58 
MOORE'S RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
JAN. 20 
Sunshine,” said the old negro, bis face 
beaming with delight. 
•* And nobody understands Sunshine, save 
Hannibal," replied the satisfied girl, hu¬ 
moring her companion by using the third 
person. 
“Reckon data do case,” he answered, 
dreamily; and then, in the same far-away 
tone, his countenance gradually changing 
from gay to grave, said softly“ How is 
Suran dose times? Habu’t hardly Been 
the light of her countenance for two, free 
days.” 
“Susan Is a strange woman, Unde Han- 
nibaj,. Let me see? She has been with us 
now over two years, and I don't know any 
more about her thau I did the day she 
came. She has a faoc like an augel, and I 
love her, but you know, you old darling, 
that it is impossible to get on to advantage 
with a person one doesn't understand.” 
“ Bery well spressed, again. Sunshine ; 
but dis much old Hannibal say, and not 
another word oil the Bubjoc:—It is the duty 
of 8unBhine to make a business of trying to 
see what der is inside of dot gal, and what 
she need do moH. When Hannibal, say 
duty, dat 1 b the bery ting he mean, and 
noting else.” 
“ This isn’t the first time you have talked 
to me about 8 ns AN, iu this very same way," 
and Margaret nestled both her little bauds 
in the big palms of the negro, and looked 
beseeohingly up into hie face. “Is Susan 
any of your relation, Hannibal?” 
“ Bress do Lonu! No! Hannibal hopes 
not, with dat white sltlu!" aud a comi¬ 
cal look overspread the expressive counte¬ 
nance, hut quickly faded, as Margaret 
insisted upon being told more, about Susan. 
“ Dar's noting more in the least to be spoke 
ou dis subjec, at this time,” said the negro, 
with great dignity and decision. “ All dar 
is about it, jus now, is dis dat Susan need 
Sunshine, and hnb a right to Sunshine; and 
if the little deary lub her old Uncle Han¬ 
nibal, den dar’fl enuff said." 
“ All right,” replied Margaret, con¬ 
fidingly. “Hut when Hannibal thiuks it 
is time for his little girl to know all there 
is to know, he'll tell her, will he not?” 
“ Zacly! Now what you spose bring massa 
Traverse hack so early in de morning?” 
“ To briug the Northern papers to father, 
bo he said; and that reminds me, HANNIBA l, 
you must see to It. that the negroes are quiet 
at night. I love dearly to hear you all sing, 
and last night. I lay awake listening to the 
•weird strains till I fancied myself iu the 
realms of the blest, aud all my friends free 
and happy." 
“What dat you say, honey? — what, dat 
you say?" and the honest old eyes filled 
with tears, and the stalwart frame trembled 
with emotion. “ Is It de freedom of de slave 
dat you hab reference to?” 
“Yes, Hannibal, the liberty of every 
creature under the sun,” replied his com¬ 
panion, stroking the ebony hand affection¬ 
ately, aud with a little Bob in the voice, 
which Hannibal's tears had made It impos¬ 
sible to keep back. 
“Bress de Lord! Bress de Lord! Dat 
freedom may oomc, or dat freedom may not 
come, — it make precious little differeuoe 
now dat dis brack old nigger come to de 
knowledge dat bis Sunshine all his own in 
eberytlug. Jus fink of dat! Sound olar 
through, not only in de heart., but iu de 
spirit! Oh, Lord God!”—and Hannibal 
unooverod his white head, and clasped his 
hands devoutly—“keep thy brack servant 
from being puffed up on dis account. Don’t 
let vanity oomo in aud turn bis old skull. 
Keep him straight up and down, but widout 
being 'fonslvo to nobody. Oh, Lord God! 
Hannibal bo glad, so thankful for what he 
jus 'soovered. Bo bery careful of dy little 
band-maideu, now dat she hab got all de 
graoos—glory to God!— ebery single one ob 
em! Jus see to it dat she hab common sense 
to 'nable her to keep her own counsel, and 
'press upon b©*‘ mind do 'portance ob all 
dcse tings. Gib her strength aud de hull 
power ob de spirit.. Amen! Bressed be 
God!" 
There was silence for a few moments, 
and then Margaret said softly. “ l must 
go baok now, Uncle Hanni n a l. Remember 
me every time you pray, because I shall 
need all the strength I can got, and bocauso 
God hears your prayers. Nuw put mo ou 
my horse; I haven't had breakfast yet.” 
Clasping the slender waist with his huge, 
black hands, Hannibal lifted the little fig¬ 
ure to the saddle, and t.hon with a whis¬ 
pered “God bless you," Margaret rode 
hastily away, throwing back kiss after kiss, 
as long as the old negro remained in sight. 
