy to the strained
eyes of the watcher. A night vigil not soon to
be forgotten. and with a sensation of profound
relief Zimri Coon watched the growing light in
the east.

Eagerly he peered out over the valley, for,
during the past hour, while the gloom was the
deepest, he had heard the gamblers busy at
work—and now he saw the result.

Before him, distant some fifty yards, was a
rude wall, or rather pile of rocks, thrown hes-
tily together. Behind this rose a clump of
bushes, and a scattering line of similar ones,
under cover of which a creep' man could
easily pass beyond rifle-shot of the rock fort, in
case of need.

“ You keep your word well, old man,” said
the boy miner, aWakening with a yawn. “Why
didn’t you call me, as you said?”

“ They’ll be plenty time afore all’s done, lit-
tle ’un. Take a squint out thar—looks like the
cusses meant little old business, don’t it? The
pesky cowards mean to try the starvintout
dodge, I railly b’lieve!” in disgust.

“Look at that body!” muttered Little Vol~
cano, in a hoarse, strained voice. “Don’t you
recognize it?”

“Looks like—durned ef ’tain’t!” was the re
“He won’t
never steal no more chips.”

“ Laughing Dick! if she only knew—!”

“ ’Twasn’t you did it, little ’uu. I seed the
warmint drap when I pulled trigger. I didn’t
know him, then, but of it’d bin broad day, he’s
the werry one I’d ’a’ picked out. As fer her—
s’posin’ they wasn’t no mistake in your seein’
them together -—Why, it jest sarves her right
fer consortin’ with sech or’nary trash.”

“Look-they are showing a rag! ’Tisn’t
white, but I suppose it’s meant for a flag of
truce. Better answer.”

“Say, you fellers!” came a challenge, in a
muffled, indistinct voice. “We want to have
a talk.”

“Who’s hinderin’ on ye, ye durn fool?”

“Promise not to shoot, and I’ll come out
where we can talk more comf’tably; honor
bright, now.” « .

“You cain’t come no brace game on me,
laddy buck—«not much! I wouldn’t trust ye
furder ’11 you could sling a dead grizzly by the
talk—which is mighty short grips. You kin
speak your speech from onder kiver; the fust
inch 0’ hide I see ’11 hev to kiver a. bullet—
shore I You struck the fust lick, an’ now we’re
glayin’ fer keeps, you mind that,” retorted

imri, at his loophole.

“That’s a lie! you shot me last night like a
coward sneak in the bushes!” screamed Sleepy
George, evidently fairly awake now, if never
before. -

“ When I pull on a critter, he’s dead meat,
he is. Say yer say, or shot your trap.”

“That’s easy said—~short an’ sweet,” inter—
rupted another voice, impatiently. “ You
have jumped our claim, hyar, ag’in’ all diggers’
law, an’ when we ’tempt to git back our Own,
you pitch onto us from a’ ambush an’ shoot one
0' us, dead. We’ve got the law on our side au’
would be held cl’ar in shootin’ ye down like
thieves an’ murderers; but we’re easy goin‘
critters. We don’t want to be too hard on ye
this time. J ist promise ye won’t try to make
no more rumpus, an’ we’ll let ye go free, takln’
with ye what you dug yesterday. That’s plain
an’ easy to onderstan’. Now what ye goin’ to
do ’bout it?"

“ Fast: every word you've spoken is a darned
lie, ’cept what’s true, an’ that’s a lie too! This
is our claim. You never knowed 0’ this spot
’till you dogged us here. You watched us on-
tel you thought you cotched us nappin’, then
you tried to wipe us out—you burned the fust
powder. lVe did make cold meat 0’ one 0’ you,
an’ stan’ ready to serve the rest jist the same
way. As fer skippin’ out, that hain’t our style.
We own this place an’ we mean to hold it, too.
Tharuyou’ve got your answer: how ye like it .3"

“ Better than you willin the end. All we’ve
got to do is to take our time ontel you’ve
starved into good sense ag’in. You see we’ve
got the deadwood on yo. We can send out fer
bread an’ water—-—but you cain’t. Jist figger
that up an’ see how the sum comes out,” chuck-
led the miner. '

A pistol shot replied—followed by a fierce
curse. The keen eye of Little Volcano caught
a’glimpse of a red shirt through one of the rocks
in the pile of stones, and instantly sent a bullet
to feel its texture.

