ammo“ .. mu“, \' <..i M . ."s. .. a...“ .. ...,........ or“. w- ith“ . v a... ._ «i... MAN...” -4.“ < .nax »L~.1L~K=w.- " aura-awn. .4“ .. - n- -. 3-: 'r‘" t"~.1& 4:74:15?“ ,_.-.. «Name . this very morning to inquire for you, as he could not find you at the rooms where you have been staying.” “ Auntie, who was it?” “ And who looked so pale and sad, and spoke so tenderly of you, and said they had all miss- ed you so much, and seemed almost heart- broken; for his voice faltered, and the tears stood in his eyes while he was speaking.” Elodie covered her face with her hands. “That was Wyndham!” she sobbed. “Here is his card,” said the dame, and she laid it on the stand before her guest. “ He was a real handsome man, and looked like a thoroughbred gentleman. He said his mother had grieved after you—” “Auntie Brill!” exclaimed the girl, sudden- ly, dashing the tears from her eyes, “if you say the word, I will go back to my guardian, ask his pardon, and give up musicaltogether!” “Give up music, and after yo i have made yourself famous, and can make a fortune if you go on!” cried Mrs. Brill. “It would be hard indeed! so much happier at home!” “ No, you must not draw back,” decided the injudicious adviser. “You must 'cain a for: tune, and then you may come back " “ Do you think he is unhappy on my ac- count?” “ Oh, no! not more so than is natural at first. I should not have told you. He will soon get over it.” “And care no more about me? you mean?” “ Not at all. He will become proud of your talents, when you have established yourself; and will admire you a great deal more than when you were almost a child—bound to obey him—” “Oh, that indeed—” “ And when you have made plenty of money, and are independent of him, then he will re- spect you the more.” "Yes, that will be so!” cried the girl, her face kindling; “and his proud sister will be _ glad to have my acquaintance, when I have a Bot, oh, I was Is that what - . name in the world, and a fortune of my own.” . “True, my dear; and when you are the equal of that musical husband of hers—whom I have heard you tell about. She would have nothing to do with him till he came from Eu- rope, and had wealth of his own earning, and was run after by all the fashionables of the cit .” {And could I be ever so much sought after I for my music?” asked Elodie. “How long first, do you think, auntie?” “ That depends on how hard you study. You might do it in one season.” “I wish I could! That would satisfy me. I would not care to go on. I would have a handsome house and gardens out of town, and auntie Brill should live with me, and I would give musical receptions, and have all the emi— nent foreign artists, and have a brilliant circle of society; and repay Mr. Blount for his good- ness to me. I always meant to do that!” Sympathetic exclamations, and warm em— braces, answered the_young artist’s dream of L a golden future. They went on building their airy castles till the shadows began to gatherin the corners; and then Elodie started up, and said she must return. Mrs. Brill begged only for one song before they parted. She led the way to the room where stood the piano belonging to the I Italian. He was not in, she said; and so the girl yielded to her ‘ A entreaties for one song afteranother, not heed- ing the deepening night. ‘ :. A storm of applause at the end of one of the - : songs apprised them of the presence of the owner of the piano. ‘ H Elodie started up and hurried out .of the room. But she was caught, as she pasSed out of the door, by her admirer,.who had just un» “ derstood that she was going to leave the city. , Before the girl could shake henself free, and in the presence of Mrs. Brill, the Italian had, ‘ poured out his tale of love. He implored her to stay,.to accept his proffered hand, to join -. him in his life work. The broken English in . which he uttered his ardent protestations _ made them ludicrous enough; and it, was ., struggling witha violent inclination to laugh _ that the girl silenced him by convincing him that she could give him no ground of bfope. ‘ Enrico beggel at least that he might see her home; but this she refused. She would not be seen in his company. Mrs. Brill