“O, Maroaukt! Margaret! howcanyou 
do so ? Here it is eleven o'clock and Fannt 
B ays yon bavn’t oaten a mouthful of break¬ 
fast yet.” 
“ Don’t fret, mamma, I’m not hungry; I’ll 
eat breakfast now, here with you, ma. 
Fannt, go and bring me a fresh egg, and 
some toast and coffee. 8 am, take Mr. 
Traverse’s horse to the stable.” 
“ My child, you will wear me out with 
these freaks of yours. The idea of leaving 
Harry without a word, to go and look after 
that scapegrace, Jake. He deserved twenty 
lashes Instead of ten. How can your father 
expect any obedience, or order, if you inter¬ 
fere with his discipline iu this way ? And 
as for Harry, I wonder that he has any 
patience with you.” 
“And I wonder what would happen if he 
didn't have any patience, mother dear?" 
“It’s useless to talk in that way, Mar¬ 
garet. You expect to marry Harry, and 
all this coquetting is very undignified, and 
very unworthy my daughter." Here Mrs. 
HeathK iwroNE straightened herself up, aud 
looked the personification of the pride of all 
her aristocratic ancestors. 
“ I’m no coquette. 1 can’t always be one 
way, like a big doll. 1 know I don't, always 
treat Harry right, but, mamma, who wants 
a man forever falling down and kissing the 
ground one walks on? I really believe I 
should like him better if he wasn’t so de¬ 
voted.” 
" You talk like a simpleton, Margaret. 
You are like all other girls, and don't know 
when you aro well off. I hope you will take 
care of your health any way, aud not neglect 
your regular meals. It’s enough for me to 
be breaking down." 
“Don't, talk-of breaking down, in that 
discouraged way. Don’t you feel well this 
morning?" 
“ I never feel well now-a-days, Margaret. 
And excitement is very bad for me. I wish 
you could make up your mind to let the 
slaves alone, and treat Harry decently. 
Now eat your breakfast. Fanny, bring me 
my salts, and arrange the pillows. My poor 
head! Nobody re mem bare my nerves or 
my headaches. My own child cares more 
fora scainpof a negro than for her mother’s 
comfort.” 
Margaret made no answer to this re¬ 
proach, but quietly nibbled at her dry toast 
and sipped her coffee, looking now and then 
with wistful eyes toward the peaceful river 
aud the. old oaks standing solitary and serene 
in the sweet October light. 
“ I’ve finished the work, missus.” These 
words were uttered in a voice strangely 
sweet, in which lingered a tender minor, in¬ 
expressibly pathetic. It was a voice t hat, 
being heard once, could never be forgotten. 
The speaker had glided into the room so 
quietly that uo one was aware of her pres¬ 
ence till she called attention by her softly 
murmured sentence. 
“Well Hue,” said the mistress, “Im not 
able to attend to any more cutting ot t at 
present. My head is too bad. You may 
hem theHo handkerchiefs, and then I will 
see what is to be dono next." 
“Very well, miseuB,” and the Octoroon 
went out as quietly as she came in. 
•Susan would have attracted attention in 
any drawing-room iu the oouutry. She was 
tall, slender, perfectly graceful, with a 
voluptuousness of figure and carriage that 
was toned and ruflned by an unohauging 
sadness. She waB Juno, with a vulture’s 
beak In her breast. Her hair was like rip¬ 
pling silk, her eyes large and soft, her uoro 
delicately out, her lips full, and curved with 
patrician haughtiness. She wore large hoops 
of gold in her ears, and a scarlet scarf, knot¬ 
ted over her breast, relieved ber otherwise 
sombre attire. Susan was as unvarying as 
a statue. She performed her duties with 
absolute fidelity, but with uo more apparent 
interest than if ahe were a machine. She 
had never unbent iu the slightest degree to 
anybody in the bouse. Even Margaret 
had not been able to win a kinder look from 
her than she gave to the most Idiotic negro 
on the plantation. She was kind indeed 
to all, but it was the kindness of moonlight 
gleaming upon the smooth surface of a 
frozen lako. She was the most valuable of 
the bouse servants, her skill and taste mak¬ 
ing her services as seamstress inestimable. 
She couldn’t touch even the coarsest gar¬ 
ment without giving to it a sort of pictur¬ 
esque grace, and Mabgauet declared that, 
she would rather have Susan make her 
dresses than the best modiste iu Paris.—[To 
be continued. 
