"Effle."

CHAPTER I. , Me Sam Bueeoughs'walked on the rail road track, which, ran just in front of the Morristown Hotel, up and down, up and down Very likely the sky-line at this Point was the finest in the mountains, as his fellow-traveller, Van Noll, the artist, had said; but what comfort could a man t ake in a sky-line, when everything about was so rude and uncomfortable P What did Bridges mean .by making this wretched town in East Tennessee their rMuleavous P He just as easily Ze metto somewhere on the Piedmont Inline; and surely the sacred soil of Virginia, of which Bridges boastsd, would have been cleaner of mud. Mr Burroughs looked about him with the nearest approach of ill-humor of which he was capable. Every thing was 7o different from the neat, thriving village where he lived, and where the^neatcst house as well as handsomest, was ms own. The hotel here was flanked on either side by wooden shanties, over which were Jested boards, whereon- was daubed in Setters., bar eoom. On the other side of the way another shanty offered for sale bonnets, confectionery, and emigrant Set! Mr. Sam Burroughs' bn, slow, movmgnody.inhis guitof whitebnen duck, £° well-shaven, face, mild blue eyes, neat kid gloves, and natty glazed cap, mpde anoldly-contrasting picture to these S^X was, -Mr. Burroughs was out of his accustomed groove of life, which was, you may bo sure, a very slrai-ht, clean groove. He began to regret that he had left his groove .fie had iast begun the adventure.. If thirds were to be like this, after one day, what would bo the sum total of. a whole Summer spent in these mountains, camp in" out, bear shooting, trout-fishing r1 Bridges' proposal had sounded alluring enough, beside a roaring fire at Christmas, but it looked very different now that it was neartodand. Where, too, was Dr. Bridges ? Had he not come to meet "just 'then Dr. Bridges himself, lean, black-wiskered and bright-eyed, hurried UP the track, and seized him by botn hands. <[ thought I had missed you Sam. Where are your traps P Bring your dog ? That's right. I tell you we're in for a holiday that will be worth the _ name. The game never was plentier m the mountains I hear, from the Smoky to the Blue Ridtre. And-we 11 find Hke. laughing! significantly. 'We 11 brmg.down a different game from bear, eh, bam i Mi% Burroughs was not apt to betray a blushy but he knew that ho was hot. ' I think T do remember some joke of yours last Winter,' he said carelessly. 'You proposed to marry me to some Carolinian maiden of blushing sixteen. .Wo no, Doe! After my thirty six years of freedom I am not easily lured into slavery. And, besides, what pretty girl would forgive that?' He lifted Ins cap to show a bald spot on the crown. ' Where are we to meet your children, Bridges ?' • ■ •At Wolf's Creek. And, by the way, the train will be due in hall an houo. We must see to our tickets.' _ _ Mr. burroughs followed tlio Virginian, as he walked, quick, nervous, alert, along the pathi He would be very sorry, he thought, if Bridges should know how entirely that silly joke had taken posses sion of his mind ; how it had, in fact, determined him to make this journey. Not that he had the slightest intention of marrying 'the Carolinian who was precisely suited to him,' or any body else ; but he was a little tired of the women s faces m Burrroughsville society. And, besidos, he had' a curiosity to see what kind of wife the doctor would pick out for him. Bridges would know that he did not care for money ! He had enough of that, thank God, and.to spare. .He had formed a pretty clear idea of this girl whom they were to meet, a daughter of some friend of the doctor's. He always pictured her as a largo, slow-moving blonde, an ideal ized likeness of himself. She would bo white and soft, and pink-tinted as a plum blossom ; her hair curly and yellow; her eyes blue—eyes lighted with tenderness and mirth. All winter, as be had walked through one large empty room after another of his house, and had looked at the luxurious beauty of their plenishing, he could not help wondering how this fair creature would look, moving softly about in gauzy robes of blue, or paled rose