The daily phoenix. [volume] (Columbia, S.C.) 1865-1878, 1870-03-13

u Inclined TO do, or which would be the
most suitable snaEiss ss5n Vi feeling on
| the OCCASION to laugh orsto cry.s They
knocked at Mr.. Clay dnnr
/ Come I'M" was, the Indifferent invita-
ton, and the gentleman, poor ill-used
floor as they entered. Just the posture
Mrs. Thurlow described SO accurately
he must have been practising.
The wearied girl dropped in the chair
beside her father, and, striving to master
all outward signs OF fatigue, inquired. in
q voice of deep concern:
"How do you feel this afternoon, ia
therP"
"Well, don't know-about as we'll as
usual, I believe, replied Mr.. Clayburn,
iistlessiy.
"I have come to ask you to ride with
me, father. The sun is so bright and the
/ air SO mild"
ttI don't care to ride" said the hypo-
critical father, "it requires too much ex-
ertion."
"Oh, MOI you will enjoy it, father-I'm
sure you will. Please come with u.s. The
fresh air will revive and strengthen you.
Rudolph will go along and aunt, and it
will be so pleasant"
Mr.. Clayburn arose.
81 suppose / may as well accompany
you. I've nothing else to do"
These words seemed to convict Juliet;
she looked at her aunt with sorrowful
expression, as if she could never forgive
herself for so long negleoting her sick
father.
That day was the turning point-she
began to improve rapidly, and her mind
gradually recovered its heathful tone and
vigor. Her father became the absorbing
interest of life. Devoting herself to his
pleasure and comfort, always arranging
some plan to entertain and amuse him;
always striving to make him forget the
past; in measure, she forgot it herself,
and slowly regained, If not her own
least semblance of them. Her disinte-
rested devotion, her unselfsh efforts in
behalf of another, like all genuine good
ness, poured rich harvest of blessings
on her own head. Self-sacrifce was the
sweet draught of oblivion. for which she
had 80 earnestly prayed the Lethean
stream, whose silent waves washed away
sad and bitter memories, bringing peace
to her troubled soul. And Mr.. Clay
burn, pampered with the indulgence of
power, became the veriest tyrant on the
globe. He seemed to know instinctively
when the poor girl, overpowered with
feelings of remembrance, which she
could not always restrain, fed to the
solitude of her own chamber to take
quiet cry over Karl's picture, or to read
over again the faded letters, now worn
and blistered with her tears. At such
times, there always came an imperative
call from her father. We are not given
To suspicion, but we verify believe Fetty
was employed as a spy on he. young
mistress moods, and faithfully reported
all unlawful proceedings, such as tears
or melanchly repinings. Be this as it
may. Juliet's unemployed or solitary mo-
ments were few and far between. If she
had been very sentimental, some one
may suggest, she might have enjoyed the
luxury of crying herself to sleep every
night, saying with the Psalmist, 81 am
weary with my groaning; all the night
make my bed to swim; water my
couch with my tears;" but the fact is,
after day of hard labor with mental and
physical toll, sleep comes more naturally
and sweetly to the eyes than anything g
else. Which may account physiologi-
cally and satisfactorily for Juliet's fre-
9uent omission of even single sigh, in
the short interview which elapsed be-
tween the time when her head touched
the pillow and her soft and regular
breathing proclaimed the fact that she
was fast asleep. Truly, as the interests
and pursuits of life gradually revived,
things wore brighter face at Orkney.
/