 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TRANSITION.

BY JOHN GOSSII’.

 

 

A heart without a mate
Is like a bird without a spring;
In its winter desolate,
Ah! who can hear a. lone heart sing?

Just as a ﬂower within a room
Bursts from its bud—life into bloom——
So love is grown!

Love is so thoughtful! love each day
Seeks out some vices hidden way
To h ess. its own. "

Love may beblind, but love can see
The eyes that gaze so tenderly
*5 , Into its own!

Love  be blind, but love can see
The heart tﬁt never more shall be
one .

Love cannot ﬁnd enough to do—-
No more can it ﬁnd lips to say

Its thoughts: love is so still and true
When dawns its natal day!

The Men at ’76.

BENJAMIN LINCOLN.

“ OLD STEADFAST.”

 

 

BY DR. LOUIS LEGRAND.

 

ONE of the solid men of the Revolution was
Benjamin Lincoln. A substantial, honest, care—
ful character, he won and retained Washing-
ton’s conﬁdence, and gave to the muse of Inde-
pendence, in all its fortunes, that steady sup—
port and never-daunted resolution which, far
more than brilliancy of special acts, carried the
war to its victorious culmination. Among the
Men of ’76, therefore, he deservﬁ an honored
place, and no history of the war is likely to be
written which does not award to him a most
meritorious part in the stern drama. '

Benjamin Lincoln wm born at Hingham,
Mass, Jan. 24th, 1733. There his life was
spent in peaceful pursuits. He acquired a fair
education and entered manhood with a reputa-
tion for integrity and intelligence which won
for him various local omces of trust. As the
oppressive measures of the mother country be-
come more pronounced, and the right of taxa-
tion more boldly claimed by George III. and

his ministers, Lincoln espoused the party of ‘

liberty and soon took a leading position, in his
town, in directing public opinion in the right
direction. This prominence called him to a
seat in the “General Court,” as representative
from Hingham, (1774,) and when the Court
mlved itself into af‘Provincial Congress”
he was named its secretary. Of the second
Cong-rem which met at Cambridge in 1775 he
was also secretary and member of the “Com—
mittee of Supplies,” and in May was named
as one of the two “Muster Masters ” appoint-
ed to form the “ Massachusetts amiy.”

This may be said to have commencodhis mil-
itary life. He was very busy all that year.
Forming that “army” and acquiring a knowl-
edge of tactics and practice, compelled him
to give up his whole time to the duty, and
when, in February, 1’7 '1 6, he was commissioned
brigadier-general, by the Council of State, it
was evident that he was the right man in the
right place. In May, (same year,) to increase
his powers and efficiency, he was made a Mo-
jor—General, and, as such, assumed control of
the State  and State military operations.
Boston harbor was, under his direction, addi—
tionally fortiﬁed, and amilitary eﬂ‘lciency was
rapidly given to the militia. When news came
of the disastrous defeat at Long Island, and it
was known that the enemy was to make New
York City his base of operations, Mamachusetts
sent forward its contingent of troops under com-
mand of Lincoln. He was assigned to Heath’s
division, which remained on the eastside of the
Hudson, after the main body of Washington’s
army had crossed to head off the British in their
march across New Jersey. Heath, with fully
6,000 men, made a ﬁasco in the “threat” he
was ordered to execute against Howe’s lines,
(December, 1776,) and Washington called Lin-
coln’s division forward to Morristown. Jan.
10th, 1777, the division crossed the Hudson and
reported at head—quarters“. '

Feb. 19th, 1777, Congress formally trans-
ferred Lincoln to the Continental, service, with
the rank of Major—General. Heath was sent
home to recruiting duty, resting under the ex—
premed censure of the Commander—in—Chief
for, his ineﬂlciency in the faint on New
York.

