, r.
6—1...
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while her face was flushed as though with na-
tural bloom, the maiden said, quietly:

“Have I intruded, my friends, for such you
have proven yourselves to be!”

“By no means, Eve—Ev—what must I call
you now!”

“ Eve, sir. My name is Eve Ainslie. The
latter part of my Christian name was added.”

“And aptly done! Be seated, Eve, for we
were just speaking of you, and of how clever-
)y you had deceived every one who knew you.
Be seated, please, and tell us how you feel now,”
and Colonel Erskine drew the maiden gently to-
ward him.

“lam better, thank you, sir; in fact I am
quite recovered; and have come to make to you
and your son a confession which I owe you—

“ Wait a while, Eve, for your nerves are yet
unstrung from the long and cruel strain upon
them. You need rest and quiet,” said Clar-
ence, kindly. _

“ No, let me tell you all now, and then I Will
feel more like rest, and I desire earnestly to
confess to you, and prove that, though I de—
ceived you as regards my sex, I certainly had
no desire to do so otherwise,” and Eve Ainslie
spoke most earnestly, while both Colonel Ers-
kine and Clarence awaited in silent expecta—
tion the confession she had to make.

“ From first to last I must tell you all,” be-
gan the maiden, seating herself in an easy-chair,
and in such a way that the shadows from the
Window cuitain fell upon her face.

“ Yes,” she continued, “it is not my in-
tention to deceive any longer, especially you
my true friends, whom I haVe learned to love
so dearly.

“I was born upon the Hudson river, and my
father was a gentleman and a man of wealth—
my mother a poor farmer’s daughter.

“ Disinherited by his parents for marrying
one beneath him, my father took to the sea for
a support, and upon the sea he lost his life
when I was a wee thing.

“ My mother soon after went to her grave——
it was said dying of a broken heart, and as I
was a pretty, bright child, my father’s rich and
proud relatives adopted me, and for years I
ived with them indulged in every luxury, and
educated daily in all that it was proper for me
to mow.

“ Though a mere girl I was a proficient mu-
l'eian, posseaed a good voice, and was a fair
artist; but when in my fifteenth year there
came a crash; my grandfather lost his wealth
in speculation, shot himself through the heart
in despair, and his family were left penniless.
Even my own rich wardrobe and jewels went
for food, and I was consigned to the care of a
harsh, cruel woman, living on the river in a
small house of her own.

“ The woman had once been the afl'iancc of my

father; then she was beautiful and well off;
but, when my father married another she be-
came tired of a gay life, gave up the world, and
settled herself down to a lonely life of bitter
regret.
“ I at first believed that she took me with her
from kindness of heart—a lingering love for
my father’s memory; now I kn0w that she did
so for revenge.

“ From the day I entered her home I be-
came her slave. Every duty was thrown up—
on me. I even caught the fish for dinner, at-
tended to the garden, milked the cow, and did
all the work about the place that a man should
have done.

“ But, what else could I do! I was in her
power and without a friend in the world to aid
me.

“ From my hard duties I soon got to wear-
ing clothing fitted to my work, and some old
clothing was made into suits for me, until I
was wont to dress wholly in man’s attire.

“And well was it for me that I was so dress-
ed, for often was I upset on the river, and had
I worn the clothing my sex demanded I should
have been drowned.

“One day, when out fishing, a squall came
up and upset a small sail-boat lying not far
from me, its occupant having gone to sleep.

“ Washed away from his capsized boat, and
in the middle of the river, the person would
have been drowned, had I not gone to his res-
cue, and drawn him into my skifl'.

“He proved to be a student of a college a few
miles distant, and was so thankful for his life
that he offered me a large sum of money, be-
lieving me to be, in my rough clothing, and
with my hair cut short, some fisher lad.

“Atflrsthas almost tempted to take his
gold, and with it to fly from my cruel bondage;
but I thought afterward that I could not be
happy if I accepted his money, and so I re-
fused, greatly to his chagrin.

“ After that we met several times, and be-
lieving me still a boy he begged me to enter
the college as a student, telling me that he was
rich and would defray all my expenses.

“ After a long deliberation I accepted his of-
fer, for I was anxious to gain as good an edu-
cation as possible; but he promised that he
would keep a strict account of all he spent for
me, and one day allow me to refund it to him.

“ With this understanding, he ordered a
small room, adjoining his Own, prepared for
me, and one night sailed over after me, bring-
ing a trunk of clothing for me.

