with a headache, he was told, when, after scarching for her everywhere, he condescended to inquire. Sara was not given to headaches, and the intimation startled her brother. And he went and sat in the drawing-room alone and stared at the lights, and contrasted this solitary grandeur with the small house whose image was in his mind, the little cozy, tiny, sunshiny place, where one little bright face would always smile; where there would always be some one ready to listen, ready to be interested, ready to take a share in every thing. The picture looked very charming to him after the dreariness of this great room, and Sara gone to bed, and poor Powys banished and broken-hearted. That was not to be his own fate, and Jack grew pious and tender in his self-gratulations. After all, poor Powys was a very good sort of fellow; but, as it happened, it was Jack who had drawn all the prizes of life. He did think at one time of going down-stairs notwithstanding the delicate state of his own relations with his father, and making such excuses as were practicable for the unfortunate clerk, who had permitted himself to be led astray in this foolish manner. "Of course it was a great risk bringing him here at all," Jack thought of saying, that Mr. Brownlow might be brought to a due sense of his own responsibility in the matter; but after long consideration, he wisely reflected that it would be best to wait until the first parties to the transaction had pronounced themselves. If Sara did not mean to say any thing about it, nor Powys, why should he intertere? upon which conclusion, instead of going down-stairs, he went to bed, thinking again how cheerless it was for each member of the household to start off like this without a single good-night, and how different it would be in the new household that was to come. Sara came to breakfast next morning looking very pale. The colour had quite gone out of her cheeks, and she had done herself up in a warm velvet jacket, and had the windows closed as soon as she came into the room. They never will remember that the summer's over," she said, with a shiver, as she took her place; but she made no further sign of any kind. Clearly she had no intention of complaining of her rash lover, - so little, indeed, that when Mr Brownlow was about to go away, she held out a hook to him timidly, with a sudden blush. "Mr. Powys forgot to take this with him last night; would you mind taking it to him, papa? she said very meekly; and as Jack looked at her, Sara blushed redder and redder. Not that she had any occasion to blush. It might be meant as an olive-branch or ven a pledge of hope; but still it was only a book that Powys had left behind him. Mr. Brownlow accepted the charge with a little surprise, and he, too, looked at her so closely that it was all she could do to restrain a burst of tears. "Is it such a wonder that I should send back a book when it is left?" she cried petulantly. "You need not take it unless you like, papa; it can always go by the post." "I will take it," said Mr. Brownlow; and Jack sat by rather grimly, and said nothing. Jack was very variable and uncertain just at that moment in his own feelings. He had not forgotten the melting of his heart on the previous night; but if he had seen any tokens of relenting on the part of his sister towards the presumptuous stranger, Jack would have again hated Powys. He even observed with suspicion that his father took little notice of Sara's agitation; that he shut his eyes to it, as it were, and took her book, and evaded all further discussion. Jack himself was not going to Masterton that day. He had to see that everything was in order for the next day, which was the 1st of September. So far had the season wheeled round imperceptibly while all the variations of this little domestic drama were ripening to their appointed end. Jack, however, did not go to inspect his gun, and consult with the gamekeeper, immediately on his father's departure. He waited for a few minutes, while Sara, who had been so cold, rushed to the window, and threw it open. "There must be thunder in the airscarcely breathe," she said. And Jack watched her jealously, and did not lose a single look. one can "You were complaining of cold just now," he said. "Sara, mind what you are about. If you think you can play that young Powys at the end of your line you're making a great mistake." "Play whom?" cried Sara, blazing up. "You are a nice person to preach to me! I am playing nobody at the end of my line. I have no line to play with; and you that are making a fool of that poor little simple Pamela " "Be quiet, will you?" said Jack, furious. "That poor little simple Pamela, as you call her, is going to be my wife." Sara gazed at him for a moment, thunderstruck, standing like something made into stone, with her velvet jacket, which she had just taken off in her hands. Then the colour fled from her cheeks as quickly as it had come to them, and her great eyes filled suddenly, like crystal cups, with big tears. She threw the jacket down out of her hands, and rushed to her brother's side, and clasped his arm. "You don't mean it. Jack?-do you mean it?" she cried piteously, gazing up into his face; and a crowd of different emotions, more than Jack could discriminate or divine, was in her voice. There was pleasure and there was sorrow, and sharp envy and pride and regret. She clasped his arm, and looked at him with a look which said, "How could you?-how dare you?-and, oh, how lucky you are to be able to do it!"