color. Now, before this months journey was over, he was going to meet her. He gave no hint of his trepidation to the doctor, but, as he sat beside him in the cars, directed the conversation to the chances for supper. ' ' You'll get a good square meal at Wolfe's Creek,' said the doctor. ' Every thing neat as at a snaker's house. My children are waiting for us there, with Mrs. Bute.' ' Their governess ?' •No A neighbour of ours, with a sickly boy -dying, I fear. Mountain air was the only chance for him. So she has joined us for the journey.' ' Her husband is to be of the party ? ' The doctor's fece changed oddly at this simple question, and he hesitated for a moment * No,' he said, at length, ' lie is left behind';' adding, with some embarrass ment, 'It is very pleasant for my daughter Florence to be under Mrs. Eules care. Mr. Burroughs heard of his daughter Florence with uneasiness. He had really

forgotten the child's age. Could it be possible that she was his destined sweet heart ? 7 But when they arrived at Wolfe Greek, his fears were set at rest, for Florence proved to be only a saucy girl of twelve. He felt sorry for the child, too, as Mrs. Bute, who was a little, dark woman, did not impress him as an agreeable com panion. He did not like insignificant, dark women, especially when they were restless, as was this one ; and he wished Bute himself had been of the party to attend to his wife, though, no. doubt^the fellow was glad of a little respite. What could induce any man to take into his house an uneasy, busy wasp of a woman ? Your large, soft, fair blondes, now, would be a different matter. . . CHAPTER 11. Boforo dawn tho next, morning, the jolting stige deposited the unfortunate Bute's wife and the childern at tho Warm .Springs. The doctor and Mr. Burroughs followed on horseback. The moon was still shining on the white verandahs oft he Little watering-place which was aestled among the mountains; the uaquiet water of the French Broad Biver circling it with a belt of foam, and deepening, with their complaining murmur, tho silence of the night. ' A queer, quiet little resort,' said the doctor. , • But you will find specimens here ot our Southern women from Carolina and all the Gulf States.1 Burroughs did not answor. He quite understood that she was to be here. The silence the moon light the solemn mountains had quieted and lifted his mood. They were all in a fitting tranquillizing strain of music to usher her into his life. He wondered how Bridges could go off in suoh a crisis to take a nap before break fast. For his part, he wandered down to the little bridge ; hung over the roaring torrent; loitered up tho road, under gray beetling crags, his hands clasped behind him. Something of tho doctor's nervous ness and excitablity had inoculated his Talmer blood. He had had his little sendeesess and flirtation in his day, and ccores of marriageable girls were annually presented to his consideration by all of his male friends. Why, then, should his pluses beat furiously, and his brain be filled with fantastic visions, at the mere idea of this woman whom he had never seen ? . He had been pacing along, with his head down, but when ho lifted it suddenly ho stopped short, with an exclamation. Mother Nature and he had little inter course, but she had '.at last set a scene before him which wrung absolute homage from him. There was the river, awed and silenced. In its midst a gray crag, two thousand feet in height, shot upward to the sky, hoary with age. Beyond the island rose range after rango of melan choly heights, their summits just touched with the pink of dawn. Burroughs drew a long breath, took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. If she wonld appear here and now, ' like some fair vestal, throned m the west,' he thought, but stopedlthero, coughing, for he was not apt in quotation. Surely, there was a figure yonder wrapped in the mist. He hurried up, hat in hand. ' Mrs. Bute !' he cried, in accents of unmistakable disappointment, as that disagreeable person turnod towards him, « i_"i did not expect to find you here.' She got up, smiling, though he could have sworn her face was streaked with tears. ' The place is an old resort of mine,, she said,' as if excusing her presence. ' I used to come bore when I was young to to see the sunrise over Mountain Island. She wrapped her cloak about her, and, nodding good by, turned back to the house. 