should go ‘ with her, if it was too late to go alone. . , “But you shall not escapeme,” persisted the, rejected lover. “I will join Signor ' ‘s troupe. I will sing with the signorina; I will subdue her hard heart; I will.” “If you join the troupe, I will leave it!” cried the indignant girl. “ You will gain nothing, sir, by persecuting me!” “Per Bacco! ‘persecute,”’ repeated the despairing young man. “E una Medea—- crudele—empia! Ohi me I” And, striking his foreheadiwith his open palm, he dashed into his room, while the girl and the dame hastily descended the stairs. The carriage had been dismissed, but anoth- er was presently called, and the two ladies were driven to the A House. As they passed around a corner, the vehicle was stop- ped for a moment by a throng of carriages in front of a house brilliantly lighted u , with a canopy and carpet from the steps to t estreet. A lady was just alighting, in party dress, at- tended by a young gentleman. Her “cloud " had fallen back from her head, and a bright face, with sparkling black eyes and clustering raven ringlets, was in full view for a moment. “It is Ruhama Seaforth,” exclaimed Elodie, shrinking back as far as she could behind the ample form of her companion. “ Who is that with her? Can it be my guardian?” ' “Drive on!” called out dame Brill to the man on the box. V ' He could not; for the carriages blocked up his way. Ruhama’s companion turned at. the dame‘s voice, and Elodie saw that it was not Wyndham. It was a great relief to her, but ' she still trembled violently and leaned against Mrs. Brill’s shoulder. ' ' Then she remembered Ruhama’s marriage, and departure for,Europe, and noticed that the gentleman with her was not her husband. They drove on without further interruption to the hotel. Leona had been half wild with’ anxiety, and welcomed her young charge with effusion. L . Auntie Brill was persuaded to take supper _, with them—for dinner;had long been over; before she took leave, and was. driven to her .‘ own house. ' (To be continued—commenced in No. 281.) A CHICKEN died in Auburn, Illinois. , It be— longed to Mr. Ney or Mr. Lochridge, whose , yards adjoined, but to which could not be de- termined. They quarreled about it, and toss- " ed the carcass back and forth to.each other over the intervening fence. Then Ney shot at Lochridge without hitting him. Then Lochridge seized a club and chased Ney. In the fight that ensued the revolver and the club were both used freely, and Ney was killed. bimbofi as if he had been a baby. charge?" BACHELOR VS. BENEDICT. BY 8. M. FRAZIER. I‘m still a bachelor, living alone, Cook my own grub and wash my own clothes; I've no friends—no foes; hopes—fears—I have none— Neither cares to disturb my repose. My potatoes I roast on the ashes, M Johnny-cake is baked on a board. M light from a pine-knot flashes— y demiiohn, a huge yellow gourd. M companions? Oh, yes, I have still some, Tom, cat—Bull, dog—and Pug, the monkey; My music is drawn from an old base-drum, And timed by the bray of the donkey. M household furniture cannot be beat: My bed, 'tis a pile of new clover, ‘Round my pillow the crickets chirp so sweet, But donkey will eat off the cover! Labor? Oh, yes, I‘ve work plenty to do! Grasshopper, ant, musketo and flea, Reduce to a science scratching, you know, Whate‘er pretense to neutrality. One-half 0‘ creation lives upon t'other, But all on me are ready to prey; There‘s only one thing that gives me no bother—— Graybacks—no, greenbacks, rather say. But, why don’t I change my single estate? Ah, oft have I endeavored, forsooth! But women have grown so self-ish of late, ’My “other half " I fear is a myth. For a lemon once squeezed who would incline? A wife that has been another‘s I scoff; [We not recovered that stray rib of mine— What other dog carried it 01!? i III I! I! I? U o Advertise? Thank you: I‘ll act on the hint; And quickly I journeyed to town. Did so—and straightway a proffer then came From every s-old benedict ‘round. Writes one: " Friend Jocund, yo rask for a wife: Now whose wife, dear sir, woul you choose? I have 'one that I could spare for a while, But she’ll wear the breaches and shoes." Again: “ In my wife there's much to admire, But then, sir, I‘ve no objection— She‘s good as a bellows to fan a fire, And keeps a hot-house to perfection.