Lincoln, stationed at Boundbrook, near New
Brunswick, New Jersey, was  by a
strong British detachmentvunder Lord Corn—
wallis and the merciless General Grant, on
the morning of April 13th, and suffered a sharp
defeat, barely escaping, with one of his aids.
The other aid, with all the General’s papers,-
was taken prisoner, with sixty men and three
guns. This surprise so mortiﬁed the General
. that thereafter he trusted no subordinate to

a post of great responsibility without himself
being fully advised of everywstep taken. He,
returned to Boundbrook immediately to ﬁnd
the enterprising Cornwallis gone beyond reach.
The post being one of advance demanded the
greatest vigilance? and Lincoln was never again
caught by surprise.

In July he was detached from Washington’s
own army to proCeed to New England in order
to organize and assume command of the militia
going forward to confront Burgoyne, in his ad-
vance from Canada upon Albany. Aug. 2d,
17-77, he reached Manchester, Vt.——the rendez.
vous. A hard task was his. The new men
were tolbe organized, disciplined and equipped;
supplies of all kinds were to be acquired; the

enemy was to be watched and perhaps com
fronted in serious affrays. All was so well
done that when old John Stark struck the one—
my at Bennington, and Arnold had raised the
siege of Fort Schuyler, Lincoln seized the Brit-
ish posts on Lake George, and thus severed
Burgoyne’s line of communication to the rear.
Then the British General was forced to close
quarters; the battle of Stinwater was fought
and Gates resolved to crowd hisantagonist to a
j« general bottle or unconditional surrender. Lin-
* . coln was assigned to command the right wing
of the Patriot army, with his owu militia and
three other brigades. This division was not
called in action in the struggle of Oct. 7th, but
on the 8th it drove the enemy from hisposi—
tion , and gained a strong vantage ground.
That afternoon, in leading, in person, a regt
ment of militia, to secure a position in Bur-
goyne’s rear, a small party of British was taken
for Americans; an unexpected ﬁring occurred,
and the General wasso severely wounded in the
leg as to be incapacitated for aervicc for
more than a year. Thus, greatly to his disap«
pointment, he was denied the pleasure of being
present at the surrender of that splendid army
which he had, in no small degree, helped to
, conquer. His conﬁnement was cheered by
many tokens of esteem frpm officers and citi—
zens, and Washington expressed his sympathy
and warm friendship in a very neat gift.

Not until August, 1778, was he once more
y able to stride the saddle. Then he returned to
" [duty under Washington's own command, but

  

 

 

 

did not long there remain, for Congrem, Sept.
25th, assigned him to the chief direction of the
Department of the South—one of the most dif-'
ﬁcult and disheartening assignments that could
have been made. The whole of South Caro-
linaandGeorgiawasinasing-ularstateofdis—
organization. Many petty commands were in
the ﬁeld, but all authority was precarious, and
the enemy,  daily in strength and bold-
ness,obtained substantial advantages. Savannah
was wrested from the American General Hows;
the cruel British General Provost, coming up
from Florida, captured Fort Sunbury and its
garrison and then reinforced Savannah. Lin—
coln, owing to various detentions, did not
reach Charleston until early in Dec, 17 7 8, and
all these disasters followed, ere he had time to
organize either for offense or defeme.

Not at all disheartened, the patient patriot
proceeded to create what did not exist—an
army. It was indeed a hard task. Early in
January he took post at Purysburg, thirty miles
above Savannah, to watch the enemy. His
“army ” then numbered 950 men—an odd col—
lection of men of all degrees. ' In a. month the
force grew to 3,700, of whom 1,100 were regu-

whose addition was indeed welcome, for,
greatly by their presence and discipline, was
the commander able to compel his rough re—
cruits to order and obedience.