—all in a breath. "Of course I mean it," said Jack, a little roughly; but he did not mean to be rough. "And that is why I tell you it is odious of you, Sara, to tempt a man to his destruction, when you know you can do nothing for him but break his heart." "Can't I?" said Sara, dropping away from his arm, with a faint little moan; and then she turned quickly away, and hid her face in her hands. Jack, for his part, felt he was bound to improve the occasion, though his heart smote him. He stood secure on his own pedestal of virtue though he did not want her to copy him. Indeed such virtue in Sara would have been little short of vice. "Nothing else," said Jack, "and yet you creatures do it without ever thinking of the sufferings you cause. I saw the state that poor fellow was in when he left you last night; and BOW you begin again sending him books! What pleasure can you have in it? It is something inconceivable to me." find him for those fated six weeks; and so SO Mr. Brownlow, however, was inuch startled This Jack uttered with a superiority and sense by the looks of Powys when he went into the of goodness so lofty that Sara's tears dried up. office. He was more haggard than he had She turned round in a blaze of indignation, too ever been in the days when Mr. Wrinkell was much offended to trust herself to answer. suspicious of him. His hair hung on his fore"You may be an authority to Pamela, but you head in a limp and drooping fashion - he was are not an authority to me," she cried, draw-pale, and there were circles round his eyes. Mr. ing herself up to her fullest state. But she did Brownlow had scarcely taken his place in his not trust herself to continue the warfare. The own room when the impatient young man tears were lying too near the surface, and Sara came and asked to speak to him. The reques t had been too much shaken by the incident of made the lawyer's hair stand up on his head, the previous night. "I am not going to dis- but he could not refuse the peition. "Come cass my own conduct; you can go and talk to in," he said faintly. The blood seemed to go Pamela about it," she added pausing an instant back on his heart in a kind of despair. After at the door of the room before she went out. all his anticipations of approaching freedom, It was spiteful, and Jack felt that it was spite- was he to be arrested after all, before the period ful; but he did not guess how quickly Sara of emancipation came? rushed up-stairs after her dignified progress to the door, nor how she locked herself in, nor what a cry she had in her own room when she was safe from all profane eyes. She was not thinking of Pamela, and yet she could have beaten Pamela. She was to be happy, and have her own way; but as for Sara, it was an understood duty that the only thing she could do for a man was to break his heart! Her tears fell down like rain at this thought. Why should Jack be so free and she so fettered? Why should Pamela be so well off? Thus a sudden and wild litttle hailstorm of rage and mortification went over Sara's head, or rather heart. Meanwhile Mr. Brownlow went very steadily to business with the book in his pocket. He had been a little startled by Sara's look, but by this time it was going out of his mind. He was thinking that it was a lovely morning, and still very warm, though the child was so chilly; and then he remembered, with a start that next day was the 1st of September. Another six weeks, and the time of his probation was over. The thought sent the blood coursing through his veins, as if he had been a young man. Everything had gone on so quietly up to that moment- -no further alarms-nothing to revive his fears-young Powys lulled to indifference, if indeed he knew anything; and the time of liberation so near. But with that thrill of satisfaction came a corresponding excitement. Now that the days were numbered, every day was a year in itself. It occurred to him suddenly to go away somewhere, to take Sara with him, and bary himself in some remote corner of the earth, where nobody could man As for Powys, he was too much excited himself to see anything but the calmest composure in Mr. Brownlow, who indeed, throughout all his trials, though they were sharp enough, always looked composed. The young even thought his employer methodical and matter-of-fact to the last degree. Ho had put out upon the table before him the book Sara had intrusted him with. It was a small edition of one of the poets which poor Powys had taken with him on his last unhappy expedition to Brownlows; and Mr. Brownlow put his hand on the book, with a constrained smile, as a schoolmaster might have put his hand on a prize. My daughter sent you this, Powys," he said, a book which it appears you left last night; and why did you go away in such a hurry without letting me know?" "That "Miss Brownlow sent it?" said Powys, growing crimson; and for a minute the poor young fellow was so startled and taken aback that he could not add another word. He clutched at the book, and gazed at it hungrily, as if it could tell him something, and then he saw Mr. Brownlow looking at him with surprise, and his colour grew deeper and deeper. was what I came to speak to you about, sir," he said, hot with excitement and wretchedness. "You have trusted me, and I am unworthy of your trust. I don't mean to excuse myself; but I could not let another day go over without telling you. I have behaved like an idiot - and a villain" "What Stop, stop!" said Mr. Brownlow. is all this about? Don't be excited. I don't "It is that you took me into your house, sir, and trusted me," said Powys, "and I have betrayed your trust. I must mention her name. I saw your daughter too often- too much. I should have had the honour and honesty to tell you before I betrayed myself. But I did not mean to betray myself. I miscalculated my strength; and in a moment, when I was not thinking, it gave way. Don't think I have gone on with it," he added, looking beseechingly at his employer, who sat silent, not so much as lifting his eyes. "It was only last night and I am ready at the moment, if you wish it, to go away." Mr. Brownlow sat at his table and made no reply. Oh, those hasty young creatures, who precipitated everything! It was in a kind of way, the