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situation in a nutshell, and you are to give me
just twenty thouSand dollars, do you see?”

“ No, I doubt see, and I not give you a
dollar," was the firm response of the beautiful
woman, who had now turned at bay against her
wicked brother.

CHAPTER IV.
BEAUTY UNADOBNED. ‘ .

THE man who so boldly had confessed his
wickedness seemed to be a trifle nonplused at
the stand taken by his sister not to aid him.

She had helped him, time and again, under
pledges from him, and each time he had broken
all promises until patience ceased to be a vxr—
tue. -

Dearly had she loved this wicked brother,
and yet he had brought only deep sorrow upon
her. .

It was his act which had separated her from
the man she loved, and laid the plot for her to
marry the one whose wife she then was, and

who was a millionaire, clever and proud of his
young and beautiful wife.

The one whom she had loved she had knowu
as a poor young bachelor farmer, livmg upon
the shores of Lake George, and be, when her
brother and herself, out sailing together, had

been capsized in a sudden storm, swam out and
rescued her, then swam back again and saved
the life of the youth, who, when a man, de—
liberately turned against his rescuer to literally
sell his sister to a rich merchant for his own
selfish and heartless ends.

The blow had fallen heavily upon Daniel Dar-
win, the young farmer, for he had gone west,
feeling his poverty, to make a fortune for the
woman he loved, and returning successful, had
found her the wife of another.

But the evil career of’ Frank Courtney had
soon driven him a fugitive from justice, and
now he came back self-confessed of all that was
bad, and demanded money of the sister whose
life he had so cruelly shadowed.

“ You do not mean that you intend to refuse
me, Mrs. Dillingham l” he said, with an evil
glitter in his eyes.

H I do.”

“ You will not give me money?”

“ I will not.”

“ Well, I happen to know that you are famous
for having the most beautiful jewelry of any of
the aristocratic ladies of the city, so if I cannot
get gold, you must give me that which will
bring money.”

. “ I will give you nothing, Frank, so it is use-
less to ask, and as I expect my maid soon, go be-
fore she returns and recognizes you.”

“ Is it Jule?”

“ Yes, and you know she has hated you ever
since you were a boy and treated her so cruelly.

“ She will betray you against all my entreaties
for her not to do so, for she has made a vow that
she would, as I know.” -

“ Then I had better be off, for I did not know
that you still had phat tigress as your maid.
Give me what I ask and let me go.”

“‘I will not give you one dollar, sir.”

“ Well, I see that you indeed have beautiful
jewels—yes, most costly ones. You did not
know which you would wear to the ball to-
night, so laid them all out to see which would
become you most with that exquisite dress, that
must have cost several hundred at least.

“ Now, I fancy these diamonds, as they are of
the most value; yet this set of rubies, and this
of emeralds are very beautiful.

“ Pearls are pretty, yes, but not one-fourth
the value of the other three sets.

“ Why, there are necklaces with each set, I see,
and at a quick estimate, I value the lot at thirty
thousand dollars.”

“ Will you put those jewels down, Frank
Courtney, and leave this room and house?”

“ Give me the gold I ask and I am off, sister
mine!”

“ I will not,” was the fearless reply.

“Then I take these,” and, guick as a profes-
sional pickpocket could have one, he seized and
concealed the four sets of jewelry. '

Mrs. Dillingham uttered a cry of alarm and
sorrow commingled, while she said:

“ Frank Courtney, would you rob your own
sister f” ’

“ Oh, yes, why not? Give me the value of
them in gold and I’ll return them.”

“ I have but a couple of thousand dollars with
me, given me yesterday to pay some bills. I
will give you that.”

“ Write me a check for what I ask.”

“ I keep no account, sir, for my husband gives
me all I wish.”

“ Then give me what you have.”

She opened a bureau draw and took out a roll
of bank-notes.

“ Here is the money, so give me back my
jewels, and, Frank Courtney, never let me see
your facc again, for—”

“ \Vell?”

“ If I do, so help me Heaven! I‘will bear all
shame and send you to prison, and well you
know that it means the gallows for you.”

The man’s face darkened; then he laughed in
a coarse way, and said:

“ Those words have cost you dear, sister mine,
for I shall take your jewels and the money, too.
Good-by,” and he moved toward the door.

She uttered a cry, and springing toward him,
grasped his arm.

But be seized her in his strong grasp and
hurled her With stunning force to the floor,
while he sprung to the door and fled.