'She is suffering remorse for nagging that poor fellow Bute,' Burroughs said to himself.S his eyes following her ; for he had made up his mind to her powers ot nagging some one. But it had not been so long ago since she was young, after all, he thought. She still had an elastic step, and her figure was undeniably fine. Her face, caught off gaard, really was that of a girl. Sbo had destroyed the charm of the landscape, however. A shrewd idea struck him. He buried after her, and with a labored bow ov two, began: ' I presume you know most of the frequenters of the Springs, Mrs. Bute ? There is a young lady, of whom the doctor has spoken to me, and of whom I fancy I should like to know something before we meet. I cannot give you her name, but she is young, and a pure blonde. A large, gentle woman, slow both of speech and action.' Mrs. Bute's eyes had been fixed on his at first, as if trying to bring her thoughts from some far off, quarter. She had succeeded, apparently, and answered him with interest. 'You must mean Miss Latouche, a Carolinian ? The daughter of an old friend of the doctor's ?' 'Yes, yes, precisely.' He spoke eagerly. 'It is she, no doubt. She looks—' She paused, and laughed, struck by some fancy. ' She looks as you might, Mr. Burroughs, if you were a woman, and a beautiful woman. There must be an inner likeness, I suppose. I should think' still looking at him speculntively, ' you and Mary Latouche would be—good friends.' Sam felt his heart thrill. Here was a pleasant sort of prophecy. His fate must be plain, when all sorts of people could see i it. He must go to the house, and shave

and dress, to be ready for it." He jogged on, however, beside Mrs. Bute, talking civilly to her. It was very good natured in the women to take so ready an interest in his affairs.' Indeed, she seemed to have an exceptional quality of mind, rather trifling, as he thought, which made her ready to be interested in every thing and evory body, and her voice was curiously low and pleasant in inflection, Bute ought not to find the nagging so unbear able in those tones. CHAPTER 111. Mrs Bute certainly possessed tho habit of mind, trifling or not, which forced her to take a keen interest in people about her, and their affairs. She met the doctor near the house, who stopped her to consult about hia boy Tom's weak eyes. She went to Florence's room after that, to see if tho nurse had curled her hair properly. Then Tom and Bob waylaid her to tie their cravats. This first breakfast was an . important epoch for others than Mr. Bur roughs, perspiring now over his toilet. Then'the little woman at last reached her own room, and sat down beside the lounge, where her boy Benny was still asleep, after the night's journey. The morning was the time when his sleep was always soundest, and she had a habit of sitting beside him to keep him undisturbed. Outside, the sun was shining, the wind blowing the branches of the pines to and fro; two or three negroes had brought their violins under a tree in the lower part !of the lawn, and were playing lively airs, while some of the children, gay m their bright dresses and flying ribbons, were dancing to the music on the grass. Just underneath the window were a couple of boys, manly hearty little fellows, ready for hunting, their black guides beside them, their gamebags slung over their backs, their guns on their shoulders. The woman at the window overhead turned suddenly away to the bed beside her, and passed her hand over the. child's thin little body and legs bent and distorted, and but half hidden by the white night-shirt. , She was too genial, friendly a soul to feel any bitterness to the happy, people below, rich in money and in health. But one-tenth of their wealth would place ber boy beside those others. She could not forget that. Ben wakened. She turned quickly aw^ay, stood by tho window a minute, and came back, smiling. • Is it time to dress, mother ?' hurrying to scramble out of bed. 