“ Another—another. All read the same; But my e as grow dim with my tears; Oh, man! 6h, woman! which one is to blame For the broils that wear out thy years? Man and wife," it long has been said, “ are 'one:“ Which is the one 'tls hard to decide; But rough family jars whenever he un , Fell manhood’s coast and woman s pride. 1 Life s philosophy is~conscience obe ! But conscience oft bows to the wil ; A benedict‘s life is good in its way, But, I’ll remain a bachelor still! Victoria; THE HEIRESS 0P , CASTLE CLIPPE. BY MRS. MAY AGNES FLEMING, AUTHOR or “THE DARK sncan'r,” “AWFUL MYSTERY,” “rm: RIVAL sacrum-as,” mo. CHAPTER XXVIII. MAISON nu D'EUIL. MURDERED! there could be no, doubt of it— this, then, was where the bridegroom was. While they had been accusing him in their thoughts, and vowing future vengeance, he had been lying here, assassinated by some unknown hand. The faces of all had whitened with her ror at the sight; but Colonel Shirley, whose stern calmness nothing seemed able to move, lifted his head an instant after, with a face that looked as if changed to stone. “A horrible murder has been done here! My boy,” turning to Joe, whose teeth were 'chattering in his head, “how and when did you discover this?” “It were just ‘now, sir,” replied Joe, keep- ing far from the body, and looking at it in in- tensest terror. “My lord and Mr. Chaniiing. they sent me up to‘ the castle a—looking for you, sir, and you wasn’t there- and I'was a-co'inin .baCk'to tell‘tliem, so ,IWas, down this w hwhich it’s a short cut to Lower Cutie; and as I got here, I saw a man stand- .ing'up and looking ‘down' on this here, which it‘were Mr. Tom Shirley, as I ,knowed the minute ‘I seen him. ‘Then, sir, he 'turned round, and‘when he saw me, he ran away; and then'I saw him lying there, all over blood; and I: got frightened ran away, too; arid then I met you; and that’s everything I know about it.” ' ‘ ’ ' ' “ Can Tom Shirley be the murderer?” asked the bishop, in a low, deep voice. “ Circumstances, at least, are strong enough againsthim to warrant his arrest," said Mr. Coanning. “As a magistrate, I feel it, my duty to go. in search of .him before he es- capes.” " ' He hurried away, as he. spoke; and the colonel. taking off his large military cleak, ‘spread it on the ground. ' "‘Help me to place the body on this,” he said, quietly; and, with the assistance of Mr. Sweet, the still bleeding form was laid upon it, and covered from the mocking sunlight in its folds. Then, at another motion from the colonel, the apothecary and the lawyer lifted it by the lower ends, while he himself took the head, and they s10wly turned with their dread— ful burden toward the house. Joefollowed at a respectful distance, still with an exces- sively scared and horrified visage. Mr. Charming had, meantime, been making an arrest. Getting over the ground with tre- mendous sweeps of limb, he had nearly reach- ed the house, thinking to call the servants to aid hinrin his search, when he espied a tall, é‘da’rk figure leaning against a tree, one arm thrown over a high branch, and the head, with all its dark curls, bare to the morning breeze, lying thereon. The magistrate went up and dropped his hand heavily on the shoulder of the drooping figure, and Tom Shirley lifted his face and looked at him. What a facel. What alchange in a few brief days! Usually it was red enough and bold enough; but now it was almost ghastly in its thinness and pal- lor. ' The face of the murdered man could scarcely have been more cerpse-like—the black hair hightening the effect, as it hung damp and disordered around it, and'the blackeyes looking unnaturally large ,and sunken. N oth- ing, Mr. Channing' thought, but remorse for some enacted crime could have wrought so vivid a changefbut then, perhaps, Mr. Chan— ning had never been in love—, at all events, so. crazily l0ve—and been jilted,,1ike poor Tom Shirley. “ ell I” said Tom, in a voice as hollow, and chan ed, and unnatural, as. his face. " “ ll r. Shirley, it' is my painful duty to ar- rest you.” . ,.,- . ,Tom