Ten minutes after J ule,'the maid, drove up to
the door, sprung out of the carriage, and dashed
up to the room of her mistress with the missing
part of the dress in her arms.

She beheld Mrs. Dillingham seated upon the
floor, very white and scared—looking, and seem-

ingéy dazed.
ith a cry of alarm Jule sprung toward her,
and then came the words:

“ Go and alarm the coachman and other ser-
vants! Have the butler arrested, for I have
been robbed of my jewels and my money,
Jule l”

The maid darted away to obey, and found
that the butler was not in his accustomed
place.

Soon the servants were aroused, but the butler
was not to be found, and, glancing out upon the
river, Lucita Dillingham saw the sail-boat glid-
ing swiftly away, and knew that she could send
pursuit and overtake the little craft.

But she said nothing of the boat, and murmur-
ed to herself:

“ No, no! he would but die on the gallows.
Let him go, for not mine must be the hand to
bring him to punishment.” ‘

The boat had been seen by the maid and the
coachman, when they came back from the er-
rand to town, but before, in their alarm, they
recalled the fact, it was out of sight.

And so the beautiful woman finished her
toilet, and, without a jewel upon her—only her
wedding-ring—drove away to attend the ball.

Her heart was aching, yet she could not refuse
to o, and, though there were other jewels she
con (1 have worn, she would not put them on.

_So with her beauty unadorned Mrs. Baxter
Dillingham went to the ball, and all who saw
her wondered that she wore no jewelry, yet
were compelled to admit that she outshone those
who were gleaming with precious gems.

No one of all that gay assemblage suspected
the skeleton that night finding a resting-place in
the heart of the lovely woman.

CHAPTER V.
KIDNAPPING A MADMAN.

IN a large private Institution for the Insane
not many miles from the city of New York a
man was pacing to and fro in a c fortab y-
furnished room, looking out now a then upon
the scenery spread out before him.

He was a person of striking presence, the
same one whom the reader beheld in the tent of
Quantrel, the outlaw chief, far away on the
frontier.

He it was who had looked calmly into the
muzzle of the outlaw’s revolver and refused to
divulge the secret of where his old-mine was
locgted, or could not do so\m'th his feeble intel-
ec .

About him was an air of comfort, showing

that some one kindly cared for the madman, and

his face was as placid as though he held no‘

care. 7 .

He gazed listlessly at a carriage that drove up

to the door of the institution and beheld "two

men alight with a look that stwed no interest
in them or their Coming. I '

one of these visitors sent his name to the phy-
sician in charge, and that personage soon ap-

ared. . ._ .
De“ I am glad to see you, Doctor Wilber,” said
the superintendent, and the one he addressed
handed him a letter which he read “aloud, as
follows:

“My DEAR DOCTOR DUNN:—
“ It has been decided by the friends of your pa-

tient, Daniel Darwin, that an operation should be

performed upon him, to see if the pressure of the
bone upon the brain cannot be removed, thus restor-
ing his reason.

“ I favor the idea, and have been selected as the
one to perform the operation, so have fitted up quar-
ters in my own house for the patient, as my time is
too occupied for me to come to him. ‘ ‘

“ Doctor Wilber, who bears this letter Will bring
Mr. Darwin to me, and he is accompanied by a com-
panion in case the patient should be Violent o
troublesome . . i

"It will be several days before Ican get at the
work. but I hope to inform you of the sucdess of the
operation within a week. _

" Doctor Wilber is authorized to pay any bills now

With respect,

“SAYRES Mo'r'r, M. D.”

“I sincerely hope, Doctor Wilber, that this
unfortunate man can be cured, for 1 never had
a patient to whom I became more attached, and
his case is, I have heard, a very unfortunate
one, as he was a miner, with the knowledge ,of
a Very rich mine in his possession, and wounded
in the head, his reason was destroyed,” said the
superintendent. V _ _

“ Yes, Doctor Dunn, his casc is a sad one; but
if any one can cure him it will be Doctor Sayres
Mott."

“ Very true, and I shall hope for the best.”

“Is he violent at all, sir?”

“ Not in the least; he obeys like a child.”

“ I am glad of that, sir,” said Doctor Wilber,
and then he asked for the amount due to date
for the care of the patient. ' .

The bill was made out, and paid, and the
patient sent for, along with his ha gage.

Darwin bowed mechanically, w an the super-
intendent introduced him to Doctor Wilber, and
then said in a pleading tone: . '

“ Don’t let me go.”

