ms ail-law. 1,31,. {Lisa} 4‘ OURNAL, voice deadened by- the thick walls, until it was a more inarticulate moan when it reach- ed him. He was going on; What could she do? what should she do, with salvation so near and yet so far? Frantically she thrust out her hand and waved it; and then, when Arch sprung from the sleigh, she grew giddy from the excitement, reeled, and fell. Ever alive to the idea that she whom he sought was somewhere near him, Archer, when he caught a momentary glimpse of a hand thrust from the hole, felt a wild thrill of hope that it, perchance, might be Flor- ence; and yet, as he plunged through the snow, he could not but think how foolish was such a thought, for, of course, Dor- iancpe would find a gilded prison for his ir . ~ ' He was on his way then to the city, and it being a better road for sleighing, and de~ airing to bring back several parcels for his mother, he had gone in the sleigh instead of the train. He had ample time, however, to stop a moment and indulge the wild curi- osity in his soul. - s r The door was moveless; but, all of the shutters being fastened on the outside with huge iron bolts, ingress was a matter of comparative ease. He leaped through one of the windows, and approached the prostrate figure ; a pang of disappointment, at which he was vexed, thrilled his breast when he saw the dirty room, the shabbily-attired negro girl, with unkempt, kinky hair, lying on the floor. He touched her, spoke to her, looked at her, and was about to turn away, when his better nature told him the person was suf— fering, in seme way or other, else why the Signal evidently of distress—and this deep, deatlilike faint? Then, with a courage and nobility few men possess, he determined to take her in his sleigh to the nearest house, wherever it might be, or whosesoever it was, for atten- tion. , With Arch Chessom, to will was to do. He lifted the figure in his arms, and laid her on the floor of the sleigh, with a robe over and under her. If he had known, if he had but heard her voice as Palmer had done! but Fate was not to be appeased just then; the wicked was “ to flourish as a green bay tree” yet longer before the inevitable downfall came. 80 he drove on, watching for a house. It was not twenty minutes’ gallop before the forbidding walls of the Haunted House loomed up. - He turned his horses’ heads up the ave- nue, and drove round to the side entrance. Mary came to the door. “ It is a half—frozen colored girl I picked up. 9You can warm her and feed her, can’t you ~." - He gave her a bill, and Mary turned dowu the buffalo-robe. “ Bress my stars! of it ain’t dat Ida !” “ I am glad you know her. Take her in with you; and give Mr. Chessom’s compli- ments to the master of the house, whom I have not the pleasure of knowing.” He drove off, while Mary, her wrinkled, red face all smiles, carried poor, uncon- scious Florence in, and laid her down on the kitchen lounge. ' “ It’s a pity missus hab gone! but I’ll keep her anyhow! Maybe de boss giv’ me sumthin’.” ‘ ' CHAPTER XIII. THE LOST BIRD. FIRED with rage, Ellis Dorrance had re- turned to Beechcrest, bewailing his luck, and cursing the hour he had let Florence’s pretty face lead him on. What if it had been planned years ago, when Florence was a child, that he was to be her husband? What if it was true, that unless she became his wife, if certain affairs became known, he was liable to imprison- ment ? ’ He had been goaded into it first by self~ ishness; then when he began to admire Flor— ence’s pretty face, and had seen her evident dislike for him, his pride and willfulness had led him on and on—-—to this! Away down in his heart he disliked Isa- bel Lefevre; and only to his own thoughts did he whisper he truly loved Gussie Pal-_ liservbright, winsome Gussie Palliser, whom he loved now better than before. He had plenty of time to think of all these things as he walked rapidly toward the village; and among them was the re- solve to seek a reconciliation with Gussie. He knew she was of a jealous, passionate disposition, and that he must be wary if he .wan ted to succeed. How to effect this was a question of doubt; only a clean confession, and a hum- ble apology would serve her. Would she see him? He doubted it, and