“ Leaving my house by stealth, I entered the
walls of the university, and became a student
there, none suspecting my sex.

“ My noble benefactor at length was drawn
intoaquarrel, as before I told you, with a fellow
student, and fled from the college, and then I
felt that I must leave also.

“My flight from the university on that fatal
night; my arrival in the city, and start, on
foot, to New York, you know, so I will say no
more.”

“And no more need be said, my child," said
the kind old colonel, as Eve Ainslie concluded
her confession, and let her head fall upon her
hand.

Then, while his voice trembled with emotion,
he continued:

“ You have been like a son to me, child, and
now you must take a warmer place in my heart;
you must fill the vacuum left by the death of
my poor Florice; yes, you shall be as my own
daughter, and from this hour cast off the dis-

guise you have so long worn.

“ Come, Eve, you are my daughter now, and
Clarence will be your brother.”

A glad light shot through the eyes of Eve
Ainslie, and springing forward she hid her face
upon the broad breast of Colonel Erskine, her
heart wildly throbbing with joy at her glorious
triumph, the future looming up grandly before
her ambitious eyes.

(To be continued—comm in No. 323.)

‘ Two young men walking down-town, lately,
were discussing the means of obtaining a
smoke.

“ I’ve got a counterfeit half-dollar,” said
one.

“ Can‘t you pass it!” asked the other.

“I don"! know; you might.” ‘

“Mel’: and the young man’s face became
one conblnuatiou of an elongated exclamation
POint- “ M9! Why, the very fact of my hav
ing so much money would create suspicion!”

TWO 1‘ ONGS.
BY r. x. HALIFAX.

I sung a. song at morning,—
I sung a song at night;
The first a. song of sorrow,
The second of delight.

For I had lost a lover
All in the morning light;

But ere the sun went westward
I found a new delight.

And then I caroled ayly,
For life is far too rief,

And very far too precious
To spend in vacant grief.

The Crossogf Carlynn:

THE LADY OF LOCHWOOD.

A Romance of Bultilnore.

BY A. P. MORRIS, JR.,

AUTHOR or “BLACK CRESCENT," “FLAMING
TALISMAN," “RED SCORPION," “SILVER
SERPENT,” are, ETC, ETC.

CHAPTER XI.—-Coxnxrnn.

Several of the passers by had stopped. The
pavement just here—a disgrace to the good City
of Monuments—-—was scarce broad enough for
the passage of a good-sized wheelbarrow, and
the scene that occurred was prominent enough;
men and women, newsboys and bootblacks flock-
ed around.

“ Loose me, if you please, sir,” protested
Christabel (we now speak of her by her proper
name), confused and annoyed by his demonstra—
tions, and the gaping gaze of bystanders.

“What!” screamed the little gent, holding
her hands, and hopping up and down delighted-
ly, “ you don’t know your uncle, Preston Arly!
But, how should you! I forgive you. The
last time you saw me was when you danced on
my knees, in baby clothes. I’d have known
you, if it was a hundred years ago, by the like-
ness to your mother’s face. Come to my arms!
my dear, dear niece!” and he would have hug—
ged her again had she not evaded him deter-
minedly. ‘

“ La! look at ’im‘.” giggled a spinster, with
craning neck.

“Hooray!” vociferated the bootblacks, in
chorus.

“ Go it, old cock—crow some more!” shouted
somebody.

“Oh, my perphetic soul—her unkyl!” blub—
bered a newsboy, pathetically, and dropping
into the arms of a companion. “Receive me,
Shorty; I’m on the faint!”

The crowd augmented rapidly. Faces stared
from every side. On the outskirts of the
gathering was a wide-aWake reporter, jotting
the scene in his slip-book.

“Come, come,” urged Arly, retaining and
tugging at her hands, “let’s get away from
these gawks.” And to the crowd: “Rag—tag
——b0btail! way there—room here. Stand
back!” And to Christabel, again: “Come along,
my dear niece. IVhat a sorry spectacle I’ve
made of this, I‘m sorry to see. Come righ
along.”

Christabel was reasonably bewildered.

As he pulled and tugged at her hands, she
permitted him to lead her away from the
shouting crowd.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, half-dragging her round
the corner of Front street, “luckily, here’s a
cab. Get in, my dear niece—do get in. Of
course you’ll go to my house! You’ve just ar-
rived in town; you had hardly decided what
hotel you would select. Yes, I understand it
all. Ah! my sweet niece, to think it’s been so
long since I set eyes on you. Now, get rightin
here—so.”

