The Anderson intelligencer. [volume] (Anderson Court House, S.C.) 1860-1914, 1876-08-31
A DAUGHTERS SACRIFICE.

Mary Goldwait was sitting by the well
filled crate in her fathers drawing room.
It was on cold evening in winter, and
the wind howled mournfully around the
street corners and through the alleys.
Mary was pale, slim girl, but possess
ing a beauty which teYen Gthe most fas-
tidious could not have questioned, Her
hair, which was of a deep, golden brown,
lay neatly waving upon brow as pure
as snow, and the soft, lustrious eyes,
which seemed to have the deep golden
hue, shed a light from the soul which
could only have emanated from source
of purity and worth She had seen eight
and twenty years of life, and yet she re-
mained maiden, beneath her fathers
roof. A close calculator of physiognomy
would have said that Mary had some
heart grief that made her so pale. So
she had, though perhaps no one save her
Nself, on earth, knew ali her heart secrets.
She had lost d beloved mother when she
was twenty, and since that she had seen
one brother and one elder sister laid
away in the tomb. She sat now with her
small hands clasped;oycr her bosom, and
her eyes turned downward till;the long
lashes lay like golden pencilings on her
cheek.
Near her. in great arm chair, sat her
father, He was tall, slim man, whose
head was white, and whose face was
deeply furrowed by the hand of time.
There were some kind marks upon his
features, and some cold ones; but now
he looked troubled and very unhappy.
"Mary," ",he said, in continuation of a
conversation already commenced, "for
eight and twenty years have found a
holne for you, and your every wish has,
been promptly met and answered. Your
good has been my highest aim; and
your peace and happiness my only JOY.
You are advancing in years, and soon
your father must leave you alone. But !
Lean not leave you at the mercy OF
the cold world. Now good home Is
open to you, and you must accept it.
Men might call me selfish could they
know all my moties; but am sure you
will not. 4 crisis has come; volcano
has grown up beneath my feet. In few
more short days it must whelm me in
utter ruin if be not saved. Mr.. Smith
Eas asked me for your hand. He has
seen, you at school and has watched you
narrowly. He loves you. He is wealthy
more wealthy, than your father was.
And he holds notes of mine-notes to the
amount of hundred thousand dollars"
'But your name is not alone on these
notesW gasped Mary. q
'sNo-onfy the first four; but I ,sam;i
holden for the whole. Yet the quarter
part of that is more than sufficient to
ruin me-"
"And Mr.. Smith makes my hand the
equivalent" 2
eyes. Or-I must say, he has not said
so. But he knows MY situation, and
knowing it, he has asked for the hand of
my child. All, Mary, it does seem that
God has kept your hand till now that it
might be the means of lifting your old
father up from ruin. You Save even re-
jected suitors whom I have favored; but
I do not think you have rejected a better
man than Mr.. Smith"
All, that old man had forgotten one
He had forgotten bright haired youth
who once laid his heart az Mary's feet.
But that was long years ago, and his
mind went not back so far. -.
sNow, what shall I tell Mr. Smith 2"
"My heart is all broken and tori" !" she
said gazing sadly into her fathers faces
''but my hand is free. Tell Mr.. Smith
this Tell him I will give him my hand
to save my father, and forget not to tell
him that my heart is not in Ghe trade, for
1 would not deceive him."
"Oh, you will love him, Mary. he
has promised that you shall :hayesaM you
can ask for, and i know he will be kind"
"I have said that will marry him."
the fair maiden returned, "and 80 you
may tell him. But you will only cruelty
deceive him did {yon tellhim more. Tell
him my father has cared for and protect
ed me through weary life, ind that now
I am ready to save father from ruin.
Tell him this, and then, ,ha, shall know
ALL" Il u f,Sss Z
II shall tell him to Come q morrow
evening, for so he wishes. Oh, ] know
you will be happy. He will make you
one of the best husbands"
"He is rich, very rich.'
sIn what, my fatherw al
The old man started at these words,
for they were spoken very strangely.
Gin the goods of this world, and in-inz
-honor and dsmanhood, 2 he replied y
= Mary did not do it to worry her father.
She knew that his soul was already tor
tured by misfortune and commercial ca
lamity, and she would not make her sac
rifce for him ungrateful by casting a
shade of reproach upon him.
Ere long old Andrew Goldwait allowed
his feelings to run in more pleasing
channel. The ruin which had stared
him in the face was to be averted, and in
his soul he believed his child would not
be one whit worse off for the transaction.
He knew Mr.. Smith to be a kind and
honorable man. He fancied, too, that
he could look into aud read his daughters
heart. He thought she wept and sor-
rowed fordthe mother and brother and
sister. and resolved not TO marry. But
hefattered himself that at the end of the
first year Of married Life he should find
her happy wife ss 55s 81
On the following evening Mary again
sat Shy the crate in The drawing room.
She was alone now, and her lace was
more pale than usual.
But she was calm calm as the
marble statue that stood near her.
The outer door -.was opened, and she
heard the tread ofheavy feet in the hall.
Then the inner door swung back, and her
father entered. She looked up and saw
another man-it was he to whom she had
promised her hand; the man whose
money was to save her parent.
Mr.. Goldwait introduced Mr.. Smith.
Mary arose and extended her hand. It
was cold, but it did not tremble. She
looked up into his face, and she saw q
man OF medium height, with high
brow, dark eyes, and neatly trimmed
beard. He greeted her politely, and
took seat.
Some half an hour was spent in con-
q Al