-u,a on in her sweet low voice, his # -ans and restless movements gradually ceased, and he gazed on hor still beautiful face with an expression from which ail ill-humor and suffering had vanished. When she finished one psalm, he begged for another; and when at las. she prepared to go, he said: ' Did I not hear them call you Miss Keith P' 'My name is Koith,' she wonderingly replied. ' Can it be that you are the Indiana Keith whom I knew at Agra some ton years ago P You nave her voice aud her features ; but you are somewhat changed, though not so much as I am.' 'Yes, I am Indiana Keith, and was living at Agra ten years ago; but who are you P I seem now to remember your face, but not your name.' ' Have you quite forgotten Fleetwood Spurgeon, who was one of the many you mado fools of ?'

He spoke with an accent of bitterness, and Indiana felt it, and colored as she answered : ' I remember you now ; but you are very much changed. How came you in this place ?' ' When yuu left Agra, I didn't care what became me, and soon got into trouble, and had to leave tho place . and then I went to Calcutta, and so on to Australia, whero, after some time, I got some goid. But I soon lost the greater part by gambling; and so tired of knock ing about tho world, I camo back to the old country, and a warm reception she has given me. The vory day I landed I met with liis accident: and unless the pain in my side gets bettor, I don't suppose I shali evor go out from here' His reckless tone distressed Indiana, and she began to urge on him the necessity of seeing a clergyman, and prepare for his end ; but hu interrupted her by saying: ' A parson would do me little good ; but there is one thing which I must confess beforo I die, aud to you only, for it principally concerns yourself. You remember Willoughby of tho 131 st ?' Indiana's blush answered, for she remained silent, and Spurgeon proceeded : ' You probably thought that the cause of your quarrel was only known to yourselves—l mean his previous marriage with Meenah Baee—but I knew it all, for it was a plot of my own devising. I was mad with iealousy at Willoughby's success, and was meditating in what way I could injure him when my evil genius threw in my way Meenah Baee, who had come to Agra in search of her husband, who was a captain in tbe 131 st Native Infantry, but, as I well knew, had beon missing for a year or more, ever since somo skirmish or other. His name, Henry Millingsby, so capable of transformation into Willough by tho fact of tho number of their regiments being tho same, and the similarity between their persons -they were both tall and fair—and a delusion that the poor woman had got into her head that Willougby, whom she saw ono day on parade, was really her husband, suggested to me the practicability o_' destroying his prospects ; and under pretense of assist ing her search, I procured for her, marriage contract, which I destroyed her and substituted infits stead a forged deed, imitating Willougby's signature and those of the witnesses, who I asertained were safe out of the way. Meenah Baee, who could not road English, and only knew her husband's Christian name, never discovered the forgery ; and after making her promise that she would jot betray me to Willoughby, who wou I.', I told her, never forgive me for destroying his prospects of a rich marriage, I sent her to you, and my plot succeeds beyond my hopes. Your indignation, and the regiment's sudden removal, were most favorable to me ; and though I. was deeply wounded at being a second time rejected, it was some comfort to know that my hated rival had no better chance than myself.' _ ~■'■_• 4 Can this be true P' gasped Indiana, who had listened in speechless astonish ment. ' Surely you could not have been 90 cruel? Poor Henry!' she murmured in a low tono to herself, 'i f I had only known the truth! Mr. Spurgeon, it is a hard matter, but still I forgive tou tho wrong you havo done me; perhaps you hardly knew how great it was. Although it is too late to do so now, I should wish to bo able to clear Captain Willoughby's name of tbe stain that has rested upon it, and write down the deposition you have just made.' Spurgeon, who, to do him justice, had never known the extent of her affection for Willoughby, agreed, and affixed his ; signature to the paper ; and then, with trembling limbs, and an agitated look that surprised the nurses, she left the hospital, aud hurried homo to rejoice her sister with tho intelligence that her confidence in Willoughby's honor had not been mis placed. As she entered the drawing-room, where she knew she could find Miss Keith she exclaimed, with breathless eagerness : 4Oh Anne, Henry is innocent; it was all a wicked'—but stopped short on seeing two strangers engaged in conversation with her sister and Meenah Baee.