then, as- he entered his room, he bethought him that Gussie must be on her visit to the Chessoms about now; there she would learn that Archer Chessoui really loved Florence, and so she might be inclined to forgive him what he intended to explain plausibly. . But how communicate with her ? Ches- som’s Pride was not open to him; a per- sonal interview, even if granted, would be too hasty, too fiery. He would write, then; there was the beautiful white carrier-pigeon, in the cage he had placed it. Its wing was nearly healed : it would fly straight to Chessom 5 Pride; there was a romance about such a messenger that Gus- sie could not withstand. a He rung the bell for Palmer to ascertain whether or not Gussie had gone to Ches- som‘s Pride ; but Palmer was not within call, and. not until an hour and a half later did he return, “ from a visit to his aunt.” He was strangely jubilant, but Dorrance did not observe t. ' “ Jim, that Chessom’s been too much for us ! he’s spirited her away from the Haunted House.” ‘ Palmer opened his eyes in the most amazed manner. » , “ No! Mr. Dorrance, I can’t believe it.” “And that Italienne is as bad as he is," went on.Dorrance. “ She ri ged her up a la mutated, so she says, never dreaming that Chessom was going to liberate her! so if you come across any such——” He paused significant! . ‘ “ I understand: only, It“. Dorrance, I am about to change my business. I am sorry tp leave your employ, but I think it best to leave America, and join my relatives in England.” f A look of dismay shadowed Dorrance’s - ace. “ I don’t see how I can spare you, Palmer. You’ve been faithful—” V “ And'I’ll ever kee secret 'what I knew. . Depend on that, Mr. orrance. chair, wondering how to “ If you could do me one more favor, Jim ?” _“ Anything in my power that can be done before to—morrow at six. I shall leave Beeclicrest then forever.” Dorrance unfolded a roll of notes. “ Here is what is due you. Now, Jim, find out whether Miss Palliser is at Lake- view or Chessom’s Pride.” When Palmer had said good-night, or good-morning rather,for it was near three o’clock, Dorrance wrote a letter to Gussie; a letter that such a. man knew so well how to write, one that in the fervor of its earn- estness, intensity of passion, tenderly re- gretful apologies,was well calculated to ap- peal to the heart, however estranged, of the woman who had once loved him. The gray shades of daydawn were loom« ing up among the faint shining stars, when Dorrance sealed and directed the envelope, to Miss Gussie Palliser, Chessom’s Pride. Early that forenoon, Palmer brought the desired information that Gussie had gone to Chessom’s Pride that morning, and that Arch Chessom had gone to New York for a day or so, probably longer, to seek ad- ditional aid in finding Florence. “ So you see Mr. Chessom is as ignorant of her whereabouts as you are, Mr. Dor- rance.” Ellis was surprised beyond measure, and he frowned darkly. “ Then it is the work of that Jezebel! I’ll dispatch this at once, and go to the Haunted House. If there is anything in my power to do toward extorting a confession, v it shall be done.” The rays of the sun were streaming athwart the window, when Ellis threw it open to admit the fresh, pure air. On the sill, still in’ its cage, perched the carrier-dove, whiter than the snow itself, its gentle eyes beamingbrightly among the pure plumage. _ The same blue ribbon Florence Arbuth- not had tied to its slender neck, still hung there, and to it Ellis Dorrance attached the letter. . He softly caressed the downy white feathers, as he held it in his hand, the missive on which so much depended swing- ing from his throat. _, . ~ “Amazing stupidity! as if the fact of this dove returning to‘ Chessom’s Pride, bearing a letter from me, will, not at once reveal my agency in the Arbuthnot affair ! Fool that I am! Ah, furies and—" Well might he exclaim in that sharp tone, for the bird had flown frOm his grasp, and. was soaring up into the clear, cold air. An expression. of impotent rage over- sprbad his fame, and he reached frantically after it. ' “ Curses alight on my doltish foolishness ! The Fates or the Furies are in league with that bird, audit is'a sign I am to be thwart— ed in the end.” _ . I t Then, afterga moment’s gaze at the white speck floating up, off and away, he dashed the window down "and struck his clenched fist on the table. 