sprung erect as ifome one had struck him. ‘ ' . “ Arrest me! What 'do you mean 3” f‘Mr. Shirley, I am very sorry; but duty must be fulfilled, and it is mine to make you my prisoner.” ' “Your prisoner, sir!” exclaimed Tom, in, something like his custOma'ry tone, shaking ' “ On' what “ On that of murdering your cousin, Leices: ,ter Cliife.” Tom steed perfectly still—stunned. A vol- ley of fierce words, that had been rising hotly to his lips, seemed to freeze there. His face turned dark-red, and then whiter than before, and the arm he had raised dropped powerless by his side. Whatever the emotion which recovered from the‘first shock of horror, 1 " “Mr. Shirley," said the magistrate, Speak» , Leicester come through, Walking very fast‘. '..'I prompted the display, the magistrate set it down to one cause, guilt; and again laid his hand firmly on the young man’s shbulder. “I regret it, Tom, but it must be done. I beg you will not offer any resistance, but will come with me peaceably to the house. Ah! there they go with the body now!” Tom compressed his lips and lifted up his head. “ I will go with you, Mr. Channing. It, matters very little what becomes of me one way or the other!” He raised his hat from the ground, to which it had fallen; and they walked on together, side by side. The body was home before them into the morning-room, and through that into a smaller one, used by Vivia as a studio. It was strewn with easels, blank canvas, busts, and lay figures; and on a low couch therein their burden was laid. The cloak was re- moved. The colonel sent one of the servants in search of the physician, who had remained all night in the house, sternly warning the rest not to let a word of the event reach the ears of Lady Agnes or the young ladies. Hurst brought in warm water and sponge, and the blood was washed off the dead face. ‘It was perfectly calm—~there was no distOrtion to mar its almost womanly beauty, or to show that he had suffered in the last struggle. The blue eyes were wide open in the cold glaze of death; and the bishop, bending down, had just closed them reverently, as the physician came in. The examination, that followed was brief. The blow had evidently been given by a thick club, and he had been struck but once—death following almost instantaneously. The deed, too, from the appearance of the wound, must have been committed some hours previously; for the blood on his clothes was thickly clot» ted and dry. In silence they left the studio, and gathered together in the morning-room The colonel had warned the servants to keep quiet; but who ever knew warnings to avail in such cases? Half a dozen gentlemen, the guests who had remained in the house the previous night, had been told, and were there already. The magistrate had taken a seat of authority, and prepared to hold a sort of inquest and in- vestigate the matter. The prisoner stood near a window, drawn up to his full hight, with folded arms, looking particularly proud, and especially scornful, guarded by Messrs. Sweet and Jones. The colonel took a seat, and mo- tioned the rest to follow his example; and Mr. Chanulng desired Hurst, keeping sentry at the door, to call in Joe. _ Joe, standing in the hall, telling his story over and over again to a curious crewd of sore vants, came in, looking scared as ever, and told his tale once'more, keeping to the same facts steadily, in spite’of any amount of cross-ques- tioning. When this first witness was dismiss- ed, the bishop turned to the prisoner. , “ Tom, what have you. to say to all this?” - “ Nothing, my lord.” “ Is what this boy says true? Did he really discover you by the body?” “He did.” - - ‘ “And why, if you are not guilty, should you fly at his approach ’1” “I did nothing of thesort. Joe makes a mistake there; for 13 :1er saw him at all.” “ And how do you account for your pre sence there?” _ , “Very simply, my lord. I chanced to be walking through. the grounds, and came to that particular spot. by mere accident.” ' “How long had you been‘ there‘When’v‘Joe discovered you?" - _ l‘ ‘J ‘j ‘ " ' “ I did not remain five minutes altogether. I saw and recognized'who it‘Was’; and when I turned and fled to give