“ It is for your-good, Mr.‘ Darwin.”

“ No, he will kill me 1” ' . g ‘

“On the contrary, Mr. Darwin, I will:,take
you to one who will restore you to health.” '

“ Don’t let me go 1” leaded the madman.

The superintendent ooked puzzled.

“ I never saw him resist before, for it is not
his nature,” he obse ved. ‘

“ He will be all. r ght when 'he sees I am his
friend,” Doctor Wilber responded, and again
came the plaintive appeal: ,

“ Please don’t let me go! He will killme!” *

. But, Doctor Wilber was firm, the superinten-
dent equally so, and the demented man was led
to the carriage, the same pleading words upon
his ii 3. -- - ‘

Away rolled the carriage and 'it drove to a
town on~the Hudson River, where ,the steamer
was can ht by the two men and their patient.

But tEe steamer was sin upward-bound boat,
and not one on its run- to the city, whither the
carriage drove after getting rid of its passen-

ers. ~ . .

g “ You have decldedpot to have the OperatiOn
erformed then, sir?” asked the attendant of
cctor Wilber, as they went into a state-room

on the boat with their charge. , 'r
“ Yes, for it would, be taking too great

due.

chances.” ‘

“ How do you mean, sir?” ., ' '

“ I believe that the operation will restore the
man’s reasbn, and I at rst intended to have it
done b Doctor Mott; but, upon second thought,
I fear {hat the patient might be “visited at the
asylum and his absence discovered, and then all
would; be known and {would be foiled in my at;
mm d ' 1 V. “ , .

“ o, the best thing for us to do is to get to
know of a surgeon who has pei formed wonders,
and he shall do the work.” . -

“ I think you are wise, sir, for the act we
have done would land us in prison,” the at-
tendant responded. .

“ Yes, more than theta-for me,” was the an—
swer of Doctor Wilber, but he did not utterthe
two last words aloud.

It was evident that Doctor Wilber was a

shrewd manager, for he did not go on to Albany
in that steamer. ‘
The rivate asylum from whence he had
taken arwin was upon the East River. and
yet the doctor had driven across to the North
River and caught the day boat at Yonkers.

Then he had landed at, Newburg, and there
had taken the train for Graycourt, where he
caught the Night Express for the West.

“ If we are discovered to have kidnapped the
man, J enks, the cari'ia 9 may be tracked to
Yonkers and the boat. hen the telegraph will
go to Albany to head us off on the arrival of
the steamer this evening, and before we can be
tracked we will be far on our way to the West,
and by changing trains, disguising ourselves
and our man, and you not seeming to be in my
company, so as to be trailed as three men, you
see we can throw off all pursuit. Do you under-
stand?”

“ Yes, sir, I see that you are a remarkable
man,” was the honest response of J enks, who
gazed admiringly upon his companion.

“ Wait until you know me better, J enks, then
decide.”

“I have seen enough already, sir, for you
ai ed me to escape frOm prison, as an old friend
you had known in the past, and you know it
was a life sentence with me.”-

“ Yes, I know, J enks, and you ought to have
been hanged, and I guess, if we are caught, you
will be,” complacent! y assured the doctor.

“ Heaven forbid, sir; but then, you got me a
place as butler, and certainly worked it well, to
rob the house of what you\did. Then you plan-
ned the cleverest kidnapping scheme on record,
and tell me that I am to be your partner in the
results.”

“So I said, Jenks, and so I mean. But, we
must reach the frontier first, and be careful to
make no sli to betray me. This man, Daniel
Darwin, hol s a secret which I must know. but
there are those who will track us to the gallows
once they strike our trail, as I well know,” and
Quantrel, the outlaw chief, for he was the pre-
tended “ Doctor Wilber,” changed color as he
thought of Buffalo Bill and the Scouts’ League.