Her bewilderment did not at first allow her to distinguish their features, but she felt a strange trembling as she marked the tall figure of the one who came for ward to meet her. No, she could not bo mistaken; and in another moment her hands wereclaspedin Henry Willoughby's and'her tremulous 'Henry, can you for give me P' anewered by their warm pres sure. Excess of happiness was almost to much for Indiana after her long trial j

but by degrees she recovered sufficiently to be able to learn how this happy meet ing was brought about. At first, Colonel Willoughby—for he now held that rank —had to present to her his friend Major Millingsby, who had unwittingly been the cause of their long estrangement. ' After you left Agra,' continued the colonel, 'I went through all the Sikh campaign, and then my regiment was ordered to Gibraltar. After that—rather unfairly, as we thought, though had it not "been for this piece of injustice as we considered it, I might never have seen you again—we were ordered back to India. This time I saw no service except the trifling business of reducing a refrac tory Mahratta chief, whose fort wo took; and there we found poor Millingsby, who had been taken prisoner for ten years or more, and was believed to be dead by his own people, and so had never been sought for, and had given up all hopes of golfing free again.' ' Yes,' said Major Millingsby, 'if you only knew what that feeling of utter hopelessness was, I could hardly realize that I was free, when the fort was taken. But go on with your story, Willoughby.' ' Well, Millingsby, when he had recov ered his senses a little, began talking of his wife ; and when I heard her name and birth, the truth suddenly flashed upon me ; and though it was impossible tc account for the substitution of my name for his, I felt sure that tho mistake h .} arisen from tho similarity of sound, and that you, Indiana, had been equally deceived with me. Of course, I hurried homo at once; and I will own that my first impulse was to moot you with reproaches ; but your exclamation as you entered tho room disarmed mo.' _ All was now joy and happiness at JN o. 25 ; and Meenah Baee, or, as wo ought to call her, Mrs. Milliugsby, was in a stato of ecstasy at her husbands return, though most penitent for the delusion which had caused Colonel Willoughby and Indiana so much misery. Spurgeon's confession, though not necessary, as it turned out, was satisfac tory, as clearing up the taystory of the story ; and tho wretched man, during the brief remainder of his life, was nursed with tonder solicitude by her whoso happiness he had so nearly shipwrecked ; but "who was now, thanks to tho guiding of a merciful Providenco, after long trials, given back to her faithful lbver. —' Cham bee's Journal.'

A Genuine Romance.

In the Brooklyn Court of Sessions recent ly, counsel for Michael Brown, indicted for bigamy, announced that the prisoner wished to withdraw his plea of not guilty and plead guilty. Judge Moore called Brown's first wife lo the bar. She told how Brown had married and then deserted her, but why he had deserted hor sho could not tell. Brown spoke up, saying, ' I could not live with her.'

The second wife was then called, and she carried a wee bit of a baby in her arms as she stepped forward and stood by the side of the prisoner and the first wife. Brown cast tender glances toward her, but he paid no attention to his first spouse. The latter flashed looks of haughty revenge at her former lord. The young mother timidly told the Judge that Brown had represented to her that he was single, and she had been married to him in good faith. Ho had been a good husband to her and they had lived happily four years. Tbe women went back to their seats. Brown said that he had nothing to say as to the accusation, andtho Judge, comment ing severely on the man's conduct, sentenced him to five years' imprisonment. As Brown was taken away he cast a fond look at his young wife, and sho wept bitterly. The first wife shot glances of triumphant revenge. —N. Y. ' Sun.'

Through Sorrow to Joy.

Mrs. Hareeey was seated in a small, rather cheerless sitting room, engaged in the homely occupation of stocking darning, whito opposite toher Sadie, her only child, with folded hands, looked out of the window.