And chattering in this style, laughing hys—
terically between words, he gently forced her
into the cab.

Fer a few seconds, Christabel’s mind had been
swimming. Surprise, wonderment, confusion,
incredulity, and the electric gabble of Preston
Arly, seemed to have thrown her under a
spell. . .

The cab whirled off and the crowd dispersed.
The reporter closed his book with asatisfactory
slap, and the newsboys scattered, singing that
odious ditty: ‘

“ Car’line, Car‘line, can‘t you dance the bee-Ilse,

Aunt Jemi-ma, oh! my soul.“

We follow the occupants of the cab.

Cristabel recovered herself thoroughly, as she
felt herself riding swiftly along Front street to
the Fayette street bridge.

“I hardly know, sir, whether I am doing
right in allowing you to carry me off in this
manner. I am greatly puzzled. I never re-
member any mention being made of my rela—
tives, and do not know if you are, indeed, my
uncle, as you say—”

“Yes, yes, my dear, the elder brother of the
man who married your mother. I am Preston
Arly, you see.”

“Ah!” breathed Christabel, composedly.

“ And your father—you remember your fa-
ther, my dear!” suddenly.

“No, I do not. Candidly, I have never heard
his name uttered. But it would seem that my
true name is Arly, not Carlyon.”

“Ho! gods!” thought the old villain, “Al-
bert is safe enough. I see she isn’t posted.
Her mother must have hated her father like
brimstone, to keep his name hushed up.” And
aloud: “As I was about to say, your father
was the dearest brother I had. No, my darl-
ing niece, your name is Carlyon. Your father‘!
and mother separated and were divorced-a
tiny quarrel, which you shall bear all about.
She took her maiden name, and had the same
given to you. Where in the world have you
been since your dear mother died—hey!”

“ I was abroad, at the date of her death,” re-
plied Christabel, calmly regarding the fidget-
ing, squirming little gentleman.

“Possible!” he exclaimed. “But you know
that she is dead—eh! my darling, new—fOImd
niece! You know that you are heir to all her
wealth—I may say her very great wealth!”

A transient light beamed in Christabel’s face.
If the man was truly her uncle, his aid in es-
tablishing her identity would be most valua—
ble. He seemed to know her andall about her,
and despite her first doubts, she gradually con-
cluded that he must be what he represented;
though the posibility of her having any living
relative at all was a. matter that never occurred
to nor caused her athought. His hints, too,
showed that she was, in reality, an heir, and
to considerable extent so.

It may appear singular to the reader that
Christabel should know so little of herself.
This, with other items, will be explained anon.

“You are ready to assist me in my claimto
my mother’s estate!” she said, almost indif-
ferently.

“Certainly, my dear ”—rubbing and turning
the skinny hands——“ anything at all that I can
do for you will be a pleasure: and for Meggy
Merle, your good, faithful nurse‘, you know.
She is with you .?‘"

“Meggy Merle is dead. She was rim over

 

by a wagon and killed in “'ashington,” Christa-

Q

' Now you’re here, we’ll soon fix it.

bel informed him as quietly as if speaking of the
last theater announcement.

wardly. “This is glorious. Meggy out of
the way, and the secret. of Albert's villaiuy
safe—ho! we progress finely. Excellent!” The
“excellent” escaped his lips aloud, and he mend-
ed it by adding quickly: “Excellent Meggy
Merle. I’m sorry, to know of her death. Of
course that’s what brought you to Baltimore—
your heritage, I mean, my dear!

H Yw. 7! .

“And you are ready to prove your identity!
You have papers, etc. I”

“ Unfortunately I have no proofs, except my
knowledge that I am Christabel Carlyon.”

“In that case, your meeting with me is all
the more happy. I can assist you materially.
Why, you’ve been wanting, these fifteen years.
Excellent.
Ho! very good. I am all eagerness to help
the child of my brother.”

“ I will show my appreciation,” said Chris-
tabel, with a bow and a. faint smile, “by he-
giiming at once to address you as ‘uncle Pres-
tou.’ ”

“Do so, my dear. Excellent. Glorious,”
cried old Arly; and he bobbed across to the
other seat, rubbing his little hands more vigor-
ously than ever.

The cab soon arrived at its destination, and
Preston Arly took Christabel proudly by the
hand, leading her into his residence.