(To be continued.)

m

 

SENATOR SAUNDERS, of Montana, says that it
is a good thing for the people who have settled in
the western part of North and South Dakota
and Kansas that they are being driven out
through the foreclosure of mortgages. It is a
bitter loss to them now, but it will be an equally
bitter loss to the investors, as the lands are not
worth the labor and money which have been ex-
E‘ended upon them. The senator says that these

nds are absolutely worthless without water.
Occasionally there is a fair season and good
crepe. This encourages the settlers to go on.
But a good year cannot be reckoned on for more
than one out of five. The drouths are terrible.
Sometimesafierce wind of heat will sweep down
over these lands, and fine crops showing the
greatest romise are shriveled up as if by a fire.
Crops wit iin a week of maturity, with nothing in
the way of a successful harvest, are often burned
by this breath of heat within a few hours’ time.
T e conditions are too hard, and the chances
against the settler too great. Such lands, he
thinks, ought to be left until all other portions
of the country are settled. Then, possibly, they
may be made valuable through joint stock com-
panies, the development of a corporation which
could command capital sufficient to make it
worth while to bore artesian wells and establish
unfailing supplies of water. That alone can

, he ondered over the question,.to him of all-ab-
sorbing interest. “ She will not own that she

the far West with all speed, and once there I ‘

 

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new STRANGE!

BY JOE /CLF.MENT.

How strange it will seem to awaken some morn,
No longer weary, and tired, and worn _ .
By the pain and suffering that marred my life,

But, stranger still, to know that no harm

Can our reach me; no winter’s storm ‘

‘Nor summer’s heat can lay me low— 7

0b,, 1 lbng to that country straightway to go!

“ Nolnvalids there,” I say. to my heart, ,
And'friends there united shall nevermore part;
And the craving . unsatisfied here on earth
Shall fruition find in the home of theirbirth.

But the strangest of all things, methinks, will be
To find such a weak, sinful mortal as me

At home in a city where Christ is king, ,
And where with the angels I‘ll evermore sing.

What WasORHer Crime?

THE GUILT or THE 'GUILTLESS.

The Romance of the Mill-Girl’s Mystery.

BY ALBERT W. AIKEN
AUTHOR or “ THE SYREN SHADOWER,” “ HAWKS
AND WOLVES or NEW YORK,” “coun-
TBYMAN DETECTIVE," ii'rc.

CHAPTER X.
run assassrn.

, DEEP in thought, Paxton smoked away. The
cool sea breeze gently stirred the locks of hair
upon his temples. In the silence of the night he
communed with himself. '

“ What a strange spell this girl has thrown
around me,” he muttered, removing the cigar
from his ll 3 and watching the fragrant smoke
as it curl in eddyin circles upward. “ She is
wonderfully beautifu ; there is a charm about
her that insnares me despite myself. I wonder
what my father would say if he knew of this
fancy of mine for one of the mill girls? He,with
all his pride of his old New En land descent.
He’s a sensible man, then b, and feel sure that
‘if he really knew the gir , he would not object.
But, doos she love me?” And long and deeply

 

 

 

cares anything for me, but if I know anythin
of women, she does. W hen she thought that
was Offended to-night, she would .not let me
leave the room until she was satisfied that I was
not angry. A young girl is a strange riddle
sometimes to as men, and why should they
not be, when half the time they puzzle them-
selves?” -

The cigar, burning down unpleasant] near to
his fingers, interrupted his reflections. etossed
the stump out of the window and lighted a fresh
one.
“ I do not feel in the least sleepy,” he mur-
mured, as he enjo ed the fragrance of the to-
bacco. “ It is so p eaSant that I do not feel like
going to bed at all.” Then he looked out into
the quiet street, with its old and statel elms
swaying their leafy tops in the ocean reez .
“ How calm and peaceful the ni ht is! Who,
on a night like this, alone with t e solitude of
nature, could believe there was such a thing in
this world as strife and toil! that man’s angry
passions could rage on this fair earth wh c
whispers so wooineg of peace and love?”

Crack! ' ,

The sound came from the window-pane .above
his head. In utter astonishment Sinclair looked
u and behold a bullet-hole drilled through the

‘ s of the window. ‘ ,,
,, Thte truth flashed upon‘ his mind in ' an in‘
stau . '

“ Some one is shooting at me with an air-
gun‘l” he cried, impulsively, and then over his
nature came the animal passion of the chase—-
(the hunt for blood. - ‘

' Quick as thought he acted ' he pulled open #10
drawer of the little'table which stood by is do
close to the window, and snatched a little revol-
ver which lay therein; then, with a panthor~like
bound, he sprung through the window. Hang-
in b his hands from the window—sill, he drop-
pefi ghtiy to the ground; it was only some fif-
teen feet, and the soft turf underneath broke the
force of the fall.