There had been a tall figure passing down the path that led to the little gate, but, long before, that was out of sight. Still Sadie sat there, her dark, mournful eyes looking out upon tho dusty road, her beautiful mouth folded in lines of pathos, touching in so young a face. Busily the shining needle went iv and out of the stockings, and sometimes the mother cast a wistful glance at tho lovely face opposite to her, as if longing to comfort or advise. It was strangely pathetic to see the sm&ll white bauds, that were always so busy, lying idle in the forenoon, the cheerful face so absorbed and sad.

At last Sadie broke tho long, painful silence.

' Mother,' she said, ' is it. my duty to marry Colton Everhard ?'

' Your duty, Sadie P Have you no warmer word to use when you talk of nvirrying a man to whom we owe so great a debt of gratitude P'

'No, mother. lam grateful to him, but I do not love him.'

1 Yet he loves you devotedly.' 'If I could only believe that!' Sadie sighed. 'If I were only sure he loved me!' -

' You doubt that P' Mrs Hartley spoke iv a tone of the utmost amazement, while her busy hands fell idly before her. 'You doubt Colton Evefhard's love ?'

' Mother, if he really loved me, surely my heart would answer something to his words. But when he is most eloquent, I shrink from him the most. I ask myself why he should feign a love for me, who can give him nothing. And yet I know, by evory throb of my own heart, Colton Everhard does not love me.' ' You are too romantic, Sadie. Think for a moment. We are miserably poor, living in an attic, sewing upon shop-work for tho barest necessaries of life, when accident threw you in Colton Everhard's way.' * Was it accident ? I have often thought it was strange he should_ have stood so very near when I was insulted in the street. lb has often troubled me that I detected a glance pass between the man who was rude to me and my deliverer. It was rather dramatic, mother, that sudden rush to protect mo.' ' But think, Sadie, of the great delicacy exhibited in h_3 kindness since that time. His introdution to me was certainiy a gen tlemanly method of obtaining permission to call. Then his procuring this cottage for us upon such easy terms, and the work we are doing, so pleasant and yet so well paid. And surely, if we were still as rich as we were when your dear father died, you could not have been wooed with more respect than Colton Everhard constantly shows you.' 41 know all you would urge, mother, and yet the fact remains—he does not love me.'

' He is a man who might marry well in his own circle, Sadie. His father is.'one of our leading lawyers, and your poor uncle had a great respect for him.'

'Uncle Herbert?'

'Yes, dear, who died in California last year. Poor fellow! after slaving there for nearly twenty years, he mu-jt havo died poor.' • Why P' ' I am his only living relative, excepting yourself, and if he had left any property we should have heard of it.' ' Yes, I havo heard you say so. I wish ho had left you a little money. Evor so little would enable us to throw off this bitter load of obligation. It crushes me. 1 had rather be back in our own attic, and know we ;were independent. Mother ! mother! I can not marry Colton Ever hard.'

It was a despairing cry, coming from a tortured heart.

The young girl had been so gradually hedged in by tho kindnos of her suitor, that she had scarcely measured her load of obligation until asked to give her life in payment. Tho keeneet pain was in her own apparent ingratitude and hardne3 of heart. She asked herself again and again what she could desiro in a lover and hus band that Colton Everhard did not offer her. He was young, fine-looking, intelli gent, well educated. His family occupied a good social position, and he was in lucrative business. Yet he wooed her a penniless girl, giving her no love. Could sho many him, and live year after year with no love for her husband, no love for him? Could she stand before the altar and pledge herself to honor and obey a man for whom she felt only a gratitude, which tantalized her by a puzzling suspicion P As if iv answer to her thought her mother said :

4 Y rot you hive all to gain by such a marriage, Sadie, nothing to lose.' * I should lose my self-respect, my happiness for life. 3No, mother, though 1 may seem ungrateful. I'll not marry where there's no love.'