3 _ . “ Thwarted! no! not if I wade through blood to victory. And now, for Isabel l” CHAPTER xiv. LOST. ‘ For several hours Florence Arbuthnot lay in a succession of fainting-spells; and it was not until toward noon that she be- came aware of her condition and where abouts. She remembered how she had hailed Arch as he had passed by; she recol- lected the dizziness and illness she had ex- perienced; after that all was a blank until she saw Mary’s face bending over her. She essayed to rise, but discovered she was very much prostrated. “ Where’s Mr. Chessom? where’s the gentleman who got out of the sleigh at that» cabin ?” Her sharp, eager voice, her face all aglow with feverish earnestness, meta de- cided cooling from Mary. “ Oh, he’s gone, long ago. He left him compelliments fur dc mas’er, and gi’ me a ten-dollar greenback to fotch ye around all squar’, honey.” “He brought me here, then? and left me with you ‘2 Oh-h'h-h, I comprehend! he didn’t know me in this disguise! 0h, Ma- ry! Mary! you are a woman! you have a woman’s heart! Do help me get this off, and show me the way home! The gentle- man will give you ten times that money, if you will.” Mary folded and unfolded the precious money thoughtfully. “ Dunno’ what Miss Is’bel’d say to (let! Ye see she’s gone down into dc village to see a pusson, and, jest’s like’s not she’ll take anotion to trabbel on to Europy afore I see hide or hair 0’ her ag’in. She’s so cur’us, Miss Is’bel is, no countin’ on her at all.” ' “ But you know I’m White, ‘don’t you? for you saw me; you believe I am Miss Ar- buthnot, don’t you?” ' Mary laughed; not ill—naturedly, Florence’s nervous question. “ To be sure I does, ’causc, you see, Miss Is’bel she tells me jist afore she went.” Florence caught her arm tightly. “ Give me water, then, to wash this nasty stuff off; get me in clothes again. Mary, and you shall keep t e jewelry. Mr. Ches- som will reward you besides.” I “ Ef I thought Miss Is’bei ’d stay at am —-" “She will, I know! Besides, Mary, if she should come in, I’ll hide anywhere you tell me! Please, dear, kind Mary !” “S’pose now, first off, you know, you tell me who tooked you off last night ?” There was a little gleam in the negress’ e es. * y“ Indeed I’ll tell you any thin, ! It was that wicked Mr. almer, that drives Mr. Dorrance’s carriage; he said he had come from Mr. Chessom, the gentleman who brought me here; So I was glad enough to escape. But be deceived me; and oh, Mary, you never can know all I have en- dured in' one little week! If Mr. Chessom, in the goodness of his heart, had not res- cued me, I don’t knowwhat would have happened! Now you’ll wash mood, and let me have my dress, won’t you f” She smiled brightly into the old woman’s face, that relaxed at its sweet winsomeness despite the homely brown skin. “Well, well, I dunno as it ken hurt any- body. _ Only, if Miss Is’bel comes—J “Yes, yes, I know! Now for soap and hot water.” i A lost , hard. hour’s work was necessary before lorence was herself again; then she attired herself, in a gray dress, with its lace ruffles, her own pretty, gracefulsclf; prettier, if possible, with her short hair curling in loose tendrils all over her head, and on her wliiteforehead. She sat down in Isabel’s cushioned arm» _ get- ,home. To walk was simply impossible; the unshovel- s I. - cd snow lay knee-deep along the road, and the day was wind and intensely cold. She fully recognize the folly of attempt- ing it. Carriages seldom passed that way; but she determined that the very first should be signaled; unless she could prevail upon Mary to go to the village and procure aid. This, however, she found utterly impos- sible to do; Mary would not stir from the house until Miss Is’bel came or sent; be- sides, knowing, as she did, with her natural shrewdness, Dorrance’s affair with Flor- ence, she was resolved to detain the girl there until he or Isabel came. It was not for long; just as the sun was I, going down, Ellis Dorrance, came up to the door, with a paper in his hand. “ It’s from Miss Isabel, Mary; I was coming to see her when the telegraph mes- senger gave me this for you. She will