There are a great many men who, at Preston
Arly’s age, grow rheumatic, stifl’, and barely
capable of crawling round. But Preston Arly
was no other than himself; younger at sixty-
nine, apparently, than his son at forty-two.
Head and heels were full of activity—the ex-
piring spurt of well-worn nature; his body sup-
ple as a flag in a breeze, and hisarmsand limbs
like electric eels.

As they passed the doorway, he pointed to
the office siglf of “ Arly & Arly.”

“You see, my darling niece, I am the very
one who can aid you.” And as he conducted
her to the parlor on the second floor, he con-
tinued: “Now, you are at home, thoroughly
at home, remember. Where is your baggage!
Let me send for it immediately. Then we’ll
have a long, explanatory talk together.”

Christabel gave him the number and location
of Mrs. Lee’s. After further demonstrations
of affectionate joy—which would have been
more agreeable if omitted—and with a promise
to send the housekeeper to attend to her com-
fort at once, Preston Arly withdrew.

His small, shadowy figure went down the
stairs, three steps at a time, and he darted into

“Dead!” repeated the squirming Arly, in—.

 

the side office like a ball from a Roman candle.
On one side was a chair with a screw. Into
this chair he flung himself, and hitting his knee
a slap, he gave a dig at the matting, stuck out
his two legs horizontally, and went spinning
furiously around.

“ Ho!” he cackled. “ The bird's caged—a
lovely bird. Excellent. She isn’t ‘posted ’ at
all, and Meggy Merle had her neck broke some
time ago. Royal, I say—royal!"

Albert Arly sat leisurely smoking a cigar,
with his heels elevated on the window sill.

“Ah! yes—that’s royal,” he echoed.

And up—stairs, Christabel had sunk into one
of the immense easy-chairs, with a sort of ex—
haustion.

Her lovely face had none of the glow of ex-
citement that might have been natural under
the circumstances; not a particle more color in
the soft, full cheeks—not a whit paler.

“Can it be possible that this man is my un—
cle!” she murmured. “ \Vhat can all this por-
tend! It seems incredible to me. I cannot re-
fuse to avail myself of what appears to be truly
good fortune; I am to learn more of my won-
derful little uncle, in that ‘long, explanatory
talk.’ Ha! ha! ha! so there was prophecy in
it, after all, when I told Mrs. Lee I would
whisk off entirely some day,” and thus accept-
ing the situation with notable nanchalance, she
leisurely be an drawing of! her gloves, glanc-
ing around e richly furnished room.

The prey was in the meshes. Would she
easily and blindly serve the purpose of the two
scheme“!

CHAPTER XII.
MUTUAL EIPLANATIONS.

TH! long, explanatory talk which was to
make the pretending uncle and the wondering
niece better acquainted, did not tflre place that
evening as she anticipated; nor did it occur the
next day, nor the next. In truth, Christabel
saw very little of the old gentleman—their
meetings being only of short duration at meal
ime—and when she once reminded him of their
engagement for an interview, he begged a poet-
ponement, on the plea that he was extraordin—
arily busy at court.

It surprised him to observe that Christabel
accepted his excuses in a manner which plain-
ly said: '

“Oh, just as you choose, uncle mine; it is a
matter of utmost indifference to me, if you
avoid it altogether.”

.The day following her arrival at the house of
Preston Arly, she was informed that carriage
and driver awaited her orders at any hour.
Close upon this announcement came sundry
presents in jewelry, expensive cloths, trim-
mings, gay plumes, etc. Two ladies from a
fashion emporium visited her; a maid appeared
exclusively for her service, and the aged house-
keeper bustled about in new apron, eager to
have comfort palpable on all sides.

It seemed like a romance of genii and fairies.
Everything was showered upon her, as if her
minutest wants and tastes were known.

Christabel accepted the whole with amazing
composure, and without any particular demon-
stration of pleasure. But she sent word of
thanks to Preston Arly, and could not help ac—
knowledging, in her heart, that her new-found
uncle was a marvel of generosity.

They were catering bounteously to the caged
bird. It had not once crossed her mind that
there was a purpose hidden in the depth of at:
tention sh0wn her.

‘Old Preston Arly rubbed his hands till the
knuckles cracked, while he congratulated him-
self that his plan of procedure was just the way
to clip the wings of the bird, make her suscepti-
ble to his vast kindness, and finally, in its cage
of gold and music, induce it to ing as he and
his son devoutly wished.