All parleying was now at an end. Several
shots were interchanged, aim being taken at
the little loopholes or cracks, but apparently
without material success. And, knowing that
a chance shot might end all, the besieged lay
close while keeping a good lookout.

And so the day wore on, Zimri keeping his
tongue well limbered with stinging taunts and
jeers, seeking to madden the enemy into risking
all upon one bold rush; but without success.
Either they had some better plan in view, or
they were too thick-skinned to be stung as he
hoped.

The sun passed its meridian, and still no
change. Zimri was fuming and boiling over,
declaring that if this lasted much longer he
would break cover and clean out the lot him—
sclf, when Little Volcano pointed down the val
ley. A body of horsemen could just be dis-
cerned, and they were plainly coming up the
valley. It would be hard to tell whether the
besieged were most pleased or alarmed. Even
if the new comers should frighten the gamblers
away~and from the stir among them it was
plain that they also had made the discovery—
the secret of the gold placer would no longer be
theirs. I

“Look! they mean business, whoever they
are!” cried the boy miner, as the horsemen
broke into a gallop. 7

“ An’ so do I J” grated Zimri, as his rifle
cracked spitefully.

The gamblers had broken cover and were
running at full speed toward the hills; but one
would never reach them. Overtaken by the
leaden missile, he plunged heavily forward,
writhing in the throes of death.

“Hallo!” shouted the foremost rider, in Span-
ish, as he dashed up. “Who are you—friends
or foes?”

“That’s for you to say—cf you be twenty to
our one,” undauntedly cried Zimri—ebut Little
Volcano Sprung forward.

 

“ You should know my face, senor— ”
With a glad cry Joaquin Murieta leaped from
his horse and came forward, warmly greeting

the boy miner. Zimri stood moodily by, while
his comrade told the outlaw all that had oc-
curred. Evidently he did not like the situa-
tion, and cast more than one anxious glance
toward the rocks where the gamblers had disap-

“Mymen shall hunt them coyotes down——
and then return here to help you secure your
treasure,” warmly cried the outlaw chief, mo‘
inching his men forward.

“No—there is no need of so much trouble.
Now they have fled, my friend and I can mean
age very well,” said the boy miner, a little
coldly, for he, too, had not forgotten how his
name had been coupled with the outlaw, alv
ready. v

“ Very well—Joaquin Murieta is not one to
thrust his aid where ’tis not welcome,” a little
sharply said the outlaw. “Forward, men!
hunt dewn those dogs—don’t let one escape to
tell of what they have seen!” and he leaped to
his saddle and spurred away, followed by his
band

“Ef he kin only do it!” muttered Zimri.
“Ef he only kin! But let one 0’ them cusses
git back to Hard Luck, an’ our chaincc won’t
be wuth a rotten aig!”t

 

CHAPTER XXIII.
JACK HAYES mm DOWN THE POT.

IT is not dificult to imagine what intense
chagrin must have been felt by such a man as
Sheriff Hayes at the double escape of Joaquin
Murieta from Hard Luck, the headquarters of
a strong force of men organized expressly for
the purpose of killing him and exterminating
his band of cutthroats. A more deadly insult
could not have been offered him. Until this,
he had been deemed invincible; and though, as
a rule, Jack Hayes was a quiet, unassuming
man, he prided himself not a little upon this
reputation. It was not to be expected, then,
that he should quietly submit to this double in-
sult, and the Hard Luckians knew that “the
old man” meant business when he bade his com—
pany of Man—Hunters to prepare for a long and
hard ride. .

“ ’Tain’t none too soon, nuther,” said Arkan—
saw J ack to a chum, as they mustered before
the Dew Drop In. “They say Cap’n Harry
Love hev tuck the trail ’long 0’ some twenty
odd 0’ the boys he know’d in the greaser» muss.
Ef it’s true, we’ve got to work right piert of we
’spect to finger any 0’ that head-money, you
bet!”

Jack Gabriel led the way to Arroyo Cantura
‘———the spot where he had hadhis first fight with
Joaquin—~but the game had flown, leaving no
trail behind them, no sign save the coal ashes
of their fire, the beaten ground where their
tents had stood. Here and there the Man-Hun—
ters rode—but it was like chasing a will 0’ the
wisp. Information they had—too much of it,
in fact. Nearly every man they met could
tell them where Joaquin was likely to be found,
and nimble tongues readily mapped out the
course they were to follow—but the results
were the same in each case: disappointment.
The same in all, that is, but one. Four times
they had been deceived by false information;
the fifth time, after hearingall the dirty, greasy,
tatteredg’et pompous and dignified Senor Don
Something-or—other had to communicate, Jack
Hayes nodded to Jack Gabriel, who coolly col-
lared the Spaniard and unceremoniously seated
him upon the cantle of his saddle. And when
the end of the trail was reached, without sign
of Murieta, the Man—Hunters rode quietly out
of the valley; but behind them, dangling from
the limb of an oak tree, remained their guide.