the ala‘, I I” " ' ' Mr. Charming leaned 'ov‘eil’and spoke in'a low voiCe to Colonel Shirleyi‘ ' "' ‘ ‘ “Some One told 'me,”when' here‘last' even? ing, that‘the prisoner has been absent'for sev-‘ eral days—is it true 3” . l. ., i “Yes.” -' " ' ing aloud, “you haye been absent for the :past‘ week—will you inform us where?” _ ', 3 " “ I have beeniabsent,” said Tom, coldly. “ I4 have been in Cliftdnlea.” ' ‘ " “ there?" . , “ At the Clier Arms.” , “Why were you' not at' cine? “ I decline answering that Question, sir.” ' “ Were you in the town IaSt night?” ‘ _‘ “ No, sir; I was on the grounds.” ' , Everybody icoked. at‘ ', each "other ,blankly.) Tom stood up haughty and defiant, evidently‘ perfectly reckless what 'he admitted: V ’ “ It is ivery strange,” said Mr. Channing, slowly, f‘ that you Should have been there, in- stead of‘ at the house hereI—your proper‘p'lac'e. ‘ What reasons had you for such a course? ’ “I decline answering 'that‘ question, too! I decline,” said Tom, with compressed lips and flashing eyes, “ answering any mere questions whatever. My motives are my own; and you nor any one else shall ever hear them!” There was very little need for Tom to make his motives known. Not one present—the col: onel, perhaps, alone excepted—but knew how madly he had been in love with his cousin, and that his furious jealousy of the accepted lover had driven him from home. All knew his violent temper, too; his fiprce outbursts of passion; and believing him guilty, not one of them needed to be told the cause of his prowl; ing aboutin the grounds in secret last night. ' Dead silence followed, broken by a rap at the door. Hurst opened it, and‘ the‘ gamekeeper entered, carrying in his hand a great bludgeon,‘ all stained with blood andthickly-matted tufts of hair. ‘ , . ‘ “ Gentlemen," said the man, coming for- ward and bowing, “ this here is what did the deed! I found it, lying among the m’arsh grass, where‘it had been ,chucke'd. You can see the blood and the hairs sticking in it. 'I know the stick very well. ‘ I have seen it _ly- ing down there near the Nunfs Grave fifty times.” " " ‘ ‘ ' ’ ‘ ' The gentlemenlexaiiihied“thei stick-La muré ' derous—looking bludgeon, with a thick head, full of great knobs and knots—capable,l in ‘a strong hand, of felling'an ox‘. ' g ' i , “And, gentlemen,” continued the game- keeper, " I have something else to say. evening, about half-past eight, as I was stat]?- ing down. near the park gates, I saw M l thought, of course, he was going u to the casl , tle, and had come through Lower Cliffs by, way of a'short cut.” 1 ' ' j " ‘i‘ ' “ Was he alone?” a'sk'ed Mr. Chanting. .' “ “Yes, sir.” A _ l . . " ' “ Did you see anyone 'follOwing him?” ‘ ' q “I didn’t wait to see, sir. ‘ Me and some more went up to see the. fireworks, and that was the last I‘ saw of him.” '_' _ ' U “I think the facts are quite "strong enough to warrant his committal,” said Mr. Charming: to the colonel. ' _ ' ‘ “ I think so!” was the cold replyfl, _ And the warrant of committal was made. out immediately. Then there' was a general uprising; a carriage was ordered, and Mr. Channing’ approached Tom. ' ’ ‘ ' wantedto see her again. ' tense opened the door'in answer to the well- 'known gentle tap, she was quietly and firmly, hl brblken my heart!” “ Don‘t distress yourself, Mr. Charming,” said Tom, cynically. “ I am ready to go with you at any moment.” ‘ The bishop came over, and began, inhis ur- bane way, some pious admonition; to which Tom listened as unmoved as if he were talking Greek. The carriage came round to the door, and he and Mr. Charming turned to go. One glance be cast back toward the colonel; but he was standing with his 'face averted; and Tom passed the great portico of Castle Clifi'e, the home of his boyhood, for the last time, and in five minutes was on his way to Clifton- lea _ jail, to be tried for his life for willful murder. And still the news fled; and while the ex- amination was going on below, it had been whispered, upstairs and down-stairs, and had reached the ears of her who should have been the last to hear it. As all slowly dispersed from the morning-room, the colonel turned in- to the studio to take