Mrs, Hartcly, did not urge the suitor's cause, although deeply disappointed at her daughter's decision. She had married for love herself, though her husband had been a rich man, and she knew only too well how much warm, true love is needed to make married life happy. To advise Sadie to marry Colton Everhard after her reasons for rcfusieg were so clearly stated, would havo been lo do violence to all her own convictions.

But Colton Everhard did not patiently bear the rejection of the beautiful girl he hud persistently wooed for many long months. He had, as Sadie suspected, planned the apparently chanco encounter which first brought him to the notice and grateful acknowledgements of the widow and her daughter. Ho had spent valuable time and no small amouut of money in following up this introduction, aud having, as he thought, won Sadie's affection, he asked her to be bis wife. And Sadie, with only the pure instincts of her maiden heart to guide her, had refused his offer.

With his heart full of bitter revenge, he tried to win by cruelity what bs had failed to gain by kindness. Before a week passed, be uvged his suit with Mrs. Hartley. With affectionate words she told him of her own regret at Sadie's decision, but absolutely refused to use her own influence to alter it. Then, when vague hints were thrown out to waken her fears a stately dignity replaced the moth erly warmth of her manner, ana Colton Everhard was courteously, but distinctly informed that Sadie could never be won by bribe or threat.

Bnt a few days were allowed for reflec tion before the landlord of the little cottago raised the rent to such an exorbitant price that only immediate removal remained for the Hartleys. The easy, lucrative work was taken away at a moment's notice, and when Sadie went to where she had formerly worked, employment was denied there. Winter was coming on, and the narrow attic room seemed even more dreary than before, in contrast to their cosy cottage. Still

mother and daughter spoka no word of regret tor the refusal that was costing so dear. Sadie, in her heart, was thankful that some of the load of gratitude was cancelled by this sudden, rude persecution, and Mrs. Hartley spoke once in terms that quieted any paiu her daugeter might have felt on her account. ' Sadie,' she said, * I shudder to think of your life in the power of a man who could so wreak his vengeance upon two helpless women. Thank God, my_ child, your heart guided you truly. No man who ever loved you could so suddenly become

your enemy.' It was in January, a night when rain was falling fast upon half-melted snow, that Sadie came home after a day of fruitless search for work.

1 Where is your shawl.?' Mrs. Hartley said, as the girl drew, shivering, to the tiny handful of fire. ' I sold it. We must eat or die,' was the quiet reply. As she spoke there was a knock at the door, and Colton Everhard came in. His handsome attire, his courteous address, were in strong contrast to tbe wretched room and the chilling reception that met him. Still, with quiet tact, he refused to recognize the coldness, and gradually led the conversation from commonplace to personal topics. Not abruptly, but by graceful transitions he led the way to his own hope that Sadie might think more kindly of the offer refused before. He spoke eloquently of his love for her, delicately urging his respect and affection for her mother, ande xpressed the most profound regret that he had ever allowed his anger at first refusal to influence him, as it had done, to acts of enmity. There was no lack of words to prove his sincere affection, as he poured them into the ear of the shabby, almost despairing girl, and Sadie, listening for some answer from her own heart, found none. Not one throb there bore witness to the truth of the vehement assertions. Sadly, but resolute ly, she said, as she had said before : ' I cannot marry you, Mr. Everhard I do not love you, and you do not love me.'

' I don't love you!' cried her suitor. ' Sadie, can you be so blind, so daaf to love, as to doubt mine ? Be my wife, and every hour of my life shall prove my love for you.' ' I cannot be your wife.' ' Do you love another, Sadie ?' •I do not admit your right to ask that question, but I will answer you. Ido not love anotner.'

' Then love will come. I can waityears, if it must be.'

But he pleaded in vain. Sadie firmly refused to become an unloved, unloving wife. 7

It was late when the disappointed suitor took his leave, and Sadie crept into her mother's arms.