not condescend to notifyme of her comings and goings.” ' It was a telegram telling Mary to stay at the Haunted House as long as she wished; after to return to the old place; she (Isabel); would sail for England the next day, per Albion, for an indefinite time. Isabel had not given her reasons for the sudden step; and, as it removes her from our story, we will explain. She had gone to Lakeview to tell Gussie Palliser of Florence’s sudden disappearance ; had learned that Gussie was visiting, for a time, at Chessom’s Pride. Thus disappointed of communicating with Gussie, although she left a sealed note marked “private,” she had gone by train‘ to New York; partly on business of her own; partly from a conviction that Dor» rance had taken Florence secretly away, and that they might possibly propose a tour to England. She resolved to examine the lists of en- tered passengers on several leading steaiii-' ships; to her anger and wrath, she found, on one the name—“ Mr. James Palmer and lady.” Knowing Palmer to be in the secret em- pl0y of Dorrance, she instantly supposed Florence to be the “lady,” and her own faithless lover the gentleman who had bor— rowed his calet dc chambre’s name. W'ith exultant triumph she secured a state—room ;_ registered an assumed name; made a few necossarily hasty preparations, and went aboard the Albion; determined to keep closely to her state-room until they were fairly at sea; and then confront him with the'truth she knew he feared and dreaded; the truth she had sworn never to reveal, but which now, she justly decided, was due herself to tell. ‘ She telegraphed the last thing before she went on board. It is needless to state her vexation, disappointment, or Chagrin, to learn, when miles and miles away, that she was thwarted! A fortnight later, and the news rung through both continents: the Albion was burned at sea, and not a soul left to tell the story! Florence heard Dorrance’s voice in the other room, which he had entered before Mary could give the warning she would have done, had not the surprise of the tele— gram driven all thoughts of Florence from her mind. .- Hcr first impulse was to fly anywhere-— anywhere from his hated presence; she: obeyed that sudden“ intention, and, with wild eyes,“sprungztOWard the door just as a large, white hand with a costly ring gleam. ing on its finger, arrested her flight. “Can it be possible? Is it really true I am vouchsafed this great pleasure? Flor- ence, come back.” She turned on him a ing look. “Mr. Dorrance, have I not been perse- cuted enou h ?" “ When left you here, Florence, I sol- emnly assure you I had no idea of what was to befall you before we met again.- What intervened between that night and? this I know nothing ‘of, except it was the work of a jealous woman.” Florence had never seen him so thorough- lyin earnest: and yet she was afraid to trust him. “ Where you have been, I know not ;' will you tell me ‘3” v “ I do not know myself; I only know the name of the man who took me in a carriage and locked me in a dreary, lonely cabin. I. think you know him, Mr. Dorrance, for ‘ birds of a feather flock together.’ His- name is Palmer.” Dorrance sprung from the chair, an oath on his lips. “ The rascal! the villainous liar ! So that is why he wished to leave my proud, yet beseech-' service to-day, is it? Leaves Beechcrest for, England at six to-night, hey ‘3” He paced to and fro in the long ,roOm,’ with a countenance expressive of the rage in his heart. “ It seems I am not the only one who ad- mires your pretty face. Florence, how did you escape from the cabin ?” Florence raised her head liaughtily. “ I prefer not to talk further on the sub- ject, Mr. Dorrance. I have only to ask that you. will take me home at once.” A loud, incredible laugh answered her. “ That is an admirable piece of efi‘rontery! Do you think I shall relinquish my prize as soon as I have regained it ‘1’” She paled a little, but her answer was firm and undaunted. . “ Then I shall go myself. Mr. Dorrance, I tell you there will be no use of endeavor- iug to persuade me to be your wife; an im- prisonment of twenty years would not change my mind. To save trouble, you may as well let me go first as last.” Dorrance gazed admirineg at her flushed, eager face, with its red, parted lips, and duskily flashing eyes. He waited several minutes in respectful silence, and Florence thought he was about to relent, when her said: “ Upon my word, Florence, you are pret- tier than ever with your hair short!” Florence turned, sadly, away to the win- dow, her lips quivering. Dorrance follow- ed her. r “ Florence, I will tell you what I am go- ing to do. This-house shall be your home ; Mary shall be your servant; I will be lord and slave; and you will be mistress. Florence, it will necessarily be a prison-h case because you will not accede to my wishes. 