'Breakfast is over, and you have missed it! Too bad ! Florry told me what lovely dresses the ladies and little girls wore.' ' I did not care to see their dresses, Ben.' She was on her knees, bandaging his leg. ' Did you hear what Mr. Burroughs told the doctor last nia;ht, mother ? They thought r was asleep. About physicians in New York who cure hip-diseases, worse than mine P' ' I heard, Benny.' He waited a minute, ana then, in a lower voice, hesitated, 'It costs a great deal of money to go to them, mother P' ' Not more than we will find, Ben,' hold ing the poor litMo foot to her cheek, and looking up at him'with the most cheerful and resolute of faces. He patted her on tho head, nodding gravely, and answered, 'We mostly find money for what I want. When do you think we can go, mother P' 'I can't tell precisely, dear. The first thing to do is to grow strong in the moun tain air.' ' 0, of course, of course. But I'd like to bo able to run and jump with the other boys, as soon as I can. I'm a littlo im patient about that,'with the queer smile with which Ben always used a long word. Mrs Bute stooped over his shoe, lacing it, gulping down the lump in her throat, which choked her. She knew that this month of mountain journeying had cost every dollar which she and the child could have to live on for the next year; she knew that if this chance failed, there was no hope that she could keep her boy alive. In a little while sho would not trace even this shrivelled little body to hold in her arms at night. ' What is the matter, mother ?' ' Nothing, nothing,' resting her head on his knees. 'But you shall go to the doctors in New V ork, Benny.' O, God ! He was too merciful to take him from her! There would be some way—some miracle. She would see tho stunted little body stand erect yet. Her boy would have his chance in life with the others. Benny, dimly groping at her trouble, guessed it was the lack of money; for the little fellow had a suspicion of the desper ate fight his mother made for him, in spite of all her efforts to hide it. 'It does not matter what you think of him, mother; my father had no right to rob us of the farm. You need not say hush ! I've heard it. I know it all.' ' Silence, child ! You shall not speak so of your father. Poor Philip*' Mrs Bute was very pale and quiet after that. Not all her effort could bring the laugh and merry talk which so seldom failed Ben. CHAPTER IV. She was a hopeful little body, however ; and when she led Ben down to the verandah and felt his hand warm iv her's ; when her old friends crowded about her, making him laugh at every step, she would begin to seem exceedingly warm and pleasant, and the miserable little home which she had left, the tobacco-patch which she dug and worked herself, with all want, and danger, and death, suddenly disappeared out of it.

devices to give pleasure to her and Ben. As she was married, too, he felt safe in making her his confidant in all his likings and prejudices toward tho people about him Sam's repartees and clevor sayings, of every kind, were of slow growth, occurring to him usually after the occasion for them was long past; for the most part, indeed, when he was in bed. He would store them up to tell to Mrs. . Bute and Ben, chuckling, whenevsr he wakened, to think how they would enjoy them, which it is certain they did. They had had few tastes of fun or frolic in their lives, and m their eyes Mr. Burorughs wa3 a man of rare art and the finest fancy. Dr Bridges came in, and lifted Ben up on a chair. ,-.«-. t t t. 'Mr Borroughs has found Miss Latouche at last,' she said, glancing at Sam, who, in faultless morning costume, was making small-talk for a large, beautiful girl, lazily reclining on a hammock. 