' Forgive me that I deny you, too, the comforts of a home,' she sobbed.

* Child, child,' her mother'said, ' I want no home built upon the ruins of your happiness. Have you forgotton to-mor row is your birthday, Sadie P You are twenty-one.'

There was little sleep in the cheerless attic ; but the morning found the Hartleys up early, and Sadie preparing to go out in search of work. A bright sunlight made tbe prospect somewhat more cheer ful than it had been the previous day, and Sadie was speaking cheerily, when the postman's voice ran along the narrow passage:

' Hartley !'

•An auswer to our advertisement!' cried Sadie, flying down for the letter and up again.

' A great legal envelopy, marked Ever hard and Hall,' she said. ' Can Colton ?ue me for breach of promise, mother?' There was a pause while Sadie opened the letter. Then Mrs. Hartley gave a startled cry at the deahly pallor of the face lifted to meet her eyes. ' Mother,' Sadie said, in a hushed voic ' can you bear a great shock p'

* Yes, dear. All we love are dead, and we love each other.'

' A shock of joy, mother! Bather a novel sensation for you and me. This letter tells me my Uncle Herbert left a will.'

'Yes, Sadie. Speak quickly, child.' ' Iv care of Everhard and Hall, to be opened upou my twenty-first birthday. Colton Everhard^s father, mother, has had this will since Uncle Herbert died.'

' I begin to understand, dear. You are heiress—'

' To twenty thousand pounds.' ' There was a long, long silence, and Mrs. Hartley gently untied' Sadie's shabby bonnet. After a struggle for composure, Sadie cried hysterically. There was no more hunger or cold for the heiress or her mother.

It was three years later when Sadie was sought for a wife by one who loved her ahd won the treasure of her love ; and the warm, true heart, under the appeal of sincere devotion, no longer held the silenco that had once saved the lovely girl from becoming the unloved, unloving wife of an unscrupulous fortune-hunter.

Something Wrong Here.

What's the Matter with his Story.—A rite suite little buoy, the son of a grate kernel, with a rough about his neck, flue up the rode swift as eh dear. After a thym, he had stopped at a gnu house and wrung the belle His tow hurt hymn, and he kneaded wrest. He was to tired too vm his fare.pail face. A feint mown

pane rows from his lips. The^Mf herde the belle was aoout to paj, m but she through it down and $M her mite, for fear her guessed wdi « weight. Butt when she saw | M won, tiers stood in her eyes at |Llf Ewe poor dear Why due yew Wi¥ Ah yew dyeing? Know, he sa#|B feint to the corps.' Sha boar _mm alms, as she aught, too a rheum;ta!B might bee quiet, gave him biJB meet, held cent under his knows,a» choler, rapped him warmly, e^M some sweat drachm from a viol Jm last he wenth forth hail as j J hoarse. His eyes shown, hia C-__\M read as a flour, and he gambled '_m our.

"Beautiful Child."

A few years ago there appeared ja 1 American paper an exquisite po^ I titled ' Beautiful Snow,' (and sSJ republished in last Saturday issue oftH Stab Supplement). The beauty jjjl composition secured its republican,;? numerous journals, and at lengt^itjj its way to England accompanied^! tale that the original had been dime'J upon the person of a young womanf wa3 frozen to death, and who Wfti?fej believed to have been the author ofl poem. Por a long time the reali*! preserved his incognito.