So rapid had been the action of the young
man that the assassin, who had fired the‘air—gun,
concealed behind an elm on the opposite side of
the street, had no time after firing the shot to
attempt to escape. o ‘

Bid by the shadow thrown by the house, and
crouching upon his hands and knees low upon
the earth, Paxton took a survey. -
As the shot had passed squarely through the
glass, boring a little round hole, Paxton came at
once to the conclusion that the person who had
fired the shot must be concealed behind one of
the trees on the other side of the street. But to
get at him was the puzzle. The middle of the
street was as light as day, exposed as it was to
the bright rays of the moon, and to attempt
to cross it would only give chance for a second
shot, which might be fired with better aim than
the first.
But if Paxton could not get at the unknown
foe, neither could he leave his ambush without
danger of discovery, except by retreating
through the grounds of the houso right behind
the tree-trunk which servedhim for shelter.
4 Paxton’s keen eyes took in the situation at
once. The breadth of the street alone separated
him from the ambushed foe. He felt sure that
he could detect the slightest movement of the
unknown if he should attempt to leave the shel-
ter of the tree and escape through the grounds
of the house behind him. So Paxton coolly
stretched himself out at full length upon
the soft 'turf, and, with his ear to the ground,
waited.
Ten—twenty minutes assed away, and no
sound save the nightwin rustling the leaves of
the elms came to Paxton’s ears.
His brows contracted. .
“ Can it be possible that he escaped while I
was etting out of the window?” he muttered.
“ If e did, he must be as quick as a cat, who-
ever he is.”
Ten minutes more passed away.
Paxton had almost made up his mind that the
assassin had indeed escaped, when he heard the
slight noise which a man’s feet make moving
with caution upon a gravel pathway.
A smile of satisfaction came over Sinclair’s
face, and he drew back the hammer of the re-
volver, ready for action.
Then he heard a gate creak on its hinges, the
sound denoting that it was being opened slowly
and with caution.
The time for action had come.
Paxton sprung to his feet and dashed across
the road, with the speed of a gre hound.
The man pursued had ears no ess quick than
he who followed in the chase. He guessed at
once that the man whom he hadtried to kill was
on his track. He now abandoned all caution
and rushed forward at headlong speed.
Paxton ran forward at his utmost pace. He
reached beneath the tree which had given shel-
ter to the assassin, and came to the gate through
which he had passed. It was Closed, but the
pursuer stayed not to open it; laying his hands
gpoin the gatepost, he vaulted over it, light as a
it

The sound of the fugitive’s footsteps, running
all; his topmost speed, guided Paxton in his
0 use.
The unknown ran straight through the
grounds to the rear street. Over the fence he
went into the street, across the street and into
the grounds of one of the houses on the opposite
side of the way, then suddenly the noise of his
footsteps stopped.
Paxton ha followed him hotly, but as he
scaled the fence and came down onto the street
he noticed that the sound of the footstehi had
ceased, and guessin that the fugitive again lay
in ambush on the ot or side of the moonlit ,
he did not care to cross it in full range of his

 

 

  
  
  
  
  

 

  

\

make these lands valuable for grazing.

noiseless weapon.

bur—u -r't‘lr'w" -m

The sorrow and anguish that pierced like a knife.

and after
because I t ink the gir

‘7 .5“ ,ew.‘

:gA

3%

Quietly he nestled down under the shade of a

large elm tree, and waited. ' ,

- ‘1! can play at hide and seek slinight!’ he

muttered; “ but he shall not shake me off, and

when, morning light comes then I’ll trap my
‘rd

bi .

‘ The fugitive, who had gained t e shelter of
the fence on the further side of t e street, had
succeeded in winning one important advan .
He could steal off, his footsteps deadened by t 0
soft gardeii loam, with much less nOIse than
when forced to tread in the gravel walk.

The breath of the assassin came hard, for the
run had been a breather, short as it was.

' Eagerly and intently he listened. Not a_sound
could he hear excopt the breeze playing With the
leaves, or the distant bowl of some Wide-awake
dog haying the moon and making night hideous
with his discordant yelps. .