one last look at what lay there, and fOund that another had preceded him. Besides the door of communication with the morning-room, the studio had another opening in the hall. It stood wide now; and standing over the rigid form, gazing at it as if the sight were slowly turning her to marble, was Vivia! ’ “Vivia! My God!” cried the colonel, in horror. “What do you 'do here!" She turned and lifted her eyes; and the next moment, without word or cry, she had fallen back senseless in his arms. It was the first time in his life he had ever‘ seen Vivia faint. She was of too sanguine a temperament for that; and he nearly tore the bell down in his frantic summons for help, as he quitted the room of death and carried her up to her chamber. Jeannette came in dis- may, with smelling—salts and cologne; and leaving her in her charge, the colonel went out. In the hall he was encountered by Mar- garet, looking, like everybody else, pale and Wild. ' " “Is it true? What is this story they are telling? Has Leicester Cliffs been murdered ?" “ Margaret, go to your room! It is no story for you to hear!” “I must hear!” exclaimed Margaret, in a suppressed voice, her dark eyes filling with a dusky fire. “ Tell me, or I shall die!” He looked at her in wonder. “Margaret, you are ill. You look like a ghost! Do go to your own room and lie down. ” ' “Will you tell me, or shall I go and see for myself?” “If you will hear such horrors, it is quite true! He has been murdered!” “ And they have arrested some one for it, ” she hoarsely whispered. “They have arrested Tom Shirley. ” She clasped both hands over her heart, and a spasm crossed her face. “ And do you believe him guilty?” “ I do,” he coldly and stemly 'said. She sunk down with asort of cry. But he had other things to think of besides her; and he left her leaning against the wall, her hands still clasped over her heart, and her face working in a sort of. inWard ‘ anguish. So she stood for nearly an hour, without mov4 ing, and then :Jeannette'came out of the rese- room, crying and wiping her eyes, folioWed by Vivia, who seemed to have no tears I’ 'to - shed. " “You 'ought'to lie' down and be nursed yourself, mademoiselle,"instead 'of going ‘to nurse other people,” cried the bonne. "" “ You are hardly fit to stand now!" I ' ‘ ' ’ ’ “It will not"be for long, Jeannette,” said Vivia, wearily. “All my labors ,here‘Hwill soon be‘at an end.” f‘ _’ ‘ “ Your grandmam'ma: ‘won’t 1see‘ ‘you', either; so your going is of no "hSe. ' Hortense told 'me that she gave‘orders you were not to be' sci—j mitted to, her'room.” I , . 7, ,' " It’ was quit 'ti-uei “‘In'the revulsion of‘feel " ‘ ing "that Toll wed" the awarding-from‘fhor- "hysteria, Lady'Agn'es had been s’éized with a violent'avci‘smn to seeing her ' once'a'lmost’ ‘ idolized granddaughter“ "She coule no lL‘hgér think of her'with'out' also thinking offher', con: i ' -‘nection |with some wretched ‘ Lower'Clifi’e and a returned transport." She old’ 'won'Ian in felt—unjustly enough—as if Vivia hadubeeh' imposing onher all her life,’ and that. she 'n'eter refused admittance; and the door civilly s'hut ' in her face. ,1 , _, , ed to the rest—only fulfilling the rude but 'ex-‘ pressive adage, “ When a dog is drowning, ev-‘, ery the offers him water ”+but Vivia tottered 'as she received it, and stood for a moment clinging to the gilded stair-balustrade for sup— , port, with everything swimming around her. Then this, too, passed, as all blows do, and she walked back, almost totteringas she went, to her own room. ' _ Even there, still another blow awaited her. Margaret stoOd in the middle of the'fioor, her face livid, her eyes blazing. ‘ ' " “Oh,‘ Margaret!” was Vivia’s cry, as dropped her head on her shoulder. But Margaret thrust her off with repulsion. “Don’t touch me—don‘t!” she said, in the “same suppressed voice. “ You murderess!" Vivia had been standing looking at her as a deer does with a knife at its throat, but at the terrible word she dropped into a seat, as if the last blow she could ever receive had fallenl , , “You,” said Margaret, with her pitiless black eyes teeming to scorch into her face, and her voice ‘frightful in its depth of sup- pressed