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The rough and uncouth boy was tongue-tied.
and it was only the tact of the woman that
saved him as she asked:

“ Is it the forge? I hope so; for my father
was a smith, and a good one, too. Mr.
Mackay knows that, I think; for he .worked
in the same shop once, if he is the pU‘SOD
1 mean.”

Mackay showed signs of great interest as
he asked: - .

“ Was your father Robert Beath, the fore-
man of the carriage-shop at Bridgeport?"

Cora nodded.

“ Yes, and I thought I recognized your
name when you were introduced. I have
heard him speak of you when you first went
into the shop. He said you would make
your mark.” .

Then she turned to Job, to continue:

“Do you want to learn to be a smith?"

Job nodded the fourth time, and seemed
to be struggling to speak; but did not dare
yet.

Cora turned to Mackay.

“ “fill you take him as an apprentice,
sir?"

Nathan colored slightly. ‘ If any one had
asked him a moment before he would have
said that he did not want help for the little

' work that he had to do; but there was some-
thing in the girl before him which tied his
tongue, comparatively, as much as it did that
of poor bashful Job. He only bowed his head
and said:

“Certainly, if you "wish it.”

Then Cora turned to old Manley and asked
him:

“ And are you willing too, Mr. Manley?”

The farmer hesitated.

“ I ain’t so sure about that. Job’s wanted
at the farm, and if he goes to the forge I lose
his work. My father owned this old home-
stead, and all of us boys went arter his ways.
There was me, and ’Bije, and ’Lishe. They’re
both dead now, pore fellers; but they stuck
to the old place as long as they lived. Now
Job’s gittin’ to be above his dad, and wants
to go to sniithin’. I hain’t nothen’ to say
ag’in’ smithin’; only the farm has got to be
worked, and Job’s as strong as most men.
If he goes to the forge, he's got to hand over
his wages, reg’lar, to his mother and me, to
pay fur his board. I ain’t goin’ to hev any
fancy fellers around the place.” ‘

Cora turned to Job.

“ Are you willing to give your mother your
board?”

Job’s eyes had grown very much brighter
than usual at the conversation, and he look-
ed, for the first time in his life, almost hand-
some, as he actually spoke out to the new
teacher:

‘-‘ I ain’t mean, miss, and I’m willin’. I—
I—I want to—”

He stopped short, as he caught the eyes of
all his family on him, and his native bashful-
ness overcame him again.

Cora spoke to old Manley:

“ Shall we call it settled, sir?”

Old Manley pursed up his lips as he said:

“ \Vaal, I reckon Job don’t know his own
mind yet.”

The young school-teacher turned to the
boy, with her bright face, and answered for
him: , ‘

. ‘3 I think-she does... Mr. 3484116311“. {QT-3,1. ,
'the look 'of "a born mechanic. ll engalg‘
he makes things already. Don’t you, Job?"

Job hung his head. It was a new experi-
ence to all his family to see the boy so quiet
and polite, with all his bashfulness; for Job
was usually sullen and rude to a painful de-

ree.
g With a scarlet blush that showed how he
was exercised, the boy pulled out of his
pocket something which he held out to Cora.
She took it, and uttered an exclamation of
delight.

“ Why, Job, did you make this? Look
here, Mr. Mackay. For a boy who never
handled a tool in a shop, this is wonderful.
Isn’t it?”

Nathan Mackay took the object she handed
to him, and the expression of his face changed
to wonder as he asked:

“Did you make this?”

It was a small horseshoe about the size of
a fifty-cent piece, of bright steel, with the
nailholes as neatly punched as if it had been
done by a machine. It had clips and heel-
corks, made in the style of country shoes,
such as were turned out of Mackay’s forge
every day; but the wonder of the thing was
the delicacy of the work and the neatness
with which it was finished.

“ Did you make this, Job?” asked the young
blacksmith again. .

Job looked up at him as he answered:

“ Yes, I made it.”

“What tools did you have?”

“ \Vhat I could git," answered Job, color-
ing still more deeply than before. “ Ain't it
done well? I ain’t no smith, and I don’t pur-
tend to know what ought to be done. But I
want to be one, mister, and if you’ll take me,
I’ll work faithful.”