• ■»* - »- 
Money. — Remember that money is of a 
prolific, generating nature. Money can be¬ 
get money, and its offspring can beget more, 
and so on. Five shillings turned is six; 
turned again it is seven and three-pence; 
and so on till it becomes a hundred pounds, 
The more there is of it, the more it produ¬ 
ces every turning, so that the profits rise 
quicker and quicker. He that kills a breed 
ing bow, destroys all her offspring to the 
thousandth generation. He that murders 
a crown, destroys all that it might have pro¬ 
duced, evon scores of pounds.— Franklin-. 
A LIFE ROMANCE. 
Two persons lately sailed from New York 
for Europe, whose history is so strange 
that, but for proof not to be gainsaid, it 
might even be thought incredible. No wild 
romance devised by the most cunning weav¬ 
er of sensational plots can surpass this his- 
I tory for triumph over time, space, and the 
ordinary rules of probability. Again pre¬ 
mising that the story is well authenticated, 
we proceed to tell it. 
Nearly twenty years back there lived in 
Rio Janeiro an English merchant whose life 
seemed entirely devoted to Hie pursuit of 
fortune, lie had come to Brazil poor, and 
by resolute work and some luck, acquired a 
competency. This done, after many vicis¬ 
situdes, he went home for a visit. While at 
home he met a beautiful orphan girl. She 
was lovely in mind a* in person, and the 
compassion wrought by her forlorn situa¬ 
tion iu life ripened iu our merchant’s breast 
to a warmer feeling. 
In brief, as the story writers say, the pair 
were married, and returned together to 
Brazil. Two children were born to them, 
and life glided on for a space like a single 
summer’s holiday. Worldly prosperity, 
too, still attended the merchant, who from 
time to time repeated his visit to England. 
On one of those occasions strange rumors 
cuiue to his ears, prejudicial to his wife. 
They were little heeded at first, but like the 
poison of Ingo soon “burned like the mines 
of sulphur.” By degrees, suspicion became 
jealous fury and the wife was directly ac¬ 
cused by her lord of infidelity. The lady 
being proud aud sensitive to a fault, iudig- 
nautly denied the charge, challenged her 
accuser to produce evidence, and withdrew 
as much as possible from his society. The 
tender affection of former days now gave 
place to indifference and almost aversion. 
No guilt could be fixed ou the wife but some 
efforts for reconciliation were coolly receiv¬ 
ed. In time their mutual relations became 
unbearable to both, A separation was 
agreed upon, an annuity was settled on the 
wife, and the day of wedded love that had 
opened so brightly ended in darkness aud 
sorrow. 
Heartsick and weary of all associations, 
the merchant wound up his affairs in Brazil 
and came to North America. Wandering 
vaguely about in the West he fell in with a 
party of Red River traders und subsequent¬ 
ly did a good deal of business in and about 
St. Paul. In that, town he made many 
friends, while avoiding close intimacies, and 
was notable for his grave taciturnity aud 
the strict honor of all his dealings. He re¬ 
fused invariably to mingle in any social 
pleasures whatever, and impressed all who 
came in contact with Him as a man who 
labored under ineradicable suffering. Thus 
years rolled on, and the wife had married 
again—the terms of separation under Bra¬ 
zilian luw allowing that step. She, however, 
forfeited her annuity by it, which proved in 
the end a serious misfortune. Her second 
husband was poor, although an educated 
gentleman, fell into bad health, and died a 
year or two after the marriage. 
This left, the wife and her two children in 
destitute circumstances, and she scarcely 
knew where to turn. She, then, like her 
first husband, became an uneasy wanderer 
up and down the earth. Tam! by some mys¬ 
terious influence she, too, was in St. Paul. 
It is a surprising statement to make, but 
there is uo doubt of the fact, that the couple 
had met once more, that the old feeling re¬ 
vived, that the lady conclusively established 
her innocence in the mind of hor husband, 
that they were married again, and have 
lived in the utmost felicity together ever 
since. Rochefoucauld says that a love rc- 
chavffc is of no value, but here is a direct 
case to the contrary, defying all likelihood 
and exploding cynical epigrams. With an 
ample fortune, and, we may hope, both 
wiser for their painful experience, the 
twice-wedded pair have once more started 
across the sea to settle down for the re¬ 
mainder of life in their old home. 
-♦♦♦- 
A Guilty Conscience. —The eccentric 
Lorenzo Dow was once approaching a place 
where he had an appointment to preach, 
when a stranger complained to him that his 
watch was stolen from uuder his pillow the 
night before. Dow assured the victim that 
the watch would be restored, and picking up 
a boulder that weighed a pound or so, hid it 
under his cloak and entered the pulpit. 