result of his own scheming, and yet his heart revolted at it, and in six weeks' time he would be free from all such necessity. What was he to do? He sat silent, utterly confounded and struck dumb-not with surprise and horror as his young companion in the fulness of his compunction believed, but with confusion and uncertainty as to what he ought to say and do. He could not offend and affront the young man on whose quietness and unawakened thoughts so much depended. He could not send Powys away, to fall probably into the hands of other advisers, and rise up against himself. Yet could he pledge himself, and risk Sara's life, when so short a time might set him free? All this rushed through his mind while he sat still in the same attitude in which he had listened to the young fellow's story. All this pondering had to be done in a moment, for Powys was standing beside him in all the vehemence of passion, thinking every minute an hour, and waiting for his answer. Indeed, he expected no answer. Yet something there was that must be said, and which Mr. Brownlow did not know how to say. "You betrayed yourself?" he said, at last; "that means, you spoke. And what did Sara say?" " road, and a pale, swarthy organ-grinder, with "If she has said nothing," said Mr. Brown- "No more," said Mr. Brownlow. "Let "Then I am not to leave you?" said Powys, The young man did not know what to say. The tumult in his mind had not subsided. He was in the kind of condition to which every The colour on Powys's face flushed deeper thing which is not despair is hope. He was and deeper. He gave one wild, half-frantic look wild with wonder, bewilderment, confusion. of inquiry at his questioner. There was noth- He made some incoherent answer, and the next ing in the words, but in the calm of the tone, moment he found himse f again at his desk, in the naming of his daughter's name, there dizzy like a man who has fallen from some was something that looked like a desperate great height, yet feels himself unhurt upon solid glimmer of hope; and this unexpected light ground after all. What was to come of it all? flashed upon the young man all of a sudden, And Sara had sent him his book. Sara! Nevand made him nearly mad. "She said nother in his wildest thoughts had he ventured to ing," he answered breathlessly. "I was not so dishonourable as to ask for any answer. What answer was possible? It was forced out of me, and I rushed away." Mr. Brownlow pushed his chair away from the table. He got up and went to the window, and stood and looked out, he could not have told why. There was nothing there that could help him in what he had to say. There was nothing but two children standing in the dusty call her Sara before. He did not do it witting- Meanwhile Mr. Brownlow too sat and pon- From the New York Evening Post. HOW THEY LIVED IN SOUTH CAROLINA. A CORRESPONDENT in South Carolina sends us parts of the journal of a South Carolina lady during the latter part of the war and the earlier months of the peace. The following extracts from this journal give a curious and vivid picture of the life led by thousands of women and children during the war. Incidentally, too, the journal gives a very touching story of the fidelity of a brave old colored woman. EDS. EVENING POST. COLUMBIA, S. C., Jan. 20, 1865. I trust that we are now settled for the remainder of the war. I fled first from the seacoast of Florida to Charleston. Thence the bombardment drove me and my poor little children to seek refuge in the up-country. There I was uncomfortable. It was impossible for me to get two rooms together the place was so crowded. And Henry absent from me. He is still in Charleston. And those dreadful shells! I dream of them at night, bursting all about him! May Heaven preserve him! Alas! what is life to me now, but care, grief, and anxiety? Every feeling of my heart seems but another source of suffering. I am a wife, only to grieve for the absence and danger of my husband. I am a mother, only to feel anguish for my children. My little Edward is no better. The doctor tells me that he is ill, in a great degree, from want of proper food. My children are not used to eating corn bread, and I can get nothing else for them. Dr. Hall is so kind and good! He said that the children in his own family had been suffering from the same cause. Yet he took some silver to dispose of for me to get food for mine. I was married at the very time that secession took place. I was called a beautiful girl then. Oh, what do I care for beauty now! A little health for my poor Edward bread for my children, would be wealth to me now. I read this over. It is so unthankful! I ought to be thankful that I have at length a settled home. No life among my loved ones has been taken from me. My children sleep beside me while I write. To be sure I write by fire-light; but I should be thankful that I have the fire. Again I sit musing and writing by the fire-light, after my nurse and children are asleep. Dear old soul! I should be thank ful that Providence has spared her to me. Dr. Hall has brought me flour and meat, and paid in advance for milk for my baby. Now it is better. Manm Cely showed me how to make pap for it, and it was so well to-day that she went away to wash, and left me with it. I read in the papers that Savannah has fallen, and I see in the streets a third of the men at home. Oh! how shameful it is! They make every excuse to get out of the army and to stay at home. I hear that one man, at home on furlough, deliberately shot off his thumb the other day to be disabled. I hope they made him go. There was cousin George telling me, to-day, that his old captain has written to the officer some officer, I do not remember which to send him on to his company, as they are expecting to meet the enemy. Perhaps he is the only educated man in the company. The rest are all from near the mountains. And instead