So the week drew to m end—(liristabels
time having been devoted to continuOus enjoy-
ment, with riding about, consulting dren-
makess, and contribuisng' her royd process at
bible.

It seemed as if she hadbeenaninmate of the
house since childhood; every look, action or ut-
terance savoring of an easy famdm' ' 'ty with
her surrounding, instead of exhibiting agirlish
delight at the sudden brightesnng' other for
tune.

Preston Arly soon discovered that he had a
calm, conscious woman to deal with, and not a.
girl of giddy taste or reckless humor, who was
to be intoxicated with the glitter of wealth, or
made pliant to the will of another.

“ Egad!” he would mumble, dubiously, “she.
is' one who can and will think for herself, and
not so emily twined round one’s fingers as Al-

 

bert counted on. “'hat if all my costly gifts

are wasted! Ho! devils! I must not think of it
——a total loss. I have my doubts about the ca-
pacity of this ‘pal,’ who is to reap our harvest
for us. What if, instead of a gay bird, we have
caged a Tartar, a lovely Tartar—with her
quietness that tells, and her take-it-for—granted
disposition! Most unfortunate, and I won’t
think of that, either. Um !—-yes, I have serious
misgivings for our scheme. But, we llsee, we-
’ll m. 1’

0n Sabbath day the gorgeous equipage drove
up to the door, and Preston Arly, dresed with
a sleekness his body had never known before,
assisted Christabel to her seat.

Her attire was elegant; her mien that of an
empress. Despite himself the nervous old gen-
tleman was tickled with pride at having her
beside him—so universally noticed for her
beauty and elegance.

After attending divine service at the Charles
street Methodist church, they returned to the
parlor of their home; and for the first time in
nearly a week, Arly seemed inclined to linger
with her.

“You will excuse me, uncle Preston, till I
lay aside‘my things.”

“Certainly, my dear.
store for you.”

“ 'n a moment—” .

“But, my dear—yes—I want to prepare you

I have something in

for a little surprise. You are to meet some-

body."

“ \Vhom '4'”

“Your father."

“ My father!”—with the slightest perceptible
start; and then smiling: “I had quite forgotten
about him, uncle Preston. Is he coming to-
day!"

“ Already here. Arrived last night.”

“Of course I shall be pleased to meet my fa-
ther. I’ll join you presently,” and she swept
leisurely from the room, leaving him astare.

“ Well!" he exclaimed, looking after her,
‘ she’s the coolest cucumber ever molded. She
takes it as if I was about to introduce her to
somebody hardly worthy of notice. Ho! if
that’s the way she will meet her father, how
will it be with this lady—killing ‘pal’ of Al»
bert’s! Ah, Albert, you’re here, oh!” the last
to his son, who just then opened the door of the
room adjoining the parlor.

“ Yes, I’m here, and waiting impatiently.
Did you tell her!”

“ Did I! You may depend. Impatient, eh!
Curb it, my boy ”——-with a nervous wriggle of
the hand—“she’s as indifferent as an image,
and your reception will be like a blast of snow
in the face in midwinter.”

Arly, senior, was about right. Christabel
soon re-entered the parlor, and the old gentle-
man assumed ardor for the occasion.

“Ah! my dear, here’s your-father, your lov-
ing father who has not seen you for years.
Embrace him. Be joyous. You are reunited;
happiness forever. Ho! Excellent! Albert,
behold her!”

“ My darling, darling child!” cried Albert
Arly, stepping quickly forward.

She paused at his approach, and extended both
white, jeweled bands, which he grasped with
simulation of emotion. But she did not fly to
his arms, nor present the .ripe mouth for the
parental kiSS.

“My father,” she said, smiling graciously.
“I am, indeed, very, very glad to see you.”

Old Arly could have leaped in the air, and
kicked ov‘r the stool at his feet. He was near-
ly beside himself With amusement. The greet-
ing was cool beyond measure. '

To Albert, it was galling. Concealing his
chagrin, almost rage, he adopted another tack
—that of a man who, accustomed to the freez-
ing codes of “society,” considered his daugh-
ter’s reception amply adequate.

Holding her hands in a warm, emotional
pressure, he gazed into the flashing black eyes
that met" his so steadily, and said:

“ My dear child—Christabel! It has been so
many years since I had you with me, that now,
I can scarce realize my joy. I hadmourned
you as dead. And you have grown so lovely,
that I might doubt my senses were it not for
your likeness to your mother.”