And yet, as it afterward proved, the wretch-
ed Spaniard had been perfectly sincere in his
information, however he had gained it. Joa-
quin had intended to pause for the night in the
very valley where the Spaniard died—had he
not been drawn aside by the sound of rifle
shots.

Thé-‘Man-Hunters were just finishing their
morning meal, having given it more time than
customary, as Hayes scarcely knew in which
direction to ride next. The sharp challenge of
their outpost called the attention of all to a lit—
tle band of men who had just made their ap-
pearance upon the hillside. Though dirty,
blood-stained and wayworn, the new comers
were readily recognized, and one—whose hand
was in a sling, whom face was swathed in a
bloody bandage—was drawn aside by Sh-rifi
Hayes, who listened eagerly and with closest
interest to his communication.

Boot and saddle was sounded—the men quick:
ly mounted and fell in order, leaving the four
wayfarers behind them as they rode rapidly
away. Winding through the hills for several
miles, Jack Hayes led the way into a narrow
valley, long and irregular in outline.

“ They’s game ahead, boss!” cried Arkansaw
Jack, his eyes glowing as he pointed up the
valley. “Look at the two—legged cusses split
fer kiver!”

“ Easy, Jack—don’t burn your powder be-
fore the time comes. Gentlemen,” he added,
turning toward his followers. “ I think we’ve
struck a lead at last—but mind; I’m going to
work this job up my own way. You are not
to touch a weapon until I give the word; re-
member that. I have my reasons, but if any
gentleman don’t think they are sufficient, I
shall be most happy to convince him, after the
show is over.” ‘

They were satisfied, and said so; few persons
who knew the sheriff’s wonderful powers of
argument, ever cared to differ with him—at
least in open words.

As Arkansaw Jack said, the game was afoot;
but it did not make a long flight, only a few
rods, then disappeared behind a pile of rocks.
Toward these Hayes led his men, but when
within one hundred yards a sharp voice bade
him stand.

“ Halt there! You needn‘t mind ’bout com-
in’ no closter ontel you tell us what you want,”
was what the voice said.

“ Don’t act the fool, old man,” retorted Hayes,
but nevertheless he drew rein as the dark muz~
zle of a rifle covered him. “You’ll gain noth~
ing by it. Even if we meant you—far more
than we do—how could you help yourselves—’1

“ You wouldn’t come no furder, an’ a good
chaince 0’ your men wouldn’t make the hull
trip here—«that much we kin do, anyway;
But—what do ’ee want, anyway?"

“We want you, Zimri 00011, and your part—
ner—Litttle Volcano, as he calls himself. If
you will give yourself up quietly, so much the
better for us all; if notw-then we’ll have to
take you, alive if possible, but take you any-
wa ."

“What have we done that you come here
with a crowd as though hunting wild beast a?”
cried Little Volcano, angrily. '

“That you will learn in good time, if you
don’t know already. But I didn’t come here
to talk. If you surrender, quietly, I promise
you fair treatment and a square trial, If you
are foolhardy enough to resist, so much the
worse for you both,” coolly uttered the sheriff,
riding leisurely forward, followed at a little

 

distance by his men.

 

“ He’ll keep his word—we must give in, little
’un,” hastily muttered Zimri, to the boy miner.
“ I don’t b’lieve they kin prove anythin" ag’in’
us.” Then adding aloud, as he stepped outside
the rock fort: “ You’ve got the bulge on us
this time, bom. -We’ll take your word fer giv—
in’ us a fa’r show an’ no favor—it’s all we ax.”

“You shall have it—-—I give you my word. I
really believe you two are square men, clean
through, or I should have acted a little differ-
ently; I’m better on the act than on the talk,”
laughed the sheriff.

“ An’ Jack Hayes is the only man I’d give up
to, without knowin’ somethin’ more 0’ his rea—
sons then this. But see here, cap’nfiwe’ve
made a strike here, an’ though we hain’t got
our papers jest yet, it ’d be mighty hard to lose
our claim by havin’ it jumped while'we’re in
limbo onder a mistake, now wouldn’t it?”