He did not for an instant think, though, that
Paxton had given ‘up the chase: he knew him
too well for that. He guessed instinctively,
that his pursuer lay concealed, waiting for
some sign of his presence to again follow on his

c .
Cautiously therefore, he moved away from
the shelter of the clump of bushes by the garden
fence, beneath which he had found shelter, and
stole noisele ssly across the garden. .
The garden fence was a high one, luckin for
him, and thus concealed him from the observa-
tion of the watcher on the other side of the
street.
A dozen steps had the fugitive taken and note.
sound betrayed that his pursuer was on his
track. A half-smile came over his face, for he
saw safety before-him. ’A dozen more steps and
he was half-way across the garden—still no
sound of pursuit. .
“ A narrow shave, but I shall escape,” the
fugitive muttered, boarsely.
A dozen more steps and he was within ten
feet of the rear house of the grounds; beyond
the fence was the open country, and that meant
safety. v
No sound of rapid footsteps in the rear.
The fugitive had paused for a moment to
listen, when from the porch of the house, with
open mouth and savage growls, a good-sized dog
came bounding toward him, and hardly had the
brute given tongue when the footsteps of the
pursuer again rose on the air.
The dog‘s bark had warned him as to the
whereabouts of the fleeing man.
“Get down, you brute!” cried the fugitive,
hoarse] , springing to the fence.
The 0g followed close behind, and embold-
ened by the flight of the man, sprung sav-
agely at his leg, as he assayed to mount the
fence. ’
The teeth of the dog almost met in the flesh of
the fugitive’s le .
» Maddened wit pain, the man leaped to the
ground, and dealt the dog a terrible blow up—
on the head with the heavy walking—stick
which he carried with him. With a yelp of
pain, the dog retreated, almost stunned by the
stroke.
Thei man again sprung to the fence and leaped
over t. . , -
But the contest with the dog had taken time,
and when the fugitive had scaled the fence Pax-
ton was not thirty paces behind.

CHAPTER XI.
rum CHASE.

THE Open country now lay before the pursued
and the pursuer.

First came a lon reach of meadow-land, a
mile or so in exten , some half a dozen fences
across it, beyond that a strip of timber, the
'commencement of the wood. -' t

. That black strip of woodland standing out
clear a ainst the moonlit sky was the only hope
of the ugltive. Could he onl succeed in gain-
ing that, there he might find I altar and hope of

ca . .

es pe.
ith desperate energy the fugitive ran on-
word. He felt not the ain coming from the
wound in his leg, slthoug the blood had freely
followed the teeth of the dog. Fast after him
came Paxton.
When half the meadow was past, the fugitive
lared behind him to note the position of his
loodhound-like follower, and he set his teeth to-
gether in rage when he saw that Paxton was
gaining steadily upon him. Then he looked be-
, ore him, and his heart sunk as he noted how
far behind lay the wood, his only hope of es—
cape. ~
l-Iis breath was coming thick and hard, and
the great drops of perspiration stood out like
waxen beads upon is orehead. He felt, too,
that his strength was failing fast. Another
last desperate effort he made to gain ground and
shake off the unflagging pursuer. Vain was the
effort; with steady, unfaltering strides Paxton
gained upon him.
A good quarter of a mile yet lay between the
fugitive and the woodland screen. To cover
that distance without being overtaken the flee-
ing man felt was clearly impossible.
hen, with the courage born of desperation,
with the same brute instinct which inspires the
wolf at bay to turn and fight for his life, the
pursued man suddenly halted, wheeled around,
and drawing the walking-stick—-—the air-gun—
up, attempted to level it at Paxton.
But the young man was ready, and before the
fugitive could level his weapon fairly, he had
covered him with his revolver. 7
The moon’s ray glistened along the little bar-
rel pointed full at the breast of the fu 'tive.
“ Drop your hands, Hollisl” cried axton, in
cool and determined tones, halting, “ or I’ll put
a ballright through you.”
A moment Hollis—for the midnight assassin
was the young carpenter—glared at Paxton
and then seeing the folly of resistance, an
reading in his eyes that he would surel keep his
word, With a hollow groan he dropped the air-
gun to the ground.
“ Kill me if you like,” he said, despairingly.
Paxton approached slowly.
“ Hollis, are you mad?” he asked, looking
more with pityr than with anger upon the man
he had hunted down.
“ Yes, I s’pose so,” the carpenter answered,
sullenly.
“ You must be to have done what you have
to-night. \Vhy should you attempt my life?
What have I ever done to you?”
“ You have taken awa the only woman that
I ever cared for,” he replyi’ed.
“ You mean Lydia Grams?”
“ Yes.”
“ 1 am not aware that I have taken her yet.”
“ But you mean to; it’s all the same.”
“ That depends a great deal upon whether she
is willing or not.”
“ Oh, there ain't much doubt about that.”
“ How can you tell that?” Paxton asked,
quickly.
“ I can see it plain enough. I offered myself
to her to-night, and she re used me.”
“ Well?”
“ She refused me because she loves you.”
“ Did she tell you that?” and Paxton’s heart
beat violently as he put the question.
“ No; but know it well enough,” Hollis an-
swered, sullenly.‘
“ How do you know it?” Paxton demanded.
“Well, I nose at it from the way she acts.
Of course s e won’t own that she cares any-
thing for you, but I know she does, and that’s
the reason why she won’t have me.”
“ Then, you think that if I was out of the
wagi’fhat she would listen favorably to your
sui
“ Well, I don’t know that exactly,” Hollis
said, slowly.
“ Then why iii heaven’s name do you put
your neck in peril by attempting my life?” Pax-
ton asked. “ If by the act you could gain her
love, I should not wonder at your attempting it,
but since iyou freely confess that you do not
think that t would have that/effect, you must be
mad to act as on have.”
degollghleook ‘ liithaxtonbfor abmoment in won-
. case a never can -
ly to his mind befor . Fought so clear
" Well. I Suppose I am mad,”
uite a long