Now he was able to operate, but his ﬁrst blow
was a sad failure through the culpable inefﬁ-
ciency of General Ashe. With 1,600 men Ashe
was ordered to drive the enemy down the river
(Feb. 13-16th, 1778) and to menace upon Sa-
vannah, in order to keep Provost from emailing
the position at Purysburg. Ashe was caught
by Provost, by a surprise, and of all the 1,600
men under his command not more than 450 re
turned to Lincoln’s ranks. This wretched dis-
aster so reduced the patriot strength that, if the
British had followed up their advantage, the
whole force at Purysburg must have been scat-
tered or destroyed. _

Lincoln, however, acted with great prudence.
Weak as he was he soon assumed the offensive,
the better to deceive the enemy. Ho marched
upon Augusta—leaving Moultrio at Purysburg,
with but 1,000 men. Provost made a counter
threat by moving upon Charleston, but Lincoln,
slightly reinforcing Moultrie, kept on—-Savan-
nah really being his objective point, as the
enemy was duly informed by the disloyalists,
who watched and reported every movement of
the “ rebels.” The South, at, that time, was
alive with British emissarles and citizen spies,
who did immense harm to the patriot cause.
Provost then thinking the moment opportune
for a real dash at Charleston, started in earnest
for that city, and a running ﬁght occurred be-
tween him and the always ready Moultrie—as
detailed in our sketch of the Palmetto bxigadier.
Finding that Charleston was in danger, Lincoln
had noalternative but to abandon his move-
ment upon Savannah and to hasten forward to
the aid of Moultrie. He reached Charleston,
but Prevom had decamped (May 12th.)

Lincoln now resolved to strike a blow that,
if successful, would and British domination in
the department. Provost was intrenched at
Stone Inlet, and against that position all the
available forces Were thrown; but, though Lin-
coln made a splendid attack, Moultrie’s failure
to come up in time disconcerted the enterprise,
and Provost was enabled to return to Savannah,
to which point the American again turned his
attention. , -

But this hard rvice, and the heat of that
Southern clime, to d severely on the Massachu-
setts General. His health failed; his old wound
reopened, and he sought a release from the de—
partment command by application to Congress,
to be restored to the army of the commander—
in—chief. The ofﬁcers in the Southern army
and all the leading citizens of South Carolina
protested-the gallant Moultrie, then second in
command, among the protestants. Such an ex—
pressionhwas, to Lincoln’s faithful heart, a com—
mud, and he decided to remain. Congress,
by a fennel order, requested him so to do, and
measures were adopted to strengthen the South—
ern forces.

Count (1’ Estaing, with the French ﬂeet, ap—
pearing off the coast (Sept. lot, 1779), a. com-
bined, movement against Savannah was arrang—
ed, but not until the 16th did the American
commander and his forces reach the city. Then
it was found that the count had, in the name of
France, demanded a. surrender—an act which
Lincoln at once repudiated, and, Provost holding
out, a combined assault was arranged, led by D’
Bktaing and Lincoln, personally. This occurred
undercover of the darkness, on the evening of
Oct. 9th. The main work was assailed'in front
by the We commanders, while a column of
French under Count Dillon was to work its way
around to the rear. The struggle was very san—
guinary; D’ Estaing was severely wounded,
and Lincoln, not speaking Hench, could not
command the allies; but the work was fairly
won, when Col; Maitland’s dragOons, leaving
their own redoubts, drove the conquerors out.
Count Dillon came up ﬁve minutes too late; the
victory was 10% to the allies, and a retreat was
executed in good order. Among the slain was
that glorious hero, Count '.

D’ Estaing, having really disobeyed orders in
not before sailing for France, did not long tarry,
and Lincoln was left alone, with a defeated
army and depleted ranks. But, undaunted, and
still sustained by the sympathy and conﬁdence
of every patriot, he proceeded to prepare for
the new trial. The British had resolved to re—
gain the South at all hazards, and the city of
Charleston was the menaced point.