passion—“ you, who have Walked all 'your life‘ over our heads With a ring and a Ashe clatter—you, who are nothing, after all, but a' pitiful upstart—you, who havebe'en the of my life and of all who have ever known on. {or not. only is xhis blood on your head who 1 es'down there a ghastly corpse, bht ‘another, who will die on the scaffold for your crime!” , Th'e corpse'down-stairs could scarcely haVe looked more ghastly than did "Vivia begse‘If at that moment." Her White 1i ‘ parted tO’s’peak, 'but‘uo sound came forth. itllessly Margaret wanton: “ '_ “Y‘Ou, who stood so high and queéhly in your pride, could stodp'to lure' and wile, like, any other coquette—could win hearts by your “falsepsmiles, and then cast them in scorn from byou‘r'feet. 'I tell you I [deSpise‘ you! I hate you! You’ve brought disgrace and ruin on on all connected with ydu‘, and you have “01,, Margaret! have you no mercy?” “None for such as you! I lo‘ved him—1’ loved him With my. whole heart, ten thousand ' “times better than you ever could ,do, and youi , _ . You won his heart, and ' then cast it from you as a child does a broken had'no' mercy onme. ’t‘oyl” ., . . ~ .. “*M'argare't, listen to me. , {Will be heard! 'LI know yoii‘ loved Leicester, 'but'it was'not my 'fault that—” ' l i ' Margaret broke into a hysterical laugh. “ Loved Leicester! Is she‘ a, fool as well as a miserable jilt? Oh,.y’ou might'have married “ I am sorry—I am very sorry—but—” him with all my heart!” ydividii-ah I _, “of. Doctor, Sou‘th, Celene! Shirley!” And so, when 'H'orJ’ It 'was only one more' blow add; I tell‘ you, you are a double murderessl' “And who, then— Margaret, is it possible you are speaking of Tom Shir—J’ “ No!” cried Margaret, holding out her hands with a sort of scream, “not his name from your lips! Oh, I loved him, you know it well; and now he is to be tried for his life, and all through you! Murderess you are—a double murderess; for if he dies it will be through you, as much as if you placed the rope around his neck !” Vivia had dropped down, with her face hid— den in her hands. “Margaret, spare me! Oh, what have I done—what have I done, that all should turn from me like this? Margaret, I am going away. I am going back to my convent in France, where I shall never trouble you nor anybody else again. All the world has turned Sgal’nst me; but there, at least, I can go and is “ Go, then; the sooner the better. no longer neededhere.” “Oh, I know it! _ All have turned against me—all whom I love; and I would die for them. Even you, Margaret, might forgive me now.” “ Ask forgiveness from God! I never will.” Vivia’s head dropped down ’on the arm of the chair. .- . Margaret left her, sought her: own‘ room, and appeared no more that day. In the gray dawn of the next morning, when the first train went shrieking from the Cliftonlea depot, on its way to London, a slight, girlish figure, shrouded'in a long man— tle, and closely vailed, glided in, took a seat in a remote corner, and 'was borne swiftly away from the home to which she had re- turned so short a time before like a tri- umphant queen, which she now left like a stealthy culprit. That same morning, Colonel Shirley found a brief note lying on his dressing7table, that moved him more than all the strange and tragical events of the past two days: “Dr: AP :— ' the iastfli’me.‘ w‘h‘éli $35fiah°lfiifihélfiiteg €25 away; but [could not go without saying good-by. lam gomg back to my dear France. to my dear convent, where I was so happy; and I shall strive to atone by a life of penance for the misery I have caused you all to enter. Dear, dear papa [shall love you and pray for you always; and I know, much as you have been wronged, you will not quite forget Vivu. " She, too, was lost! Down below, Leicester Clifl'e lay dead. Tom Shirley was in a felon’s cell. In his room, Sir Roland lay ill unto death. Lady Agnes and Margaret, shut up in their own apartments, never came out; and he was left utterly alone. Truly, Castle Cliffs was a house of mourning. You are CHAPTER XXIX. ran summon. Tun August roses were in full bloom, in the scorching heat of early afternoon, within a pretty garden, in a pretty village, some miles