Some months since the secret j revealed, and Major Sigourney,^.,! of the celebrated poetess of thatir" became known as the writer. ■%$ number of Harper's Magazhucojl a companion poem, entitled '.Beai| Chilp,' which is marked by all thefej of diction and deep religious fj characteristic of its predecessor, lj| could have thought that in a fist y its gifted author would fill a sajf| grave P —yet such is the case. pjJ from an American contemporary.ft^jj the night of April 22, Major W«l,j] Sigourney was found dead in theon^ of New York, under circumstancesleatsj to the belief that he had shot himji' He had in early life married aMM more, a lady of great personal attrjefe| and with her made a voyage to -Ey During their absence rumour* ud-; able to her character reached the Sigma/ family. The reports seem to haVy well founded, for, shortly after.fce.r3 to New York, she showed that the ti of the 19th century—the demondrii^ had added another name to the list off victims. She abandoned her him became an outcast, and wa3 next hear: as an inmate of the penitentiary onßbjj well's Island. Her husband's lbTe J still sufficiently strong to indaoeW make another effort to save her, jl through his influence she waa reM only again to desert her home, hi w inter of 1853 the papers spoke ohm and beautiful woman having beenfe! dead under the snow, in a. disrepjil street in New York. Something m to tell Sigourney that the body xm 1 of his wife. Upon making inquiries] found his surmises but too true, andiu claiming the remains, he had themintel in that picturesque ' silent city'; m overlooks the busy harbour of Nei.il

The story of that erring wife was] in the touching language ot 'Beau! snow.' What wonder that he. shta the publicity that its authorship ra have conferred ! The late Henry J;I mond, then editor of the Him li Times, was for years the friend of I Sigourney, and obtained from 1 employment as a journalist, whichfiu health compelled him to abandon. | circumstances connected with Hsil remain a mystery. Not even his 4 for whom, he always displayed theteil est affection, can throw any light upmi The latest effort of his genius is displf in the poem

'BEAUTIFUL Cffn.D.V_j.| f " Beautiful chUd by tho mother's knee, la .he mystic future whau wilt thoab_? '■-. A demon of sin, or an angel sublime—*. ■ g A poison "Upas, or innocent thyma— \7 \ A spirit of evil flashing down With the larld light of a fiery crown— . Or gliding up with a shining track, Liae tho morning star that ne'er looks bs& I Daintiest dreamer that ever smiled, Which wilt thou be, my beautiful child? 1 | Beautiful child in my garden bowers, Friend of the butterflies, birds, and Soweis, 9 Pure as the sparking crystalline stream,. Jewels of truth in thy fairy eyes beam, | -7 Was there ever a whiter soui than thise Worshipped by lov* in a mortal sarine! ; \ My heart thou hast gladdened for twosvwM With rainbows of hops through mists of Wafj Mists beyond which the buuny suaile, ": With its halo of glory beams all the w_dfc; Beautiful child, to thy look is given . ''■'J\ A gloam sßreue-not to earth, but of .have.! With thy tell-tale eyes and prattling tongO-i Would thou ccmld'st ever thus be yonng. Like the liquid strain of the mooting turf. From stair to hall thy voice is heard; f. t How oft in the garden nooks thoa'rt Mm \ With flowers thy curly head around, ' And kaueiiiis: beside me with figure sop** Oh 1 who would not dote on my iafaii&M Beautiful child, what thy fate shall be, Perchance, is wisely hiddea from me; A fallen star thou may st leave my aids j And of sorrow and shame become the tsHM Phivcriog, quivering, through the cold 'Ml With a curse before and behind thy feeV I Ashamed to live, and afraid to die ; v No home, no friend, and a pitiless sky, Merciful I.ather—my brain grows wlld- Oh ! keep from evil my beautiful child jl Beautiful child, may'st thoa soar abovft ! | A warbling chsrub of joy and love, ?S A drop on eternity's mighty flea, „i A blossom on life's Immortal tree— ! Floating, flowering evermore, 77 \ In the bibssed light of the golden ahor&i. And as I gaze on thy sinless bloom Aiid thy radiant face, they dispel my gli* I feel He will keep the uadiifiled, . 3_%] And His love protect my bea_.ti.ui chili j

Printed and published by "the proprietor, J Brett, of Parnell, at his General Steam 5 Office, Wyndham-street, iv tlio City of** New Zealand, Saturday, my fy m

Evening Star Supplement, July Q^» 1870