80 content ourself, Florence, as best you can. I wil bring you books and music, clothes and—3’ ' She confronted him with her bright, flashing eyes. 3 “How dare you? How dare you it" and ‘ she stamped her foot, angrily. “ To injury you add insult! Not anarticle will I touch from your hands, unless it be food to keep me in strength to defy you ! Appoint me .myiprison-cell; Ellis Dorrance, and .I will go to it. I will live in it and die in it, But, ‘ with the Sweet consciousness that I will not be bought. or coerced by such a villain as you! These are my terms.” . A little, iinpertinent laugh came tantaliz- ingly from his lips. . “ Captives do not dictate terms, you know.” . Then he called to Mary to spread supper for them, and Florence, fearing lest he might drug her victuals, was glad to partake of the same food he ate. - « Gradually the dusk drew on, and after lamps had been lighted, Dorrance drew an (Easy-chair and the light oval table nearer the re. He took the afternoon’s paper from his overcoat-pocket, and ensconced himself co- zily in the genial warmth and light to read. Florence drew frigid! back in the shadowy corner, her prou , pale face gleam- ing in the darkness like some rare marble statue; her eyes, covered by the long, drooping lashes, filled with the proud, in- dignant tears she would not suffer to fall. Mary was at work in her kitchen; the windows and doors were fast closed and lock- cd, and Florence thought how inexpressibly lonely and still it was. She wondered if Arch would go back home by the same route, or had he already gone, and left her behind to grope about in the awful darkness that had come upon her ? Of Mr. and Mrs. Arbuthuot she scarce thought at all, and yet she could not help wondering how they regarded her absence ; if they knew how it had happened, and were seeking for her. Dear Arch ! how disfigured she must have been that his loving eyes did not re- cognize her; she knew her voice would have done what her altered face could not. All the horrors of the past night came vividly before her, and she was forcod to acknowledge that it was better as it was; for there was creature comfort here, at the Haunted HoriSe, and a woman besides her- self. Thcn a sudden imperious summons made her spring from her chair, part in alarm, more in wild hope that rescue had come. Dorrance dashed down the paper, and wheeled sharply around, his face pale with an awful fear that Florence‘s friends were on his track. Then, when Mary had opened the door, Jim Palmer Sprung in ! And the door closed again. CHAPTER XV. snowme HIS TEETH. IT was with feelings of inexpressible ex- ultation that Jim Palmer made his prepara— tions before going after Florence at the cabin. He had been paid up by Dorrance, and with his money he had gone to New York, secured passage in the Albion, purchased an elegant outfit of clothing for Florence, and then hired a coach and horses. Himself attired in garments of the finest material and best maker, he had gone alone to the place in which he had left her.