When Sir Henry Clinton ﬁnally appeared,
and made a landing on John’s Island (Feb. 10th,
1780), the defenses of the city had so illy pro~
grossed that the powerful British force had but
to advance to take the place, but Clinton moved
upon his prize so slowly that, when he appear—
ed before the town, he found the Americans
ready for ﬁght. A formal siege was ordered,
the ﬁrst week in April, as narrated in our sketch
of Moultrie. By April 2131; the city was starv-
ed into a ﬂag of truce, but, Lincoln’s proposi—
tions for capitulation being rejected, the ﬁght
went on. The besiegers carried their lines (ap—
proaches) up to the American intrenchments,
and on May 8th Were may for a ﬁnal assault.
Again a. summons to unconditional surrender
was rejected, and the ﬁght was renewed with
vindictive ﬁerceness. For two days, the awful
bombardment continued, when longer ﬁght was
absolutely impossible. Food and ammunition
were alike exhausted; the troops were worn
out; the suffering citizens were savagely clamor-
ous for release from the horrors of shot and
shell; so Lincoln succumbed, and on the 12th a
formal capitulation ended that meet formid«
able defense. Lincoln remained a prisoner in
Charleston until November let, when he was
exchanged and returned home, but did not re—
join the army until the succeeding summer.
He commanded a division before Yorktown,
and participated, in that glorious siege, to be
formally thanked by Washington for his ser-
vices there.

Lincoln was then made Secretary of War,
and ﬁlled that arduous oﬂce to the end of hos-
tilities and the disbandment of the Continental
army," in October, 17 83. His patience, tact and
personal pepularity served his country well at

a time when disorder and mutiny seemed likely
to sully our newly-won independence.

' The record of the latter years of Lincoln’s
life was one of honor. Ofﬁces of trust were his.
When Shay’s “ rebellion ” broke out he was the
man chosen to quell the disturbance. He
greatly contributed to the adoption, by Massa—
chusetts, of the Federal Constitution. In 1788
he was elected Lieutenant-Governor of the
State. The succeeding year, by Washington’s
appointment, he was made Collector of: the
Port of Boston~an ofﬁce he held until 1806,
when age and inﬁrmity compelled him to with—
draw. He died May 9th, IMO—beloved to a.
degree amounting to veneration, by all who
knew him well, and revered by the nation that
did not fail to ﬁx a. proper estimate on services
rendered. ~

Without a Heart:

OR,
WALKING ON THE BRINK.

A STBRY OF lIFE’S SUNSHINE AND SHAMW.

BY COLONEL PRENTISS INGRAHAM,
AUTHOR OF “GIVEN non GOLD,” “THE FLY-
ING YANKEE,” “THE ICEXICAN SPY,”
“TRACKED THROUGH LIFE,”
are, are, ETC.

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIV.
THE COURT ORDEAL.

TEE day of the trial came at last, and the in-
terest created in the murder of the old minister,
and the youth and striking appeal-anal of the
supposed murderer, was intense, and crowded
the court-house with a large number'of persons
desirous of beholding the prisoner, and hearing
the testimony for and against. -

At length Everard Ainslie was b‘ught into
the court—room, pale, calm, and apparently un-
moved by the penalty hanging over him if

found guilty of the terrible charge against
'him

As he felt the eyes of hundreds turned upon
him, his face ﬂushed crimson for a moment,
and then back again rushed the blood, leaving
him as pallid as the dead.

Taking the seat assigned to him, he turned
his eyes upon the judge, as if endeavoring to
discover if any show of mercy rested there.

Then, as each 3‘ was accepted, and
took his seat in the box, Everard glanced Wist-
fully into his face, as if studying his char-
acter.

Like a hawk, Clarence Erskine sat watching
the proceedings of the court, challenging here
and there a juryman, and with his cold, biting
sarcasm causing the opposing counsel to wince
at-each parting of his stern lips.

Near the prisoner was Colonel .Erskine, an
anxious, sorrowful expression on his ﬁne face,
and yet an appearance of having full conﬁdence
in two things‘~the innocence of the prisoner,
and the power of Clarence to wholly prove it.