“ None of my men shall interfere, and if, af—
ter you have cleared yourselves—as I hope and
trust you will—there are any interlopers, I will
see that you have justice.”

, “ Good enough! Then mebbe you’ll take
charge of a little dust what we’ve manidged to
scrape together. I reckon thar’s enough to pay
for totin’ it,” and with a self—satisfied chuckle
Zimri Coon unearthed their goodly store of

The Man-Hunters crowded around with ex-
clamations of wonder, envious looks and some
black thoughts; but Sherifi Hayes held them
under good control, and what he ordered was
promptly obeyed. The gold was secured upon
one horse, the prisoners mounted behind two of
the men, and then Hayes addressed his men.

He said the two prisoners mustbe taken back
to Hard Luck, and there closely guarded until
his return; six men would be sufficient for that
purpose. They were to be’held responsible for
the safety of both prisoners and gold. Himself
and the main body were to press on in pursuit
of Joaquin, who had passed through this valley
only the evening previous. This said, the six
men were drawn by lot, and the party divided,
Arkansaw Jack being placed in charge of the
captives.

It was evident that Jack Gabriel meant to
run no unnecessary risk. His captives had al-
ready surrendered their arms; now be caused
their arms to be bound firmly behind their
backs, and as they were placed en coupe, a
stout thong was passed around their waists,
and that of the man behind whom they were
seated.

“ The time will come when you fellows will
haVe to pay big for this,” muttered Little Vol-
cano, in a strained voice, but the Man-Hunters
only laughed at the threat as they rode on,
heading for their last night’s camp, where they
found the four men still awaiting their return.

It was a bitter blow to the prisoners, this
meeting with Sleepy George and his comrades,
and more than once they cursed their folly in
not levanting while they had the chance, satis~
fying themselves with the moderate fortune
they had already gathered.

Now that the guardians of the placer were in

nds, Sleepy George and his chums were eager
to go their way-but that was not to be. 'Jack

Hayes had given his orders, and Gabriel meant
to execute them at all hazards.

“You’re goin’ ’long 0’ us, back to town, my
lad—them’s the cap’n's orders, an’ I’m goin’ to
see they’re follered or bu‘st somethin’. You’ve
set this thing goin’, an’ now you’ve got to keep
up your eend, or they’ll be a funeral mighty
quick——an’ you’ll be fust mourner, too,” bluntly
quoth Jack from Arkansaw.

Sleepy George knew his man, and so, making
the best of a bad bargain, submitted. The back
trail was taken up, and though the party were
forced to travel slowly, Hard Luck was finally
reached. Before entering town, Jack had a
private word with the gamblers, stating that if
each and every one of them were not promptly
on hand whenever wanted, he would take it as
a personal insult, and act accordingly.

Their arrival created an immense sensation
in Hard Luck. Every one crowded around,
eager to view the prisoners, and to learn for
what crime they had been arrested. All this
was bitter enough to Little Volcano, but doubly
so was the sight of Mary Morton, a witnem of
his disgrace. After that he cared little for the
rest, moving and looking more like an ani-
mated corpse than aught else.
ed in a stout log cabin, their

   
 

gold was unloaded
building, Jack Gabriel insisting on their watch-
ing the whole affair, and obtaining their assur-
ance that none of the gold was missing. Then
he entered the prison with them, and the door
was closed and secured.

“You see,” he said, apologetically, “ I’m held
’sponsible for you two fellers an’ that gold, or I
wouldn’t think 0’ ’trudin’. You kin jest play I
ain’t no more’n a log 0’ wood, an’ I giv’ my
word I won’t breathe one word 0’ anythin’ I
may hear in here. Ef thar’s. anythin’ you
want as I kin git, jest spit it out, an’ you shell
hev it.” ’

“ I reckon they’ll give us grub an’ drink en-
ough to keep from starvin’,” said Zimri. “ But
of you will—what is it we’re brung here fer,
anyway?” - l

“ Wal, it’s only fa’r you should know, I reck—
on,” replied Jack, contemplatively. “ The fust
charge is b’longin’ to Joaquin’s band—”

“A cussed lie!” hotly cried Coon, his eyes
glowing

“In course it is—you’d be a blame fool for
sayin’ anythin’ else,” coolly returned Gabriel.
“All you’ve got to do is to proveit, ye know.
Then thar’s that gold yonder. It’s said you
bounced the fellers as really owned it, shot two
on ’em down from ambush, an’ driv’ t’others
away~you an’ Joaquin an’ his gang. Them’s
the other charges—murder an’ stealin’ gold as
wasn’t your’n.”