 

he said, slowly,
use. “ But I hate you
cares for you.”

 

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“ And to grimy that hate. you are willing to
put your neck in a halter I” , '

‘-‘ W hen a man is mad he don’t think of such

s ” Hollis lied. ‘ .
WPigllil” and 153mm lip curled. ‘“ Now, my
friend just listen to me for a fewmoments. I
am neither an angel or a saint; to forgive is not
one of my virtues, if 'I have any such things. A
man never struck at me yet but what I paid it
back with compound interest, if I could. But,
the way yOu are going on, the debt will be so
great that I never shall be ableto y it. Now,

don’t choose to let it go on. on are either
sane or mad; if the latter, then you ought to be
in a lunatic asylum. But I have an idea that,
even if " you are crazy, there is cons1derable
method in your madness. It is rather disagree-
able, the refie'otion that one cannot sit down by
the window of one’s own house and enjoy a c1-
gar after nightfall without hearing a bullet
whizzing past his cars. In the future, another
mad fit may seize upon you, and you ma feel
inclined to make a target of me again, so just
want you to write that you have attempted my
life to-night, and sign your name to it.’ _

Hollis looked at Paxton for a moment in
amazement. ‘

“ But I don’t understand the reason—”

“ Oh don’t you!” said Paxton, with a sarcas-
tic smi e. “ I ll explain, then. If I should hap-

n some time in the future to die by the secret

and of an assassin, this little pa )er, signed by
you, might be a slow to aid the 0 core of justice
in finding out my murderer.”_

Hollis saw the trap he was in. ‘

“ It is nothing but a new sort of life assur-
ance,” Paxton continued, dryly. “ I think
that I shall live longer if you accede to my re—

uest.” A

“ And if I do not?”

“ Then l’ll take you into Biddefordhnd ut
you through a course of sprouts for this mg t’s
work,” Paxton replied, coolly.

“ I’ll write.”

“ Good! I am glad that you are reasonable
about the matter. ’ .

On the back of an old letter Hollis scrib-
bled the brief confession, and signed his name

to it.

“ You will not use this against me unless I
trouble you?” Hollis asked, doubtful] y.

“ Rest easy on that point; you are perfectly
safe as long as you behave yourself.”

“ I’ll try to, but it’s hard work for a man
to give up the girl he loves,” Hollis said, mourn-
ful! .

“ Nonsense!” Paxton exclaimed, contempt
uously. “ A man loves a dozen times in his life,
and he always fancies that the last love is the
strongest. A man who goes mad after one wo~
man when the world is full of others just as
precious, deserves to be sent to a lunatic asylum.
And, by—the-by, if you have any more such at-
tacks as this one to—night, that is most decidedly
' the roper place for you.”

“ ou’re a devilish queer man!” Hollis ex-
claimed, in wonder. .

“ Oh, no, that is only your fancy,” Paxton
answered, carelessly. “ But now that we under-
stand each other we had better part. A word
before you go. Never in this life blame a man
for winning a woman’s love; blame the woman
always, for she cannot be won unless she con-
sents. Good-night.”

And with this cynical remark, Paxton turned
upon his heel and strode awa . ~

Hollis watched him for a time in wonder.

“ He’s just the kind of a man to win women,”
he muttered; “ he don’t care any thing for them,
and that makes them crazy after him.”

Sick at heart and weary of life, Hollis walked
slowly back to Biddeford. "

His slumbers that night were far from pleas-
ant, and the smarting wound in his leg, where
the dog had left the imprint of his teeth,
troubled him not a little. "

CHAPTER XII.
ran ninzn GIRL.