At length the jury-box was full, and the trial
began. I ‘

The ﬁrst witnm called was Anthony White.

A smile crossed the lips of Everard Ainslie
as the man, who had driven him from the col.
logo to the town, took the witness stand.

“Mr. White, you have made the charge of
murder against this prisoner: will you tell the
court why you did 80?” said the lawyer for the
prosecution, who glanced over to a. part of
the room where sat two ladies in deep mourn—
ing and a youth by their side.

“I drove the young gentleman, some three
months ago, from the college \Mhere he was a
student, to the city, some thirty miles distan .”

“ He hired you for that p ?”

, “ Yes, sir; he gave me twenty dollars for the
trip__n

“ Never mind what he gave you. It was at
night, Was it not?”

“ Yes, sir; but the moon was a—shining as
bright as day.” ‘

“ Go on to relate the incidents of
night ride.”

“Well, sir, the young gentleman seemed to
be very cross about something, for when I went
to talk to him—you see I am sociable like in
my habits~he snapped me up short.

“ Well, at length we came to the Silver
Creek Church, and the prisoner stared at it, as
though he was frightened, and suddenly called
out to me to stop.

“ I drew up the horses, and he sprung out,
and whether he had dropped something or not,
I do not know; but he stooped and picked up a
white paper, one end of: which had a. dark stain
upon it.

“ After a few moments of hesitation, at one
time attempting to get into the vehicle, he ap-
proached the gate, entered, and. soon after I saw
him go into the church.”

“ How long was he in the church, witness?”
asked the lawyer.

“ I do not know for certain, sir. The horses
was pretty restless, and he might have been
twenty minutes or half an hour.

“When he came out he was running, and his
hands was up to his head.

“ Jumping into the buggy, he told me to
‘ Drive on, for God’s sake!’ and I was scared at
his planner, and drove on pretty rapid, and
until we reached town he never spoke to
me. ” e

“ You drovo him to a hotel in the city, did
you not?”

“ Yes, sir; I put my horses up for a feed and
rest, and started back early in the forenoon.

“When I reached the church, there was a.
crowd of country people there, and I was told
the rector had been killed the night before.

“ As I drove on home, it came over me how
strange the young fellow had acted, and when
I got back I spoke of it to my boss, and he sent
for his lawyer, and that is the way it all came
out.” '

“ You are certainythen, Mr. White, that the
prisoner was the murderer of the Rev. Felix
Hargrove, the rector of Silver Creek church?”
asked the lawyer. "‘

“Yes, sir, it appears so to me. If he didn’t
do it, who did?” ,

“ You are not on the stand, Mr. White,
to ask conundrums,” said the deep, cutting
voice of Clarence Erskine; and then, as the
witness was turned over to his tender mercies,
the young lawyer continued:

“ You are, I believe, Mr. White, noted as a
kind of circulating news-monger, in the quiet
village that is honored as the plum of your na-
tivity?”

Mr. White was silent, for he felt that he was
a village gossip, and Clarence continued:

‘ “Anxious to visit the birth-place of Anthony
White, I ran up to your quiet village in the
mountains, and I there learned that if any one
but dropped a seed of suspicion in your neigh‘
borhood, you tended it carefully until you
made it burst forth into accusations of the bit-
tereet kind.

“ Now, I ask you, in the presence of this
court, why‘you havo frequently told it in the
public inns, that the prisoner’s hands were cov-
ered with blood, and that he continually mut-
tered, before he reached the church, something

that mid-

 

like, ‘I’ll do it! I’ll do it!’?”

 

 

“ I don’t know what it was he said,” dogged-
ly replied the Witness.

“‘And why did you say that, after leaving
the church, he muttered, ‘,I’ve done it! I’ve
done it P?”

“ He did say something like that.” -

“And yet you told a dozen men, whom I
have here to confront you, that those were his
very words.”