“ And, father, as [have no recollection of
you whatever, I might as reasonably have
stronger doubts than yours, but for the a-ur-
ance of uncle Preston. "

“Ah! Ahem! you may both be greatly sur-
prised,” put in.Arly, Sen, dragging forward
one of the satin chairs as he spoke. “ Sit down.
We must know all about each other.”

Albert Arly led his daughter to a sofa—his
daughter really, for this was the only part
played by the schemers without deception.

“My brother has doubtless informed you,
Christabel, that your mother and I were di-
vorced!"

“ I believe he has.”

“But that was after your birth, my child.
The little babe should have held useven strong—
er together. In an evil moment we quarreled,
and I left her. I have repented it sorely. And
now that my dear daughter is restored to me,
a glorious woman, I shall make amends for all
past follies, by devoting my very soul to her
happiness.”

“Yes, yes,” interpOlated old Arly, with a
squirm. “ And now, my adorable niece, about
yourself!”

“ Oh, there is very little about myself," re-
plied Christabel, laughing lightly. “ I suppose
after my mother was left alone, she must have
wandered over the earth aimlessly; for during
myearly years, I dimly recollect, I was in
charge of a good woman named Meggy Merle.
Idid not see mymotheruntll—‘ I think Iwas
nine years old. ”

“ Indeed!” exclaimed the father.

“ Posible!” enunciated Arly, Sen.

“Nor was I with her long then,” she pur-
sued. “ It is more like a dream to me, when I
recall the brief period allowed me, in which to
know and love her. There was mother, too,
whom I loved—”

“Who was that other? interrupted Albert
Arly. -

“His name was Jerome Harrison. But, it
was more girlish love, you know, growing out
of deep respect. He was very kind, talked ten-
derly with me, and, I remember, was quite at-
tached to my mother.”

“ And why did your dream end, my dea!’
asked the old gentleman, squirming again.

“‘That is the mysta'y of this wonderful
history,’ ’ quoted Chrislnbel, elevating her
brown “ One day Meggy Male came running
into my room, hurriedly dread me, and we
flew away from—”

“ Yes—our home. She was terribly frighten-
ed, and so was I, though I did not know what
about. Toall my quesiws due only said: ‘ The
hawk! the haka ”

A shadow pased over the face of Albert
Arly, and the squirming old gentleman fidget—
ed more restlesly. The next question was a
crisis.

(( This
child?”

“ Yes. That I learned afterward.”

“Some evil personage. Did you hear his
name!”

(L N0.” ;

‘hawk’ was a man, I suppose, my

 

 

The two plotters breathed freer.

 

“ Vhat else, my dear?” whined Arly, Sen.,
his rat-eyes twinkling.

“ Then Meggy and I fled from this country
to Europe. For several years we kept up our
flight at intervals, trailed, she said, by this
dreadful fellow called the ‘Hawk.’ Finally,
we settled in Paris. A greatth of money,
which Meggy said my mother had given her,
was exhausted. IVe opened a milllncry cstab-
lishment and were quite succenful, though most
of my time was devoted to my education.
Meggy wrote at least half a dosen letters to my
mether,’but without eliciting reply, of course.
We did not know of her death. At last Meggy
discovered that the ‘ Hawk ’ was no longer
tracking us. We returned to America, and
went to Washington. I was to remain there
while Meggy took observations, for she suspi-
cioned that my mother must be dead, and, if
so, I was heir to money and property—very
pleasant news, indeed, for we were horribly
poverty-stricken by this time. She was, unfor-
tunately, killed by a runaway accident, about
three Weeks ago. Her last words to me were:
‘ Find your mother—find Mr. Harrison. Loch—
wood, Harford road, Baltimore.’ The exlwnse
of the funeral left me almost without funds,
and my immediate thought-was of my inheri—
tance. I fancy I am not afraid of ‘hawks,’
vultures, nor anybody else. So, I came to Bul-
timore; and the sooner you can assist me in
my object, the more grateful I shall be.”

This succinct account of herself was followed
by an outburst on the part of her father.

“My dear, suffering child! To think that
you have been roamingso unhappily for fifteen
years, while my heart ached to know what had
become of you. Pr0vidence is kind, at last, in
bringing you to me.”