- Tying his horses, he had hurried to the door, marveling at the want of light gleam- - ing between the chinks. He unbolted the window nearest the back of the cabin, not noticing the front one that Arch Chessom had unfasteued; jump- ed through, and then struck alight. The fire had burned out hours before, and a chill shiver seized him as he strode to the mid le of the room. A second’s surveillance betrayed the fact that Florence had escaped! Chagrined and enraged, he sat down a moment to collect his thoughts. ‘ “ It was not Dorrance’s work,” he reason- ed, “ because Dorrance had been at home nearly all day with him. It was Isabel’s, that black-haired witch at the Haunted House !” No sooner had he arriVed at that conclu- sion than he returned to the carriage, turn- ed his horscs’ heads toward the Haunted House, and galloped on. Wild thoughts were afloat in his brain as he rattled along; he would compel Isabel to give Florence up, under pain of reveal— ing her criminality in transforming Florence from white to black. He had arranged the mode of word at- a little distance from the house, he con— cl uded to act strongly on the offensive from the first. Thus he strode to the door, and knocked decidedly. To his utter surprise, he confronted Ellis Dorrance, when he had so surely hoped to meet Isabel Lefevre. For a moment he was confounded ; then, recollecting that Dorrance did not know of his escapade with Florence Arbuthnot, be resolved to put a bold face on, and manu- facture the most plausible excuse he could, for his sudden, evidently unwonted appear- ance. . On the other side, Dorrance, who was in- finitely relieved when he saw who the in— truder was, having feared so much more, determined at once to make known to Palmer his acquaintance with his actions. Palmer did not observe Florence, who had shrinkingly retired to the most dark, distant corner. ' 7 ‘ “Well, you are not off for England, I see ?”- Dorrance’s tone was full of cutting irony, that only a knowledge of the secret of the other could give. “ Not yet; I forgot an important bit of news I heard this afternoon, and drove up to tell you, since I did not find you at your boarding-house. Miss Palliser has returned from Chessom’s Pride, and-” A hot flush came to Dorrance’s cheeks; it was not agreeable to him that Florence should hear what was probably coming; so be interrupted Palmer. “ Yes, exactly. By the way, Jim, where were you last night about eleven o’clock]? from then on until after two ?” He stared wrathfullyvat Palmer, who re- turned it with interest. “ I do not know that I am in duty bound to answer any such questions.” 2 ' “ When you take it upon yourself to in- terfere in my private arrangements, and turn traitor to the one you pretend to serve, I think I have the right to demand an an- swer from you.” Palmer knew then that, by some 'myste- rious agency, Dorrance knew his Villainy; and he instantly resolved to fight for every inch of ground. ‘ . Dorrance’s face grew darker and stormier, then he burst forth, in a torrent of passion: “ Why did you assist Florence Arbutlinot to escape from this house? Why did you Stony Road ? Why (lid you leave her there, a guarded prisoner?” tack, and when he sprung from the carriage, convey her to that lonely cabin on the, His tones were intensely bitter. 'Palmer looked coolly at him, his light gray eyes almost white in their glare. “ For the same reason you took her from her home several nights ago.” A hoarse, sarcastic laugh came from Dor- rance. “Good! then you perhaps imagined the young lady was in love with you?” “Perhaps so; at any rate, I was in love with her.” “ You dare to aspire to her hand! Jim Palmer—” 1 Palmer smiled with supreme indifference. “Do you know who I am?” he asked, carelessly. . “I ought to, after being your master for years and years.” “Noininally, yes; but, after all, Dor- rance, it is I whom am master. I could en- lighten your bewildered understanding on several subjects that have been transpiring tlliese’last ten or fifteen years; regarding t e——’ A vague fear seized Dorrance;‘besides, there was Florence sitting in that dusky corner, listening to every word. “That will do, Palmer. You may be excused from the premises now.” It was hardly the language to use to a man like Jim Palmer, and Dorrance saw it too late, for Palmer turned sharply on him. “ You excuse me, you black - hearted knave? Don’t attempt to insult me, or it will be worse for you; besides, when you make a deadly enemy of the man who knows your secrets, all about the secrets of those you serve, it is apt to prove a bad move} So be careful, Dorrance, for your own sake.” His patronizing air maddened Dorrance. “ I defy you and your secrets! Begone, or I’ll assist you !” He drew a pistol from his pocket, and pointed it at Palmer, who sneered at it. “ I confess that’s not pleasant. You’re a capital shot, I