Under the biting sarcasm of Clarence Er-
skine, Anthony White left the witness stand, no
longer puffed up with the idea of his greatness,
and as witness after witness fell into the mercii
less clutches of the brilliant young advocate,
their testimony was proven of little value
against Everard Ainslie.

At length the time came for Clarence Erskine
tomake his great speech, iii-pleading for the in
nocence of his client, and the court-house was
crowded almost to suffocation by a dense throng
of the best people of the city.

Arising, amid a breathless silence, Clarence
Erskine went on to relate how, through the
kindness of a wealthy fellow—student, the pris-
oner had been taken as a mere waif, and placed
at college.

How he had behaved himself there without
reproach, and pever been absent from the
grounds of the university from his arrival un-
til he left. '

At length a quarrel with a fellow—student
caused his gay benefactor to ﬂy from the col—
lege, for in anger he had struck at the life of a
comrade, who, after weeks of lingering suffer—
ing, had recovered from the wound inﬂicted.

Left alone by the ﬂight of his friend, Ever—
ard Ainslie had at once departed from the uni—
versity, determined to seek a living for him-
self. . ‘

He admits his moody feelings the night of his
drive with Mr. Anthony White, and his stop-
ping in front of the church; nay, mom—that
ho’picked up a paper in the road, which, by
some strange chance, interested him—why, the
prisoner refused to make known.

Also he admitted entering the church, im—
pelled by a motive known only to himself, and
discovering there the dead body of the aged

r.

Then it was that he ﬂed from the sacred edi-
ﬁce in horror, and begged the driver to speed
on for God’s sake.

Arriving in the city, he sOught to ﬁnd his fel-'
low-student, and for several days tracked him
from place to place, and when his ebbing funds
warned him away to seek work, he started for
New York on foot.

While en route to the metropolis he did a. no-
ble deed, at risk of his own life; and Clarence
went on to tell how Everard Ainslie had nobly
served his father and sister.

Then followed an account of the accident, in
which poor Florice lost her life, and then how
devotedly the youth had watched over his
wounded benefactor.

‘ “Now, gentlemen of the jury,” continued
Clarence, “ I admit that a dark, damnablc mys—
tery hangs dver the murder of poor Rev; Felix
Hargrove; I admit that a paper found by the
roadside nearly interested my client, and that
he entered the church; but you have to know
whether he entered that sacred tabernacle of
God for the ' purpose of deliberately brealn'ng‘
one of His commandments.

“ Look! he is a mere youth; his hands are as
delicate as a woman’s, and yet they'would say
that his hand held a knife, which his arm drove
through bone, muscle and ﬂesh, for the blade of
the assassin passed entirely through the body of
the murdered man. ‘

“Bring proof that yonder boy had cause to
slay the unfortunate minister, that he had plot-
ted to meet him in his lonely vestry—room, and
then you can hold Everard Ainslie for murder.

“Yonder sit the wife, the daughter and the
son of Rev. Felix Hargrove, and upon their
faces rests no feeling toward this prisoner, for
they feel that he is guiltless of the crime charged
at his door.

“Circumstances unexpected to him, the mys—

terious papers he found, may have made him
acquainted with the truth of who did the deed;
but, as to his being the guilty one, out upon the
thought.”
' For three hours did Clarence Erskine’s voice
ring through the crowded court, and when he
at length sat down it was evident that he had
made a deep impression upon all.

But the murderer was not found, if Everard
Ainslie did not commit the deed, and there
seemed a. strong desire among many to hang
somebody for the crime. . -

 

cnmnn xv. 
A SECRET NO LONGER.

WHEN Clarence Ersldne ceased spooﬁng,
there was a momentary sensation in court, and
the sympathy was with the prisoner; but when
the counsel for the prosecution had stated fully
his side of the question, and propounded time
and again the manswerable conundrum of: “ If
the prisoner is not thebase assassin, who then
is?” there seemed to be an even balance as to
his guilt or innocence.