Mackay turned the shoe over and over in
his hand for near a minute, before he spoke;
and when he did, he said slowly:

“If you made this, you have the makings
of a first-class workman in you; but I can‘t
believe you did. \thre did you get such a
fine file as this you have used on the finish-
mg?”

Now Job’s face was like a furnace, as he
said almost inaudibly:

“ It was yourn. I took it when you didn’t
see me, and put it back. I didn’t mean no
harm.”

Mackay nodded.

“I thought so. I knew the marks of that
tool. \Vell, if you want to go with me, you
must never do that again. My tools are my
own, and I allow no one to touch them. The
rest of the work you did with a ,common
tack-hammer, I see. But where did you get
the fire hot enough to make the shoe?"

“ Back 0’ the barn,” answered Job, with an
air of relief that showed that, there at least,
he had nothing to hide. ' “I made a bellers
of my own, so nobody needn’t git mad about
it. I ain’t goin’ to do no more farm-work, if
I kin help it; and I want to learn smithin‘,
like school-teacher's father; so I kin make
things, That’s all; so ye needn’t all stare at
me, as if I was a skunk. There, now!”

And Job Manley flung out of the room in
a passion that showed how much ado he had
had all the time to keep his naturally fierce
temper down.

As soon as he had gone, Cora turned to old
Manley to say:

“Mr. Manley, I know it is none of my
business; but will you let Job go to Mr.
Mackay?”

There was something in the bright face of
the young girl that made her request sound
less officious than if it had come. from any
one else, and with a rare tact she added:

“There is something in his face that in—
terests me, and I want to make him my

 féen Jobllfaivuh‘lt took his p,
0 -

man who will be a'eredit to you and all his
family.” ’ -

Old Manley slowly answered:

“ I hain’t no objections if the boy wants it
bad; but this I says and sticks to, that his
wages is got to go to me and his mother, to
pay for his board. He kin go, if he wants
ter.”

With a bright face, the school-teacher said :“

“ Then it is settled, and I am glad of it.”

Then she made an excuse to get out of the
room, and found Job in a corner of the kitch-
en, where there was no one else at the time,
with nothing but the light of the fire to make
his face visible.

She went straight up to him, and said soft-
1i

‘ “Job, your father has consented to let you
go to the forge. Are you glad?”

Job made no answer, but she could hear a
deep sigh of relief that told how the intelli-
gence affected him.

Then she added, in an indifferent way:

“ By-the-by, Job, is it true that you broke
the arm of the last teacher who kept. the
school here?”

Job held up his head in a moment, and his
voice had a different ring in it as he said:

“Yes, I did; and I’d do it again, if he tried
to strike. me: he was a man, and I whipped
him fair, rough-and tumble.”

Cora put her hand on his arm to ask him
quietly:

“Would you break my arm, if I kept the
school, Job?”

Job started so the girl saw it in the firelight,
and hastily he exclaimed:

“ Break your arm! By gum, I’d like to see
the fcller who’d lay the weight (if a finger on
you. I’d tear him to pieces, 1 would.”

Then he burst out:

" Youjre the fu’st ever give me a kind
word, and if I hadn’t made up my mind to
be a smith, I’d be proud to go to school with
yer. It’s b’en ‘Job, ye lazy brute,’ and ‘Job,
ye skunk,’ and ‘ Job, do this and that,’ till it
seemed as if there warn’t no hope ever to git
out of the muddle. And now you’re come,
and I’dmade up my mind to hate yer, and 1
don’t, I swear I don’t 5 and if you’d only
teach me, I’d try to l’arn, I would, so help
me—i) '

The young' lady put her finger on his lips,
and the light touch stopped him instantly, as
she said, softly: '

“Will you promise to learn and to obey
everything I tell you?”

“ 1 will, miss, so help me—”

Again the finger stopped him, as the young
teacher said, gravely: .

“ Then begin now. You must stop swear-
ing. I don’t like it. Next, you must try to
keep your temper, and wear a more cheerful
face. As soon as you try to please other-
people, other people will try to please you.
Good-night.”