The prisoners stared at each other in mute
horror. Could this be possible? It seemed like
a dream.

“ When’ll we hev a chaince to meet these
lies?” at length asked Zimri Coon.

“ Soon’s the boss comes home-an’ that ’11
be tomorrow, I reckon. You’ll be giv’ a fa’r
show afore Judge Lync ,” was the cool reply,
as Gabriel lighted his pipe.

(To be continued—commenced in No. 335.)

 

No good man will willingly speak evil of an-
other. If circumstances will compel him to ac-
cuse, he will show that he does so reluctantly,
and for the sake of justice, and that he seems
the thought of self-gratification in such an act.
If, therefore, any accusation appears to be
grounded in a mean, wanton or malignant
spirit; if the occasion to make it appear to
be sought; if the accuser speak not to the face
of the accused, but behind his back, then it
may be set down as certain that at least
the truth is distorted, and that, in all prob-
ability, it is corruptly falsified. For where
a revengeful and malignant spirit is, there
the truth cannot dwell. The angel will not
abide with the demon. The common per-
ception of this fact is the reason why slan-
ders are so little credited and do so little
harm.

 

LONG AGO YEAJIS.

BY A. P. MORRIS, JR.

 

 

Where are the mates of sweet childhood?
Sweet childhood of peas and glee;
Poesy and glee in the wil wood,
The Wildwood so hallowed to me!

, We trysted amid the gay flowers,
Gay flowers that witnessed a' vow;
A vow of fond love that was‘ours,
Was ours but not ours now.

Wee children who home. ed to Cupid,
To Cupid more merry ghan sage;

Than sage, for it must have been stupid,
Been stupid for dears at our age.

We loved one another most truly,
Most truly we meant to be true;

Be true, with a weddin time duly,
Time duly has prove us untrue.

These mates have passed under the portals,
The portals with wedding bells hung;

Bells hung for the dance of gay mortals,
Gay mortals and choirs that have sung.

And, ah! for the lives that are sour,
Are sour and brimming with tears;
With tears and with sighs for the hour,

The hour of long ago years.

 

Centennial Stories.
THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT.

BY T. C. HABBAUGH.

 

 

 

“MOTHER, he has not forgotten the hour; I
hear him coming up the river!”
Ada Heath spoke to her widowed mother

who sat with bowed head at the little cottage

window. '

It was an evening in the beautiful autumn of
1781,‘and the sweetest of gloamings dimly re-
vealed the pale and wrinkled face that was lift-
ed at sound of Ada’s voice. -

“Coming? Oh! Ada!” and the widow ris-
ing received her daughter’s form in her mater-
nal embrace.

Then a silence, marred only by faint sob—
bing, reigned in the little room, and the twain
did not separate until the sound of hoofs fell
upon their ears.

“Keep your promise, child, and leave the fu-
ture to God,” said Mrs. Heath, as Ada started
back with the palest of faces, and laid her hand
on the door which she had lately opened to
break the terrible tidings to her mothen

“I cannot face him in this plight,” she said,
answering her mother’s look. “Do you re-
ceive him, mother, and say that I will be down
in a few moments—tell him that the promise is
to be kept if—if I do not win.”

Then the young girl left the room and Mrs.
Heath turnedic greet the men who stood on the
step, rapping for admission.

“ Good-night, Mrs. Heath,” said the foremost
one, dofiing his hat politely, and his companions
followed his example as they crossed the thresh-
old into the shadowed room.

The salutation was returned, and when the
widow’s lamp lit up the apartment the“ two
stood revealed. They were men in the prime
of life—men prepossessing in features, and well
clad. The one who first addressed the widow
wore the undress uniform of a British officer,
while his companions looked like military men,
though they bore no insignia of military rank.

Mrs. Heath delivered her daughter’s parting
words to the first-mentioned member of the
party, and he smiled pleasantly in return.

“Your daughter cannot Win,” he said, in a
tone tinged with triumph which he could not
conceal. “ The latest advices from the North
are favorable to the royal cause. Clinton will
certainly raise the siege of Yorktown, and
Washington will soon be flying before our vic-
torious troops.”