At length the charge of the judge was given,
calmly and impartially, and the jury, who held
in their hands the life or death of the prisoner,
arose slowly from their seats to retire.

Passing out of the room, through the narrow
aisle, each juryman was compelled to hesitate
an instant directly in front of the prisoner.

Searchingly, wistfully, scorchineg the lus-
trous, fascinating eyes of Everard Ainslie fell
upon each one of those twelve faces, and as the
eyes of each juryman met that gaze they seem—
ed to feel its magnetism—they seemed to read
there innocence of the crime charged against
him, and to a man they halted, hesitated, turn—
ed and went back to their seats, to the surprise
and amazement of every one in that crowded
room. '

Then the foreman, when called upon for an
explanation, arose, glanced down the line of
jurymen, and answered:

“ Not guilty I”

Like a statue sat Everard Ainslie, deaf to the
wild applause that burst forth from the crowd-
ed court, and unmindful of the looks bent upon
him.

Silently he received his dismissal from the
hands of the law; totterineg he arose to receive
the congratulations of Colonel Erskine and
Clarence, and with a. cry, as if from a broken
heart, fell forward into'the arms of his brilliant
advocate in an almost deadly swoon.

Tenderly raising the lithe, graceful form in
his powerful arms, Clarence Erskine bore him
from the court-room to his carriage in waiting,
and beckoning to his family physician, who was
present, Colonel Erskine rapidly followed. ‘

Springing into the carriage after the doctor,
Colonel Erskine said quickly:

“ Home!” ‘

Away dashed the carriage over the paved \

streets, and yet, as block after block was left
behind, Everard Ainslie still lay in unconsci-
ousness.

At length the elegant mansion was reached,
and up the broad stairway Clarence bore the
slender form, and deposited it upon a lounge in
the library, and stepped aside for the physician
t5 approach.

Alarmed at the:long fainting ﬁt, the man of
medicine called quickly for restoratives, and
tore open the loose coat and vest.

Then in surprise be bounded to his feet, cry-
ing aloud:

“ My God I it is a woman!”

The surprise of Colonel Erskine and Clarence
cannot be depicted, and in utter amazement
they spoke not a word, but blankly stared,
while the physician applied restoratives and
echafed the small hands of the supposedyouth.

I At length the beautiful eyes partly opened,
the lips quivered, a sigh was heard, and con—
sciousness had returned. .

“ Ah! I am no longer in that horrible court
—yes, I am free—oh! sir, what do I not owe
to you?” and rising quickly, the one who had
so long been believed a youth, threw herself up-
on her knees before Clarence Erskine.

Then, as if realizing her position, and feeling
that her secret was known, her face ﬂushed
scarlet, and the beautiful eyes drooped and
sought the ﬂoor, while the pleader’s form trem-
bled violently. ‘

After a. moment she said: ,

“Ere you condemn me, my noble friends,
hear me, for, to you, I have along and full
confession to make.

“ I have deceived you, true; but I will tell
you all, and throw myself upon your mercy,
and then, if you bid me go, I will never again
darken your doorway with my presence.”

“My child, my poor little waif, arise, and
do not feel that either Clarence or myself will
set you adrift again in the werld.

“ When you are Willing to tell us all, wewill
hear you; now you need rest, and we will leave
you,” and Colonel Erskine extended his hand
and raised the maiden to her feet, and, follow-
ed by his son and the physician, left the room,
after adding that the secret of her sex should
remain inviolate, until she chose to make it
known.

 

CHAPTER XVI.
SANS canon.

WHEN the colonel and Clarence left the room,
followed a moment after by the doctor, the
maiden seemed an invalid, recovering from a
long siege of sickness, for her face had been
blanched snow—white dining her imprisonment,
and a. certam' beggar look hung round the
eyes, while her mouth seemed strangely stern
for one so young in life’s trials.