Then she was gone, and Job Manley had
taken his first lesson in life.

CHAPTER , 111.
.AT THE FORGE.

THE morning dawned bright and clear,
with a northwest wipd; and the fog and rain
of the previous da" ‘ lad changed to a keen
at the

of Nathan "z‘v’lack‘ay, to“ w the
bellows and learn what'the young blacksmith
could teach him.

Mackay’s forge was in the center of the
village of Sand Flats, and on the opposite
side of the street stood the school-house,
where Cora Beath was to make her essay in
teaching, on the same day. It would be hard
to say which of the two, Job or the young
lady, felt the most nervous at the beginning
of the life that was to be the means of earning
a livelihood to both. .

Job kept his feelings to himself, being
naturally reticent, and trained to hide his
anxiety and discontent beneath an appear-
ance of sulleiiness that was really pride.
Cora was fresh from a nermal school, and
her father had died about a year before; so
that the girl had to teach for her living.
She had only taught classes of children from
city homes before, and bad no knowledge of
.the ways of country boys and girls, while
the experience of her predecessor, whose
armhad been broken by one of his scholars,
was fresh in her memory to make her ner
vous.

But for the fact that necessity compelled
her to do something, she would have aban-
doned the attempt in despair, as soon as she
set eyes on her future scholars. A more un-
promising lot she had never thought of be-
holding.

They ranged in age and size, from Almiry
and Car’line Manley, to a bright-faced little
colored boy, who was the embodiment of
perpetual motion, from the way in which he
wriggled about on his seat, when the new
teacher opened the school with the Bible-
reading. ‘ ’

Sand Flats was a place where the light of
education was not only seldom seen, but
openly mocked at. The old farmers who sat
in the board of school-trustees expressed the
opinion publicly that “ l’arnin’ was all very
well for city folks, but it warn’t wanted fur
boys as had ,to ’arn their livin’ by hard
work.”

It had only been after an animated dis-
cussion and much ill-feeling, that they had
consented to trying a lady teacher at all; and
the majority of the board, of whom old Man-
ley was one, secretly hoped that the girl
might go. the way of all her' predecessors,
and so justify them in their belief that
“ book l’arnin’ warn’t no use in Sand Flats.”

Nathan Mackay, having his forge opposite
the school, had naturally seen a good deal of
what had driven out Cora’s predecessors and
had givenathc girl some advice as to the
characters of her scholars and the rocks she
would have to avoid.

That morning he and Job were both rather
absent-minded, and the young blacksmith
cast furl-ive glances at the little school-house
in the pauses in his work, as if he expected
an explosion every minute. But the morn-
in g passed away quietly; the afternoon came,
when it was time to dismiss school, and still
no row had occurred. When the scholars
came pouring out into the street, Mackay
heaved a sigh of relief, and said to himself,
half aloud:

“Thank Heaven, she has passed the first
day safely.”

Then he began to whistle at his work,
and his face assumed a look of cheerfuluess
that it had not worn all the morning, as he
pulled from the fire a horseshoe, and be-
gan to hammer it, when he was startled by
the sound of a woman’s shriek, and saw
that a mob of rough boys, known as the
hardest cases in the village, had gathered
around the door of the school-house, and
were throwing sand at .the young lady as
she came out of the house.

 

friend. He has in him the makings of a

The spectacle did not shock Sand Flats;

 

for the villagers of the neighborhoodfiid -

not interfere, but stood laughing at the girl,
without offering to help her,‘as she stood
at the door, trying to shield her eyes.

That the intention of the assaulters was
not seriously to hurt the lady, was shown
by the fact that they did not use stones, as
they had on the last teacher; but Nathan
Mackay was up in arms in an instant, run‘
ning out to help Cora, when he was defeat:
ed by the still more prompt action of his
new apprentice. \

Job Manley, his face white with. rage. but
with no other outward semblance of excite~
ment, was out of the forge before the black-
smith could get from behind the anvil, and
had gathered up both hands full of sand as
he went.