'An odd like ness between those two ! I shou d think one would be the complement <rf the other, if they should chance to marry. ' Marry I That would never answer, said the doctor, reflectively. ' Not at all. Mary Latouche is one of tho poorest women I know, and Burroughs is a^an who would draw heavily on his wife. Mrs Bute looked puzzled for a minute. She was a practical woman, however, not given to tropes and figures of speech, and she concluded that he meant Borroughs was a man in need of money and With spendthrift habits. This knowledge of his poverty really pleased her, as it gave her a sense of kinship to him on one 3core ( and she wanted to talk to him about the chances in New York for Ben. She welcomed him warmly, and made room for him beside her, when he came up, after a while, excited and radiant. ' She is all that you told me, Mrs Bute,! Never saw more exquisite coloring! She reminds me of a matchless pink cameo. Her eyes, too, have that rare liquid brilli ancy which argues a profound intellect.. Ah, my little man? I have not seen you before to-day.' Ben held out his hand as to an old acquaintance. All children made a friend of Sam Borroughs. The next minute he had the boy on his knee. He was of the t age when the fatherly instinct is developed !in men. This child, too, had a peculiar i appealing look, before which Sam's tender soul melted. He silently resolved to look up its father, and advise him how to treat the boy, to test the chances of cure; and if Bute was not a man of means, why well, it should be managed somehow. And thereupon he bribed a waiter to bring or steal an untimely cherry pie from the cook and he and Ben ate it solemnly together. Mr Burroughs sought out the doctor that evening. He had hung all day, like a gray moth about a candle, over Miss Latouche. He was fervid, nervous, loquacious about her. Had tho doctor observed the coloring of her hair ? Or had he noticed the back of her neck ? Nothing could be more delicate than its outline. She had'sung 'O, Summer Night!' to : him, too, and it was a rare pleasure to hear ; her. To be sure, her notes in the upper ' register were false, but who would find fault with the cooing of a dove ? By the way, there was a certain frank cordiality in the manner of Sonthorn women, to which he was unused ; a friendliness that really made him feel.as though the world were one family. Ho had never seen any thing, like it. It was very warm and heartening; that kind of interest, of anxiety to help everybody about them. 1 It's not possible you are talking of Mary Latoucho?' ejaculated the doctor. 'No no : though, no doubt, she is the same. I think it was Mrs Bute, probably, who impressed me in that way. She does not seem as nervous a person as I at first supposed. It is only when she looks at her boy that she becomes restless. I imagined that she was given to nagging. But Bute, probably, has notjmuch trouble with her temper.' . .-. 'Not much.' And again, the grave, anxious expression came upon the doctor's face. CHA.PTSR V. In a week's time every body at the Warm Springs recognized Mr. Burroughs as the lover of Miss Latouche. Morning and night she lay half reclining on a sofa, or on a hammock, the light falling at just tho right angle on her yellow hair, or the outline of her lovely neck. Mr. Bur roughs bonfc over her, essayed all topics of conversation, caught deferentially her murmured 'Yes' or 'No,' or stood guard over the piano, holding her gloves, while, in a little higher key, she cooed ' O Sum mer Night!' As soon as she went to take her afternoon siesta, he kurried to put on a comfortable loose coat, and took Ben on his knees in the buggy, for a drive, Mrs. Bute going along to take care of the boy. They were very jolly, merry drives, for Sam told all manner of absurd adventures of his own to amuse the boy; and, owing to his mother's habit of attentive interest in them, fell into the way of continuing his reminiscences when Ben was asleep, until they included his whole history, and that of all Burrouijhsville. After he returned from one of these drives, one day, he stood flicking his whip, thoughtfully, on the porch. ' That Bulc must be a queer fellow, to leave his wife here so long, unattended,' he broke out to the doctor. ' Dresses her shabbily, too. If she were tastefully dressed, dr> 3 ou know, I think she'd be an exceedingly attractive person. Exceed ingly. But she thinks so little of herself, people are ant; to think little of her— ordinary people, that is* It needs a man of delicate perception to appreciate her.'