know, and I value my life quite too much to stand fora target. I’ll re- tire, Ellis Dorrance, but mark these words. When you least expect or desire it, I will confront you with those secrets you sneer at; then, and not till then, will you know who I am.” - (To be continued— Commenced in No. 128.) Between Two Fires. BY N. E. BODY. READER, have you ever been in a “ Tex- an forest?” No. What I am about to tell happened some years ago in northern Texas. It was in the very thickest forest imagin— able, and to make it more sublime, a storm was brewing. It is one of the grandest sights—0r I might have said feelings—to be in a dense southern forest before a storm. The waters are still—without a ripple: the brook, as if it partook of the general calm, has ceased its noisy bubble; the leaves on the trees hang as if dead; those leaves which, when the sun shone on them, were of the gaudiest colors, are now black as mid- night. The very insccts seem as if dead. The decayed pieces of wood on the ground look like writhing serpents, under the effect of an overawed imagination. During one of these scenes a man, well- formed, tall and handsome, dressed in the usual style, and mounted on a magnificent gray horse, was riding rapidly through the forest, as if to escape the coming storm. Little did he think that he was closely followed by two of the most deadly Texan foes—the Comanche and the Choctaw. Two Indians belonging to the above- named tribes were following him from dif- ferent directions, so intent on their chase as not to be aware of the proximity of the other. Suddenly the Texan’s horse began to limp, and then stopped altogether, between two large bushes. Now was the time for the Indians; and, as if by instinct, they both hid behind a bush—one on either side of the imperiled Texan, yet neither aware of the presence of the other. But this was not all he had to fear. Above was an enemy almost as bad, if not worse, than either of the Indians: a huge wildcat, couching for a spring. The Texan had leap- ed from his horse to see the cause of his sudden halt, and was extracting a piece of wood which had lodged in the animal’s foot, when the wildcat, uttering a fearful cry, leaped upon the back of the endangered white.‘ Almost the same instant two rifles cracked, both aimed at the white, but nei- ther hit their mark; for when the wildcat leaped on the back of the Texan, the force sent him sprawling on the ground. He ‘quickly arose, and not having time to use pistol or knife, he seized the fierce animal by the hind legs and dashed its brains out on the trunk of a giant oak. It was a feat that few could perform. No sooner had he dispatched the brute than he screened his body behind a tree. There he remained for about an hour, with all his senses on the alert. Then not hear- ing any thing, be carefully went from be- hind the tree to reconnoiter. And this is what he found. In one bush an Indian—a Comanche, with a bullet in his brain—in the other a Choctaw Indian, with a bullet in his heart. He immediately divined what was the cause of their death. They had both fired at the same moment at him, but by the fall occasioned by the leap of the wildcat, they had missed him, and the missiles had taken fatal effect 'on one another. . He carefully skinned the dead Wildcat, and breathing a short prayer of thanks, he rode on. Just then the storm broke in all its fury, but he was used to it, and was not much inconvenienced by it. Whenever he sliowed'the wildcat skin he told this story, and said that the animal’s leap had rescued him from“between two fires." a?“ THE island of Juan Fernandez has been purchased by an enterprising German, who has exported thither a considerable colony of his countrymen, and supplied them with suitable implements of agricul- ture. The popular notion of the island, de~ rived from Robinson Crusoe, is.a ver in- correct one. Juan Fernandez is a ong, rocky island, about as large as Staten Island, lying four hundred miles off Valparaiso, on the coast of Chili. If things have not de- teriorated since Selkirk’s time, the German colonists will have pleasant quarters~a cli- mate so good that the trees and grass are verdant all the year round, and a soil so fertile that everything thrives luxuriantly.