\Vhile the crowd was still lau hing at the
embarrassment of the poor girl, ob wasinto
the midst of them, and tripped up two of the
biggest of them. Then, without waiting to
say a word, he dashed a handful of sand ‘in
the face of each of them as they gazed up at
him unwarily, and had them blinded by the
sharp grains before they knew what was the
matter. Then, without pausing. he stooped
and clutched more sand. and rushed at the
rest, who scattered in dismay and fled for
their eyesight; for Job was known through-
out Sand Flats_as the wickedest'flghter in
the place, and had often triumphed in the
very way he was now doing.

As for the girl he had saved from the
young rufiians, she seemed to be too much
astonished and shocked at the whole thing
to say a word at first till she saw Job, with
the light of the recent fight in his eyes as he
shouted after the flying foe a volley of oaths
that fairly made her turn sick. The boy
seemed to be beside himself with rage at the
insult put upon his friend, and was only re.
called to himself by seeing Cora pass by him
without a word of thanks, only giving him
a glance of reproach as sne said, in a very
low voice:

“Job, Job, for shame!
your promise already .9” ,

For a moment the boy did not seem to un-
derstand her, and then he turned as red as
fire and went into the forge without any re-

Haoe you forgotten

pl . ‘ I . .
Nathan Mackay, on the other hand, went

to her and asked, anxiously:

“Did you get hurt, Miss Beath? ,Those
fellows ought‘to be put in jail. I know them
all.” -

She tried to smile as she answered:

“ No, thank you, not hurt; though I was
frightened for my eyes. They did not mean
to hurt me seriousl , I think. It was only
thoughtless mischie . 1' will speak .to them
to—morrow.”

Then she passed along the street toward

Farmer Manley’s house, and Cora Beath had

won a great victory in Sand Flats, though
she did not know it.

Her words, so quiet and gentle, had been
heard by more than one person, for the Sand-
Flattch were nothing if not inquisitive; and
they had had their effect. The two boys
whom Job had thrown down and blinded
were the only real sufferers in the matter,
and they said nothing" about it, as they went
home to wash the sand out of their eyes. It
was all, fair 'to them, for the throwing of
garlands“ a favorite way of fighting in‘ the
village.

But, for the first time in the history 9,,
Sand Flats, the people of the place began to
be ashamed of the ruflianism they had so long
winked at.
finement of the girl, in the gentle way’in
which she Spoke, that amazed them. They
had heard of the new teacher who had come
into town the night before in the stage that
ran from the post-office, but none of them
had seen her fairly till that afternoon. and
her beauty surprised them, Even the Sand-
Flatters had a glimmering perception of
beauty when they saw it, and Cora Beath had
the air of a lady born in the hi best circles.
To assault such’a little, inoffens ve creature,
without any provocation, was a bad deed,
even to the mind of Sand Flats, and the re-
sult was that the unfortunates, who had suf-

fered from the vigorous handling of Job in,

the first place, got an extra warming from

barrel-hoops that night, when their stern far- .

mer parents were informed of their misdeeds
—the first time such a thing had happened in
Sand Flats for years.

As a rule, the Sand-Flatters had a sensible
idea that a school-teacher who coiild not
manage the school without the aid of the
parents was no use. They expected to be
let alone about the matter.

But Job Manley, after he had done so
bravely in defense of the new teacher, had
had the worst of it. Instead of being thank-
ed, he had been rcproached for swearing,
and' the look which had accompanied the
words had sunk into the boy’s very soul. He
was uneasy all the afternoon till,it came to
shut up the forge, and then he came to
Mackay to ask him, with a, curious look of
shame on his face:

“ Please, mister, have I did well to-day?”

“ Very well indeed,” was the hearty reply;
for Mackay had really been pleased with the
vigilance of the boy, and the fact that he had
never let the fire go down fora moment to
gape at the work, the blacksmith knew the
boy was longing to do.

Job hesitated and stammered, till his chief
asked him: .

" Well, Job, what is it that is weighing on
your mind? Speak out. \‘Vhat do you
want?"