from London, as a gig, holding two gentlemen, drove through the wooden gates, and up a shaded avenue, toward a large brick building. The gentlemen—one tall and handsome, with a grand, kineg sort of face, and dark, grave eyes; the other, middle-sized, but looking puny Compared With his companion, a very shining personage, with yellow tinseled hair, wearing a bright buff Waistcoat, and a great profusion‘ of ' jewelry—alighted before the principal “exi- trance. A stout little gentleman,_standing‘ on 'V ’the steps awaiting them, ran down at their ap- proach/and shook hands with manner of an old' friend. “Gobd'afterribon, Mr. Sweet"! It is a sight for'salr teen, as the Scotch say, to see you thislatkter,‘ in the “again.””' ~ “firth you; hector," “ This is tli _ said the tinseled in- _ i ' gentleman I told you] ' The doctde boWed‘ low, and the colonel,” raised hishatl ' " ', L ‘ ’ “’YOu' are _ welcome, 'éolonell‘, .I presume" you'have conic to see my unfortunate patient, ‘Mrs'. Wildman?” " ', x “‘ _I have. " We can see'her‘, I hope.” v “Ch, certainly, poor thing! A ' very quiet ease, hers,‘bu't quite uh‘curable. Most cases of " melancholy madnessi'ai‘é. This way, if you please.” ; l f ' Leadin them thrOugh a long hall, thedoc- t'or a'Sce‘nded a staircase, entered . a corridor with’a ldngarray' of doors .on either hand, fol- ' lowed by ,his‘two companions. . “My female patients are all on this side,” he said, unlocking one 'of the doors, and again . leading. the Way into another, with neat little sleeping-rooms on each side, and, finally, into a large, long apartment, with the summer sun- shine coming pleasantly through two high win- dows, grated without, filled with women of all ages. [Some sat peaceably knitting and sewing; some were walking up and down; some sat talking to themselves; but the colonel was as- tonished to how comparatively quiet they all were. His eye wandered round in search of herbs had come to see, and it rested and lingered at last on one sitting close to a win- dow, who neither moved nor looked up at their entrance, but remained gazing vacantly out, ' and slowly and continually wringing her hands. A pallid and faded creature, with dim, fair hair, cut short like a child’s, and streaking her . furrowed forehead; a thin, wan face, pitiable ' in its quiet hopelessnem, the light blue eyes vacant and dull, and the poor fingers she twist- ed continually, nothing but skin and bone. Yet, as Colonel Shirley looked, his thoughts went back to a certain stormy night, eighteen years before, where a pretty, fair-haired wo- man and cried over his little child; and he recognized this faded shadow instantly. The'dbctorjwent over, and patted her lightly en the shoulder. “Mrs. Wildman, my dear, look round! Here is agentleman. come to see you.” The woman turned her pale, pinched face, and leaked up, in a hopeless sort of way, in the pitying' eyes of the Indian officer. “ ave you brought h r, back?" she asked, 'mournfully. .‘IShe se'nt' or away; my, little ' Barbara; my only child; my only child!” “She keeps that up continually,” said the doctor, with an intelligent nod to the colonel. “ Nobody ever can get anything out of her but that?“ Q, , ‘_ “I wish you would bring her back to me!” said the imbecile, still looking in the same hope- less way at the visitor. “ She sent her away little"Ba'rbara—and I‘love her so much! Do go and bring her back!" The colonel satdown beside her and took one of the wasted hands in his, with a look that ' was infinitely. kind‘and. gentle. “Who was it sent her away—your little _ I ' Barbara?” “She did! The one she kept was the gentle- man‘s ‘ child, and 'it' was always ‘crying and troublesome, and not kind and good like my little Barbara._ I Wish you would go and bring her back. It is so lonesome here without her; and she Was my only child, my only child!” “I told you, so,” said the doctor, with an- other nod. “You won’t get her beyond that, if you keep at her till doomsday!” “ Where did she send her to?" asked the col- .» 'ai—IcMry. his. ,., Fae .’_~.,....-. “an” .. _ m gum-Vim onuhr-m’ _.._....__ w... . Mr w ‘0‘- -i. w.‘ .LJ -gai .. .~J~A‘.~C.."."—mi- . '~.\. »->l- : .c....-.....~..