BRIAKMsr was ust over in the lmbden
mansion, and the 0! man and his daughter sat
together in the sitting-room which fronted on
the garden.

A newspaper was in the old man’s hand, but
his 6 es were not fixed on the printed lpage.

0! Daddy' Embden was strange y out of
sorts.
Delia noticed his feverish manner, and
came over to his side uietly and commenced to
smooth down the mug sandy-gray hair.

“ I’Vhat’s the matter, father'i’ she asked,
.caregsingly; “ you don’t seem well this morn-

‘ I ain’t well,” the old man replied, tersely.
“ Didn’t you sleep well last night?”
“ Delie gal, I didn’t "sleep much at all,” he
said. “ I was dreadful oneasy last night. I’ve
bin thinkin’ over somethin’ which bothers me a
good deal.”
“ What is it, father?” and the girl brought a
a chair and sat down by the side of the old
man.
“ Wal, it’s a ticklish p’int,” he said, slowly.
“ Ofcourse you read all about the war?”
“ Yes.” She wondered at the question.
“ Wal, now, who was to blame for having all
the men killed?”
“ Why, I don’t understand, father,” she re-
plied, in wonder.
' “ \Va], there was Jeff Davis an’ all them
Southerners on their side, an’ there was Abe
Lincoln an’ Seward, an’ a lot more on our side.
Now, if it a—hadn’t bin for these men there
wouldn’t have bin any war, an’ the uestion I’m
puzzling over is, ain’t these men to b ame for the
ones who were killed jes’ as much as if they had
killed ’em with their own hands?”
Delia had never heard any such reasoning as
this before, and she thou ht the matter over
carefully, wondering all t e time what could
have put such an idea into her father’s head.
The old man watched her with eager anxiety.
“ Wal, what do you think, Delie—are they to
blame or ain’t they l”
“ I don’t think they are, father; it was the an-
tagnonism of principles rather than men that
brought on the war.’
“ Then you don’t think that the blood of the
men who were killed lies at their doors, eh i” he
asked, anxiously.
‘_‘ o, I do not believe that any one would
think so,” she said.
“ ’Tain’t that, Delie!” he cried, earnestl ;
“ ’tain’t what any one in this world will thin ,
but how will the account balance when it comes
before the last Great Court?"
There was a feverish anxiet about the old
man which was itiful to thOkK
“ You mean 19 Day of Judgment, father?"
“ Yes, Delie, that’s what I mean; how will a
man, through whose means other men have
died, stand there! Won’t their blood or out
ag’in’ him? Do you s’pose he’ll stand any c. iance
to be saved?”
“ Father, I wouldn’t think of such things,” the
girl said, coaxingly. “ What dOes it mutter?
lou had nothing to do with bringing on the
war. They cannot lay any man’s death at your
door.”
“Mebbe not—niebbe not,” he muttered, ab-
sentl ’: “ but I‘d like to be sure.” - .
“ ere’s Mr. Paxton coming up the walk fa-
ther,” the girl said, happening to look out of the
window,
“ Mister Paxton!” the old man exclaimed,
rousing himself out of his stu or.
:2 Yes, young Mr. Paxton-fl inclair,” she said.
Oh, I remember: he comes about the mill ; a
leetle matter of business.”
“ I’ll run away, then, so as not to be in the
way.”
And she went out through the dinin -room in-
to the kitchen where Mary Ann, tlgie “ hired
girl,” was busy among the dishes.
his? AIS; w? agrisk, coinier girl of twenty.
i. ow r. ax n in; is s coniin
walk,” Delia said. 2 up the
“ Sart’in,” Mary Ann responded, and she
hurried away to the front door, which she
reached just as the young man rung the bell.
Paxton was shown into the sitting-room, and
Mary Ann returned to the kitchen.

 

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“ He’s a nice-looking young man,” Mary Ann

  
   
 
     

   
      

  

    
 

   
     
    
 
     
         
      
       
    
 
     
  
    
   
   
   
 
  
  
  
  
  
   
  
 
 
   
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   
  
  
   
   
    
   
    
   
  
    
 
  
  
 
    
    
   
  
  
   
   
 
  
    
  
 
    
     
   
    
    
  
  
    
  
 
 
    
    
    
    
  
 
  
  
   
 
    
   
     
   
    
  
      

 

 

 

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