“I don’t want nothen’,” said Job, shyly;

“That'is, sir, if you’d jest take a good club
and hit me a clip, whenever I git to swearin’
again, I’d be thankful, sir. I didn't wanter
do it, but it will slip out, no matter what I
do to stop it. It seems to me as if Imust
swear when I git mad, and4-she don’t like
it!” ~

Somehow or other, the face Of the young
blacksmith flushed deeper than that of the
boy had done when Cora Beath had reproach—
ed him, and he said, hurriedly:

“Me! Take a club to you for swearing,

.Job? I am afraid I might deserve it myself,

if the truth were known.
you about it?"

He had not heard the words of Cora, which
were delivered in the lowest tone by which
she could make herself intelligible to Job.

Then Job told his employer the story of
his promise, the night ‘before, and Mackay
felt that the rough, uncouth boy he had de-
spised in his heart had something in him that
Nathan, with all his reading, had not been
able to acquire yet, a conscience that was to
make a man of him.

(To be continued.)

Did she speak to

IT is estimated that an oak tree with
700,000 leaves would give ofi something like
700 tons of water during the five months it
carries its foliage.

There was something in the reg

 

LINGER, SWEET DAY.
BY JAMES E. KINSELLA.

Linger2 sweet day! Let your light
Faerily flush on our face.
Sorrow is sanguine to smite
Souls who are weak in the race;
Brief is our Span of delight—
Buoy up our hearts for a space!
Linger, fair day! Let your eye
Show us the wa y We should take,
Storm and disaster are nigh.
As babes in the gloom lie awake
We grope in the darkness, and cry—-
Stay yet awhile for our sake.

Linger, dear day, let your light
Blaze as a. beacon of cheer;
Laggards are we in the fight:
Changelings of passion and fear.
1n you we find hope and delight,
,‘ YOu strengthen, and we persevere.

Linger, oh, day! Let your beams
Rosily faint on the Spire,

Tinting the prairies and streams
Rare hues of divinest desire-—

Fairyland fuli of aerial dreams,
Fraught with fancy’s fantastical fire!

Dwell with us, day! For your smile
Heartens the weary and sore.

Peril has snares to beguile,
Danger dogs every one’s door.

Sin hides its fang ’neath its smile—
Joy plumes his pinions to sea r.

A milky breast dove on the wing
. Punting, you fly from the night.
A faint-hearted, fluttering thing,
Spent with the force of y0ur flight—
Rest you awhile, ere you fling
Yourself down the abyss of night!
Hugging our steps, as a thief,
Death lies in ambush to seize.
A healer he brings us relief—
Heheeds not our tremulous pleas.
Death is of braves the chief ;
He muffles all men at his case.

THE

Seriosllomic Detective;

1

JOE PHENIX IN CHICAGO.

BY. ALBERT W. AIKEN,

AUTHOR on THE‘ “JOE PIIENIX" NOVELS,
THE “FRESH or FRISCO” TALES, THE
“DICK TALBOT” ROMANCES,

ETC., ETC:

CHAPTER XI.
TIIE WOMAN’S s'roni'.

Tins unexpected announcement-caused the
woman to start in surprise.

“ You don't mean to say that you have seen
my husband?” exclaimed the skirt-dancer,
fairly trembling with agitation.

“ Yes, indeedy!” the bones-player averred.

It was a peculiarity of this gentleman that
he very often used in private life the negro
dialect which he assumed when he put on
the burnt cork and made his appearance on
the stage to do his act.

“ Are you sure?” the skirt—dancer demand-
ed, excitedly. .

“'Oh, yes, you bet your sweet life on it!
I see’d the man with my own two looking
eyes!”

“ Where was he ‘2"

“Down at the post-office. I 'came across
him right by the stamp-window, and mebbe
I wouldn’t have caught on to him if he
hadn’t made a dive to git out of my way, for
he saw me jest a moment before I saw him,
but he wasn’t quick enough, for I got a good
view of his face and spotted him dead to

rights, then he dodged into the crowd and.

disappeared.” _

“ I thought he would come to Chicago and
that is why I came here!" Florence ex-
claimed. -

“ I had a presentiment that sooner or later
I would meet him.” ‘

“ But I say, Florry, Chicago is a mighty
big place, you know, and the odds are great
ag’in’ your being able to find him,” Dougan
opined.