After preaching zealously for half an hour 
or so, be suddenly exclaimed: — “ A man’s 
watch was stolen in this neighborhood last 
night, and the thief Is now' in this house. I 
shall hit him with this stone! ” He made 
a feint of throwing it, and one of the audi¬ 
ence ducked his head. He was instantly 
seized, searched, and the stolen watoh found 
in his pocket. 
j&ibbath Jtcading. 
SUNDAY MUBING8. 
i. 
Come hither, friend* I Come hither, friends! 
So great the }<>r Ovir Father sends, 
I want to share with you. 
For He hath made the blind receive 
Ncwslftht! Come, help me to believe 
The miracle la true. 
“O what the Joy? nnd whence the beam. 
That Halits your look »s with the Rloam 
Of water* In the waste ?” 
Como kneel by roe, on bended knee; 
Ye must stoop low If ye would ace,— 
Lower, if ye would taste I 
Sweet friends, ye know the little grave 
To which nay heart would crawl, and crave, 
As ’twere n worm o' the dust? 
I writhed so low. It rose so high, 
The mound that shut out all the *ky 
So broken was my trust. 
This morn I sought tt!—hardly one 
Of all ray unshed tears would run : 
Instead—from out the sod— 
A spring had gushed through dust and weeds, 
And In the light of God It feeds 
My life, direct from God. 
it. 
We arc not only whero we seem, 
But, lighted by some mystic gleam. 
Live also In a world of dream ! 
Some heavenward Window opes above 
The shut-up soul, to lean out of, 
Or let In wnltlng wing* of lovo. 
And thence we pass out of our Dlght 
A little nearer to Uie light. 
Transfigured In the eternal sight. 
And oft when darkness fills t he place, 
1 kneel with dawn upon my face ; 
I feel the Infinite embrace. 
Beyond the clouds 'tie golden day, 
Soft airs of heaven about me play, 
They waft nil weariness away. 
Dear friends I see no longer here 
Are with me; I can feel them near; 
So tenderly they come to cheer! 
And there In secret life Is fed, 
Till full In flower It lifts the bead, 
With all it* loaves to heaven outspread. 
And by the peace within my breast, 
All atormy passions rocked to rest, 
I know that God hath been my guest. 
lOtrald Maenry, in the Sunday H'l'jntirtt. 
-» » » ■ - 
THE BIBLE GR0W8 WITH ONE, 
If you come to Holy Seripture with 
growth in grace, and with aspirations for 
yet higher attainments, the book grows 
with you, grows upon you. It is ever be¬ 
yond you, and cheerily cries“ Higher yet, 
Excelsior!" Many books in my library are 
now behind and beneath me; T read them 
years ago, and with considerable pleasure; 
1 have read them since with disappoint¬ 
ment; I shall never read them again, for 
they are of no service to me. They were 
good in their way once, and so were the 
clothes 1 wore when 1 was ten years old; 
but 1 have outgrown them—I know more 
than these books know, and know wherein 
they are faulty. Nobody ever outgrows 
Scripture; the book widens and deepens 
with our years. It is true, it cannot really 
grow, for it is perfect; but itdoes so to our 
apprehension. The deeper you dig into the 
Scripture, the more you find that it is a 
great abysR of truth. The beginner learns 
four or five points of orthodoxy, and says: 
“ I understand t he gospel, 1 have grasped 
all the Bible." Wait a bit, and when his 
soul grows aud knows more of Christ, he 
will confess:—“Thy commandment is ex¬ 
ceeding broad—I have only begun to under¬ 
stand It."— Spurgeon. 
POWER IN THE HEABT. 
The zeal that God excites within us is 
often the means of effecting the purpose 
which we desire. After all, God does not 
give conversions to eloquence, but to heart. 
The power in the hand of God's Spirit for 
conversions is heart coming into contact 
with heart. Truth from the heart goes to 
the heart. This Is God's battle-ax and weap¬ 
on of war In his crusade. He is pleased to 
use the yearnings, longings and sympathies 
of Christian men as the means of compelling 
the careless to think, const raining the hard¬ 
ened to feel, and driving the unbelieving to 
consider. 1 have little confidence in elabo¬ 
rate speech and polished senteuces as the 
means of reaching men's hearts, but I have 
great faith in that simple-minded, Christian 
woman who must have souls converted, or 
she will weep her eyes out over them, and 
in that humble Christian who prays day aud 
night in secret, aud then avails himself of 
ever}’ opportunity to address a loving word 
to sinners. The emotion we feel and the 
affection we hear are the most powerful im¬ 
plements of soul-winning. God the Holy 
Ghost usually breaks hard hearts by tender 
sympathy.— Spurgeon. 