An audible sigh escaped the widow’s lips, and
her eyes fell before the speaker’s look.

“The events of this year have proven very
disastrous to our cause,” she said, in a low and
sorrowful tone. “But we still trust in the God
of battles. My daughter will try to love you,
Captain Donald, she-J

“ T n; to love me, Mrs. Heath?” interrupted
the officer, with a proud curling of the lip.
“Time will heal the old wounds, and in my
English home she will forget that I drew my
sword against American rebellion.”

“Forget it?” said the widow, with an anima-
tion that caused her eyes to brighten. “ Can
Ada. forget that you fought in the battle where
Tarleton’s troopers rode her father down—that
you followed close behind that scourge of our
Carolinian homes, and shouted victory when
the fight was ended? Ask her to forget that I
love her dearly, when you ask her to blot from
her remembrance what you are and where you
fought.” .

The soldier did not reply, but looked at his
companions with a meanful smile. '

In a small room directly overhead stood Ada
Heath viewing her pale face in the mirror.
She had brushed her beautiful hair back from

’her temples with hands white as snow, and her

toilet, made since her departure from the room
below, was plain and neat.

A pleasant breeze stole into the room by the
open Window and fanned the pale checks of thq
widow’s daughter. once she stole to the wind“
dow and looked out. The evening star il-
lumined the western horizon, and the stillness
of the grave seemed to dwell with it there.

It was a terrible moment in Ada Heath’s
young life.

He who waited for her in the room below
was her betrothed. It was a strange betroth—
al—a patriot girl to an officer in Tarleton’s
infamous command; but this is how it came
about:

The Heath cottage stood in the midst of a
beautiful Carolina district overrun by the Brit-
ish and their Tory allies. Abner Heath was a
patriot who drew his sword when Sumter rode
into the district and called for volunteers. But
his services to Liberty were of brief duration;
he fell in a battle While fighting gallantly, and
left his cottage to the mercy of the foe. After
the conflict the Tories plundered and burned
without mercy, and the patriot’s home was
marked for destruction. But Roger Donald, a
captain in Tarleton’s legion, wrested it from
the fiends, and received the grateful thanks of
the widow and her child.

He did more than this. He obtained from
Tarleton an order against the harming of the
already blasted home, and took good care to
impress upon Ada that he was her benefactor.

Often did he ride to the cottage after his act
of mercy, and the inmates of the cottage were
not long in divining his intention. He ap-
peared as a suitor for Ada’s hand—appeared
thus when that gentle hand was promised to
a ygung soldier who fought under lVashing—
ton.

The captain was a persistent suitor, and
the young girl did not dare repulse him. She
told him about her lover fighting in the North,
and almost before her words had ceased to quiv-
er her lips there came startling news from the
valley of the James.

Oliver Reynolds lay dead on the field of bat—

 

tle, and the man who rode to Ada’s door, in a

 

   

faded Contienental uniform, told her that with
1118 .own hands he had buried the young patriot
bonds the fair Virginian river! .

\ With new zest Captzhn Donald pressed his
suit. He almost threatened, for he said:

“ Reject me, Ada, and I many no longer pro-
tect, and there are men who itch to apply the
torch to your home.”

She thought of the heartbroken mother on—
feebled by a slow-eating disease—bf the little
home endeared to her by the sweet memories
that cluster around childhood—and then told
the king’s soldier that he could have the hand
'for which be sued.

“ Promise me this,” she said, “give me at
1% {tone chance. Promise me that if the free-
dom of the Colonies is assured before the wed-
ding rites have been performed you will set
me free.”

He smiled at the strange request, and unhes—
itatingly promised.

Then the girl threw herself into her moth—
er’s arms, and told her that she had saved their
little home by selling her hand, her happi-
ness.

The reader may imagine with What anxiety
mother and daughter watched the war from
that hour; how they rejoiced when they heard

of an American triumph, and how their hearts

sunk within their breasts when the captain

brought to the cottage tidings of British suc-

cesses.

Thus, alternating between hope and fear, the

gililflis of the cottage watched the autumn days
y.

At last the night appointed for the nuptials
came, and to it we now return.

Mrs. Heath entertained her visitors, one of
whom was a chaplain in a British regiment.
Ada heard the murmur of voices in the room
below her plain boudoir, and almost wished
that she could never go below and greet the
man who had ridden from the English camp to
the wedding altar.