“ Yes, I know that; but I am satisfied that,
sooner or later, we will come together!” the
girl declared with the air of an ' inspired
prophetess.

“ Did you get my letter, by the way?” the
bones-player asked, abruptly.

“ Yes."

“Well, you understand that the offer I
made don’t go now, you know. I didn’t
reckon there was any chance that he would
put in an appearance. It was my notion
that he had cashed in his chips long ago, for
men in his line are mighty apt to die sudden
with his boots on.

“But as he is alive, the offer don’t go!
that is all 0. K., eh?” . .

“ Oh, yes, I understand; but you need not
worry; there wasn’t any chance of my
accepting your offer,” the skirt-dancer
assured.

‘f You are a good fellow, Billy, and I like
you well enough as a friend, but after the
experience I have had with one husband you
can rest assured that I will never trust my
happiness into the keeping of another man
as long as I live.” .

“ Well, I don’t know as I can blame you,”
the bones—player returned. “ Of course I
don’t know much ’bout your family matters,
but I (1 know that your husband was a bad
egg an when you say that he treated you
liadly I am willing to take your word .i‘or
i .”

“ You can do me a Service, Billy, if
will!” the woman now added.

“ Cert! I will if I kin—what is it?"

“.If you should happen to see my husband
again Will you try to keep your eyes on him
so as to see where he goos?”

The bones-player shook his head in a
doubtful way.

“ Well, I would like to oblige vou; vcs,
inde_edy, I_ would, but I am afraid if I should
try it I Would find out that I had bitten off
more than I could chew.

“In the first place you kin bet your sweet
life if‘hc gits his eyes on me he will not have
any follering business in his’n, for he is alto—
gether too fly for anything of that kind.

“And, now that he has seen me, 'ou know
he will have his eyes peeled, and is on the1
dead square that he isn’t going to let any
man play the shadow act on hini.

"‘ But if I do happen to run across him I
Will do the best I kin for you of course!”
and With this assurance Mr. Billy Dougan
took his departure.

.Florence sunk into a chair, her hands
clinched, and an expression of great deter-
mination written upon her features.

Rosamond, coming from her apartment in-
to the parlor, was surprised by the expression
upon the face of the skirt-dancer.

“ You are greatly excited 1” she said

you

 

“ Ah, yes, and I have reason tobe. (I
very thought that I am in the same citywi
this man whom I hate so bitterly makes 
all on fire.” ‘-

;‘ I fancy. then, that your matrimonial
perience has not been a pleasant one,”
Serio-Comic remarked as she took a seat in.
comfortable easy-chair. .» ‘

‘ “ You are right; it was not.”

“ I went through a little experience of
kind myself. I was fool enough to get
ried because I was tired of the stage
wanted a home of my owu.”

“ My case exactly!” the skirt-dance
claimed. _ .,

“ And my precious husband turned out _
be the biggest kind of a fraud, and in a v3
little while I was back on the stage ;
working to support the pair of us." ,

“Just the experience that I went throu 'l
Florence added. I was dancing in 
Orleans when I made the acquaintance”, 
gentleman who called himself James Al ‘
antler, and said he was a rich planter 
the sugar district of Louisiana.” ; 

“ Oh, yes, these ducks are always all 
when they run after the theater girl! ,
particular humbug was the younger son of '
noble English family, and due in time
come in for wealth galore-l”

“ l was, weak enough to marry this A
under, and, too late, discovered thanks,
only a common gambler depcndin r‘uponli
wits for a. living. " But, despite t iat fact,.{
loved the man and was quite content to an ‘
port him, which I did without a murmur.

“Then came a sudden turn of fortu ‘_
wheel. I was lucky enough to win a pm
of fifteen thorsand dollars in a letter ." I 

“Well, Well, that was a. streak 0 luc
the Serio-Comic declared. _ ..

“And, strange to say, I was wise enough
not to give all, the money to my husba
but as he had already begun to treat mew
indifference. l was a little suspicious'of hi
for he had dropped hints at times when
had drank more liquor than Was good
him, that I was net the first woman hq '
married to help him to get out of a ti;
place.” _ 

“ Ah, yes, I understand; the misei‘a
scoundrel l”

“ But I made an even division with him,
giving him a clear half of the money.”