of going he has gone to the commissary general, and made interest through bim for a fortnight's furlough home to see his mother. He says the Confederacy is gone up any how, and he had rather survive it. The refugees are flying here from Augusta. They say Sherman is marching there. Rents have risen enormously, because so many valuables are sent here for safe keeping, and so many refugees from all quarters are crowding here. George says this place is considered the safest part of the State. He brought me some Confederate money to-day, and told me I might as well use it while anything could be bought with it. I had some on hand, too; but, as I could not buy provisions with it, I had not thought of anything else. So I went out with him. Dress goods can still be purchased, but at the most enormous prices. I bought a lead-coloured flannel dress for $400 $40 per yard. I also bought bright-colored plaids for the children at the same price. It seemed to me prodigal and wicked to give so much money. I should not have done it, but George insisted. "You might as well give brown paper," he said; 6. get it while you can." I bought a bolt of white homespun; also a bolt of checked homespun. Those articles will be of great value to me. I spent all George's money, too; he insisted upon it. Somehow, I felt for a little while like my old self again. I came home flushed and sparkling, as I used to look. Maum Cely looked gravely at me. She led me to the glass. "Look, Miss Mary," she said, "is you starved like me? Is you old 'oman, to go trew de street so wid mas' George and so much sodgers about? Law, Miss Mary, mas' George neber was no 'count. Mas' Henry tell me when he gwine away, to take care of you; and you not gwine out again. If anyting wanted, I kin go. Sodgers not pester me. I cast my eyes upon the glass. I did look as beautiful as ever- as when I was called the beautiful Miss Moore. But I had no thought of my looks at all. I never remembered my appearance. I was thinking only of necessaries and comforts for my children. General Beauregard has arrived and taken command in the city. I feel easy now. Surely we are safe under his protection. I saw his army enter, for I have logings over a store upon Main Street. Every one seems confident now that should that horrid Sherman approach, he and his gallant army can defend us. I tola George to-day that he must join his command. To think of the men idling about as they do! Columbia is filled with loaters, who ought to be at the front. I heard one superintendent of the railroad say that he kept a man out of the army for every mile of road. I heard, too, that he would neither employ negroes nor old men, but gained exemption, in that way, for all his neighbours and friends. To extend his influence. To gain popularity for himself. And, oh! how he can talk about patriotism! 'Tis positively disgusting. But George says his whole fortune is invested in Confederate bonds. If we are conquered, he will get his reward, and that is one comfort. MONDAY. General Beauregard is having embankments thrown up to retard Sherman's march. He is coming. They have torn away all the bridges. There will be a siege of the city. The streets are filled with people flying to the country. George is gone to get a wagon for me, but it is raining in torrents. I could not take my children out in such weather not if I remained here and was killed. I had rather trust to the mercy of the enemy. And oh! where is Henry? his command has not been heard from. Nobody knows what has become of them. where John had gone to get a wagon; but he could not procure one. Only those who had gold and silver coin could do this, and the weather was such that I could not have taken my sick child out. I told him not to try any more. On Thursday, General Beauregard evacuated the city. He had thought, I believe, that the enemy could not cross the river. The destruction of the bridges availed nothing. They had bridges with them, and it did not even delay them. On Friday morning, the fatal entrance was made. We were all crowded into an upper room on Main Street. George had dyed his face and hands, and had procured a suit of drayman's clothing. His hair and eyes are so black, that he passed for a mulatto very well. When the enemy entered, he came to my room in this guise, intending to pass as Maum Cely's son. They watched the enemy from the window. I crouched by the fireside. I could only weep, and hold fast my children. About twelve o'clock they began to fire the city. George had been out, and saw the flames commence at the corner of the block in which I resided. He came in and gave us the news. Maum Cely said she would go out and get help, and charged us to wait until she returned. George and I gathered up what valuables we could. I had a great deal of silver. That he tied up in a sheet, together with the children's clothing. In the mean time, the flames spread with frightful rapidity. Cotton bales had been piled in the street, what for I cannot tell. They took fire; and all hope of saving any part of Main Street was then gone. The store next to us had caught when Maum Cely came back. She brought with her two negro men. One I recognised immediately: he had belonged to my father. "O Lewis!" I said, "help me!" "Dat we will, missy; we see you safe. Dis my chile," he said, and secured little Harry. "Oh, yes, save my children!" I cried. While we spoke, Maum Cely made the other man (who he was I never knew) throw the mattresses on the floor. She directed me to lie down on them. They then rolled me up in them, tied all around with the curtains and cord, passing a fold of the curtains over each end. George and one negro tcok me up. Lewis brought both my children. I knew that they were safe with him. He had a ragged coloured blanket round his neck, and they were concealed under it, and under a ragged overcoat. Maum Cely brought the |