But, she could not keep him waiting forever,
so, with an impulse, she turned her pallid face
from the mirror and left the room.

Captain Donald greeted her appearance with
a ceremonious welcome, and she was presented
to his companions. In the mellow lamplight
the pale girl looked very beautiful, and her
eyes were full of pleas against the ceremony
about‘to be performed. ‘ .

The widow gazed on her daughter and then
glanced at the man who had come to claim his
bride. ’

His eyes were ablaze with triumph, and when
with an exclamation complimentary of Ada’s
loveliness, she rose to her feet, and her feeble
hand fell on his arm.

“So you are in earnest?” she said, looking
into his face.

“ Certainly, Mrs. .Heath! Did you suppose
that I would bring a British minister to your
house if I did not intend to make Ada my
wife? Madam, this is a drama in real life?”

The grief—stricken mother groaned, and look-
ed at her child. ‘

“Ada, I cannot give you up to this man,”
she said. “Tell him no! My days will soon
end, then—”

“ Mother, I have said that beneath this roof
you shall die in peace,” Ada said, interrupting-
ly, as she approached her mother. “Were I
to refuse that man at this moment you would
soon be Without a home, and I without- your
love. No! no! I will keep my promise.”

There was a feeble cry and the Widow tot— .
tered back to sink into the arm—chair with a ,

groan that went to Ada’s heart like a knife.

“Quick!” she cried to the British captain.
“ Do not let her see me become your wife! Let
the chaplain do his duty!”

She arose at her betrothed’s side as she
spoke, and her trembling hand was on his
arm.

Then, with the fainting Widow in the chair,
the daughter prepared for the sacrifice of her
happiness. The lamp lent a dim light to the
scene, and the beating of hearts seemed to be
heard.

It was a silent moment when the English
chaplain, bending over the lamp, opened the
little formcbook of the church of his native
isle.

Ada Heath, standing at the soldier’s side, did
not see the chaplain; she did not see a single
occupant of the room, for she was listening, not
for the words of the marriage ceremony, but
to a sound like the shout of a distant man.

All at once the chaplain heard it, and looked
at Captain Donald.

Nearer and nearer came the cry, and when
it could no longer be doubted that it was a
man’s voice, the bridegroom with a pale face
said to the witness:

“ Crampton, open the door!”

The dragoon obeyed, and as the portal SVVlmg
back there entered the house a cry that startled
every one.

“ Cornwallis is. taken! Cornwallis is taken I"

The voice in the night appeared to be very
near the widow’s threshold, and the captain
with an exclamation more emphatic than genx
tlemanly, on his lips, darted from Ada’s side,
and reached the door. He saw a man spring
from the back of a horse that halted suddenly
before the cottage, and the next moment the
tidings were shouted in the room.

“ Cornwallis is taken, and we are free!”

Ada Heath stared into the courier’s face for
a moment, and then with a. wild cry, reeled
like a fainting person to be caug t in his strong
arms.

“Get out of here!" cried the new-comer, fac-
ing the startled trio of British with the rescued
girl upheld from the floor. “ My name is Oli—
ver Reynolds, and I have ridden from York-
town to tell the people of the Carolinas that
Cornwallis is taken. It Seems to me that a
wedding was taking place here, and the bride
this girl. She is mine, fairly promised and
fairly won.”

There was a pistol in the speaker’s hand, and
in a moment he cleared the house.

Crestfallen and, cursing his ill luck, Captain
Donald and his companions rode away.

There were many voices in the night now;
and the cry that reached their ears as they gal-
loped toward the British camp bore but a sin-
gle burthen—“ Cornwallis is taken!”

In the widow’s house that night there was
praise and thanksgiving; and in the eyes that
looked into her face, and the voice that told of
the great achievement at Yorktown, Ada Heath
saw the lover whohad not perished on the field
of battle.

Captain Donald did not return to wreak his
vengeance on the tenants of the cottage near
the Pacolet, for, with the glorious news firing
their hearts the patriots issued from their re-
treats, and drove the British detachments from
the State.

Ada Heath afterward learned that the man
who brought her the erroneous report of her
lover’s death was one of the captain’s com—
mand, well disguised as a Contienental sol-
dier.

She married the American sergeant before
the close of the war, and I am sure that she

. never forgot the cry that thrilled her soul on

that eventful night—the glorious cry of :
“ Cornwallis is taken I”

 

 

 

 

 

 

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