“ W'ell, thatwas certainly treating him
the most liberal manner.” ,._ .-

“Thc money did not last him a
for, in haste to get rich, he gambled it
awa . ’ ‘

“ Ah, yes, that is what the majority
gamblers do, and it has always seemed to
to be so strange that the men who knowli
great the odds are against the player, id
when they succeed in winning a good at
from some grecnhorn, go and risk it in 
ing to break some other man’s faro-bank.” ‘

“ Just at this time I was unfortun
enou rh to fall sick with a fever, and ins ,-
of ca ling a. doctor and taking care of ,1,
himself as a husband should, he bundled u
off to the hospital."

“ The unmitigated brute!” the Starla-Co t
exclaimed. . '

“ For a month I hovered between life
death, and during that time my 11 ‘
never once visited me.” .

“ Hanging would be too and to?
man—«he ought to be boiler alive ill ,
put to death by some other dreadful tom
Rosamond declared. '

" Finally I was pronounced to be on
road to health again, and wondering at , ,
absence of my husband I sent for him,
no answer was returned; then Iuwrote tot
old genll x mm from whom we rented u s
rooms. I ecame, and a dreadful stor
deed it was he told inc. 1

“My husband had contrived to fascinate7
young lady possessed of a small fortune, :
had induced the girl to elope with hign, ,
before departing had disposed of all
things in our rooms.” I

“ He was a double-distilled scoundrel!" 

“ And when I came out of the hospital
discovered that, before going away, be h
by means of forging my signature, succeed
Ed 1in getting all of my money out of the 5'

an <.” , ,‘ V ,

“ My man was bad enough, but he was»?
a marker to this wretchl” ‘ ’ ‘

“ I was helpless, unable to work,
thanks to a few performers who got me up i;
benefit I was able to get along until I could
go on the stage again. ' 3.

“Then I met a man who had been
husband’s pal, and I learned that, after
ting the girl’s money, he had deserted
and had gone to California, andJ told t
man that if I ever met the wretch I w , ‘
kill him on sight, even though I died 
next instant!" the skirt-dancer declared
conclusion. 7

“ And you would be perfectly justified , ».
so doing,’ the Serio-Coniic decided. “If” "
my notion, too, that under such circu‘
stances no jury would convict you.”

“ Well, that is something I never troubl
my head about; in fact I have not given
matter a thought. I am Spanish b ': ‘
and it is the nature of the people 0 my -
to take vengeance into their own hands Wm
they are wronged." ‘

“ Yes, I am aware of that fact.”

“ This is one of those cases Where the
cannot give me the vengeance I crave.” '
“ You would only be able to prosecute . H

for biganiy, and for forging our name so

to get the money out of the ank,” the of“
suggested; “and as you were married to hi ’
in N cw Orleans, and the robbery also took‘ -.
place there, you might have a good  ‘
of trouble in proving the man to ho

rascal." ' , .
“Yes, I suppose. I would, and even if I
could succcei in having him «made _ '
31s pimishment would not amount to any;

iin g.

“Nothing more than a term of
merit,” Rosamond replied. ’

“That would not satisfy me at alll’WM
skirt-dancer protested. “ It is the man’ullfi
for which 1 hunger! , r .I
. “Perhaps you think I am liltmdthlratyi
It is the truth, I am! That miserable W
ruined all my life; why, under such circuit}
stances, is it not just that his life should W
the forfeit?” 7,,

“Well, I don’t know as you ought to M
blamed for thinking so about the motto!"
Rosamond remarked.

“In a case like this, the law does ,M
mete out to the offender the punishm '
which he justly deserves, «I 3:

“A fellow of this kind goes. through 
world ruining the lives of the unfortumfl’
women whom he selects for victims, ‘ .,
Justice does finally succeed in getting him
by the collar, all the punishment infliéted 3. -.
a few years in jail." ' ‘

“ It is because the men make the la“...
Florence declared. “And they are Helm
just to women. _

,.L
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