'Theßutes are poor,' said the doctor guardedly, and after a pause. 'I y^ not speak of her husband to ElEe, if I were yen. Ifc—it is an unpleasant subject,1 'No doubt,' Sam thought to himself going up stairs to dress. No doubt B^ is one of those hard-drinking, gambling roysterers that hang about bar-rooms- Infernal scoundrel! There never was a woman who could make a snug little home happier for a man. ' Effie!' j us j the name for a cosey, domestic little \vifefj His pity for Mrs. Bute, as the victim of an unhappy marriage, set the soft.; hearted fellow into contriving perpefcajj Tho fortnight allotted to the Wana Springs was over. ' To-morrow,' said the doctor, yflU; engineered the whole affair, 'we must 1)8 off to Asheville, and from there to the mountains, and camp-life. We'll havo a rollicking good time, Burroughs.' m 'I hope so,' said Sam, dubiously, 'But —well, the truth is, Doc, t^ Latouche and her father are going with us as you know, and Mary Latouche is the kind of person to havo a rollicking good time anywhere, She doe 3 not erenl smile, at a joke, and I've wasted som^ confoundedly good ones on her, I cauteli you.' bhe will make a lovely picture by the tent-fire, Burroughs.' ' Yes, I've no doubt she will.' ' Just think of the coloring of her hair and the outline oftha backof her neck.' ' '0, very fine ! I ought to know. I've been looking at them for two weeks,' ' And she will sing 'Oh, Summer Night' for us. Why, Burroughs, I thought you were in love with the girl.' 'So I am, certainly. But a steady stretch of 'O, Summer Night1 for, :a fortnight is a little too much linked sweetness. However — Of course, I'm'in love with her, I've almost told her so,' gravely. •;; He grew more grave as the day wore opj and finally settled into an anxious sobriety; The next morning, when they started off, he was placed in the open stage beside Miss Latouche; her father, Mrs. Butej and Ben occupying the other seat This tacit recognition of him as an accepted lover forced Sam to face facts. How Would the lovely blonde fi tinto Burroughs, ville and every-day wear ? He noticed that Mrs. Bute's face wai unusually wora and pale; the boy Trai languid and feverish, and lay with, hii head on his mother's lap. What an easy task that fellow Bute had before him to bring health and color to those two faces, It only needed the skill money could buy, and a little care and love. He founc himseff muttering ' Effie.' again and again to himself, his eyes hungrily fixed on''the wan little woman in shabby, dress and his heart thumping hotly under his new hunting jacket. .But'what condition M mind was this ? Such excess of sympathy for another man's wife was hardlj expedient, to use the mildest term ; atid he turned his back on her, and began a conversation with Miss Latouche conscious only of a most unchristian wrath am venom agaiust this unknown fellow Bute The conversation might have ended it a proposal, but for an accident whits} occured, and the accident was this. TKf road, for thirty-seven miles runs along ti the bank of the French Broad ; a ruggej range of precipices on one side, the foaming torrent on the othor. The mountain streams, which empty into the river, are crossed by rough bridges of logs, and the stages usually stop until passengers: ad driver get out and put them into passablf repair. Tho driver on this morning, wai either too drunk or lazy to use this pw; caution, and, whipping up his horses whfeij they reached the first bridge, dashed on to it. Night was coming on. Sam, startled by the swaying and reeling of tie old crazy vehicle, had only time to see the foaming angry stream below, ana Ben's white face before he was liurieJ down, passengers, wa^on and horses crashing into the flood together. Bur roughs foil straight iuto the _ water. In an emergency he was a practical fellow, with his wits about him ; ho scrambled on to a boulder and brought His hew above water. Mr. Latouche was neai him, atruge;ling to bring a mis of yellofl hair out of the muddy water. ,|f ' Save Mary ! For God's sake, Bat roughs!' shouted the doctor from thi shore. !; But Sam plunged into a black pool Ot the other side, dived, came up empty handed, with a face ghastly as death dived again, and brought'up Ben and Betti mother, .clasped in each other's arms ant dead, as he thought. The doctor, seejnj that Mr Latouche and his daughter wf safe, ran to the rock where Borroughs hat dragged the others out, and sat besidj them, motionless, his face rigid wit) despair. '• ' She is dead,' ho cried. ' Her lieai must have struck the rocks in the fall.' ■ 'No, no! We'll hope not,' said § doctor, bending over her breathlessly ' Go, bring my case. Yonder, in the sea of the buggy' ;Jj Sam went, and came again, like .*■ overgrown schoolboy. His big boa] shaken with tearless sobs, as ho stosK holding the case. The doctor looked up at last. « She breathes. They are both alive.' • Thank God for that.' Burroughs sat down a little space apit! and buried his face in his hands. Til other half-drowned members of tho part; wer e out of sight, down tho bank. When. Mrs Bute opened her eyes sli drew in her arms. Beuny was still claspc

Evening" Star Jltljy_giJ!^Z^