But when left alone the maiden sprung to
her feet, and her face became ﬂushed with ex-
citement, as she nervously paced the room.

As the minutes passed away she grew more
calm, and the hard, haggard look passed from
her face, while there settled thereon an expres—
sion of daring determm' ation, and her' hands
closed tight together, as though she had made
up her mind to her future course.

Pacing quickly to and fro for a moment, she
said, half-aloud:

“Well, I must make a bold stand now, or
all is lost——a11 my bright hopes for power over
men will be dashed to the ground.

“I know that I am beautiful in face and
faultless in form, and I feel that I can coin a
sweet revenge agamst' mankind, for has not
one man whom I trusted cast a shadow over
the very threshold of my life?

“ Did he not swear to me that I should be
acknowledged his Wife before the world, and
live with him in his grand city home? but, how
did he keep that promise? Why, he tired of
me, just as I have read in novels that other
men tired of as fair women as I. Yes, he
would have cast me off, for he was plotting so
to do when the crash came sooner than he had
anticipated. . ‘

“No, I did not love him; he could not stir
the inmost recesses of my heart—heart, did I
say? . ,
“ Why, I have no such function—I am with»
out heart—now; yet there was a time when
my best love would have gone forth to one
man, and did he but nurture it as it deserved
it would have been all that he could have
wished.

“ It is said, and with truth—

“ ‘ Woman’s love, like the ivy,
Will too often cling,
Around a. base and worthless thing.‘

“And thus it was with my love. He was
unworthy of it, andcast off the tendrils of my
affection.

“ Well, the die is:cast now, and I am launched
upon the tempestuous sea of life; but is it my
fault that I am what I am—an unrecognized
Wife?

“ N0; Fate led me astray, and Fate was
cruel, for it cast my life in unpleasant places;
it made my home a. very hell; my days and
nights a very nightmare of dread; but I cannot
believe that I was destined to ever pass my
days in that spot, which it were desecration _
upon the name of home to call it such.

“Now, without heart I must ever be, for
whatmustlcarenow? Am I not a cast—off
Wife? Is not my husband a. fugitive, with the
brand of murder upon his soul? Is not my
own hand, delicate and shapely though it be,
stained with blood? True, it was in defense of
those who certainly have proven my friends;
yet the specter of the dead must arise before
me, for I, a woman, a more girl, sent him to
his grave.

“ And was I not tried for murder? Have
not my days and nights, for weeks past, been
passed in a felon’s cell? Am I not now a waif,
an outcast? '

“ Oh, God! how the damnable questions
surge up to be answered against my soul!

“ But I have stepped off the brink now, and
I must go down; I must not draw back now, for
I have drank of the fatal chalice held to my
lips, and its poison is running” like molten lead
through my veins. ‘

“True, I might tell them the Whole truth,
and they would not cast me off; but, dare I run
the risk? 'Might not the trail of his crime be
followed and his life and upon the gallows. He
must not die thus, for I must meet him yet; I
have awrong to avenge. I hold against him
that which will make his very craven soul
cringe with despalr' .

“No, I must not hesitate now; I must have
no heart, no conscience, but, with a mask of
falsehood upon my face, go deﬁantly through
life. .

»“ Yes, I will brave it out.”

So saying, the maiden, by an exertion of her
wonderful self-control, drove from her face
every shadow of evil, every hard look, ' and
with a mnile upon herfull lips, a glance of aﬁec—
tion in her beautiful eyes, left the room to seek
Colonel Erskine and Clarence, for she purposed
making to them a confession—a tissue of false-
hoods.

 

CHAPTER XV II.
.THE CONFESSION. /
IN the luxuriously furnished rooms of Colonel
Erskine eat that gentleman and his son Clarence,
conversing in earnest tones upon the r rk~
able discovery they had made in roger

  
    
  

to be a‘woman.
Suddenly the door opened,

the object of
their conversation entered.

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