“Excellent!” broke forth Arly, Sen, clap-
ping his skinny finds. “Now, it’s smooth sail-
ing everlasting. And brother Albert, the
party, you know—”

“Ah! yes,” as if suddenly reminded of
something, “ we have planned a reception,
Christabel. You must be announced to ‘ society ’
with becoming cclat. Cards are out for next
Wednesday evening. It pleases you!"
“Indeed! A surprise. Of course I am
pleased. A party by all means. And now,
uncle and father mine, I am feeling terribly
hungry. Let us go to dinner.”

“ At once,” seconded old Arly, darting from
his chair.

With the pretending uncle on one side, and
the scheming‘father on the other, Christabel
waved them forward to table, as if escorting
distinguished guests.

In the afternoon, the trio went out in the

carriage. It was the only holiday for legal
gentlemen, said old Arly, and he desired to show
his niece the City of Baltimore as it appeared
on Sundays, when fashion held high carnival,
and the streets were pictures of thronging dis-
play.
Sabbath is almost a gala day, as well as a day
of worship, in the Monumental City. The
cars do their best business, Druid’s’ Hill and
Patterson Parks brimming with visitors of
every grade, all jumbled in a sort of sociable
heap, wherein the nobby “ rough” puffs his cigar
alongside the phaetons of belles or the carriage
of the millionaire.

As our party drove past Vernon place,
Christabel observed a man walking leisume
around the railing of the monument. He
glanced at her, and as their eyes met, his face
poled, he paused and looked after her.

It was the personage we have seen in the
New York telegraph ofllce, in a former chap-
ter.

Something about him struck her as familiar;
but he was a mere stranger, after all, and she
averted her face.

“ Who was that gentleman who stared so,

Uncle Preston!——the one to whom you spoke !"
for Preston Arlyhadraised his hattothe
man as they passed.
“That! Oh, a shrewd fellow. Connected
with the detective agency of Smith, Pierson St
West, North Calvert street—all shrewd, capa-
ble men, by the way. His name is Gerard
Vance.” And turning to Albert Arly: “Bro-
ther Albert, has he been invited for Wednesday
evening!"

“ I overlooked him.”

“ Ho! let’s have him on hand byall means.”

“Will it be safe!” whispered the junior Arly.
“ He is a detective. Detectives live by unravel-
ing secrets. From the rest of the company we
may, by carefulness, cover our deception.
This fellow, by some fate, may expose the fact
that we are not brothers, but father and
son.”

“ Pah!” hised back Arly, Sen, “ I’ll riskit.”

(To be continued—comm in No. 321.)

Nick o’ the Night:

A CENTENNIAL STORY.
BY T. C. HARBAUGH.

CHAPTER XII—Comm.

The day that followed the battle at Wingdon
Hall was the Sabbath. .

It was one of those April days’that have wed-
ded many people to the Palmetto State—«Balm,
warm, and beautiful. The magnolias and oaks
were alive with birds, as it were, and the
streams glittered like rivers of gold in the da'z-
zling rays of the sun. All nature seemed to
know that it was the Lord’s day—a day of
worship and 

One would not have thought that war cursed
the sunny glades and uplands of the Ashley—
that, somewhere in the State, partisan chad
British dragoon, andm‘ccvcrsn. The war-which
had languished for awhile was rimming new
life—the forces of royalty and freedom were
about to fight the battle of Hobkirk’s Hill, and
Marion and Sumter, emboldened by recent
successes, were daily becoming more trouble-
some to the foe.

Theafternoon of thislovdySabbath had
reached its meridian, whu several persons,
mounted on horses, rode awn Dorm and
beka themselves to WWII-

The little party Med of Helen Iatimer,
a British officer, who insignia of rank pro-
elaimedhimaeaphfistndayoungnegmboy,
evidently the gidi M‘-

For a good] ,.:number of days Helen Iatimcr
had been an, Involuntary priscn' er in the old
tom Wher father she had received mec-
gages mBeflhaat Amlcaand tghershe
1nd genre number of letters by the very man
who pde at her side—Captain Clayton.

The reader has already met this soldier of
the royal army. He will recollect that it was
he who stepped between Colonel Holly and our
heroine in the parlors at Azalea, on the night
of that officer‘s surprise by Marion.

The captain was on a parole of honor—hav-
ing agreed not to fight against any perms who
bore aims for the patriot cause, until regularly
exchanged He wasa cultivated soldier, who at
heart abhorred the war which ranged in Amer-

 

 

 

 

 

 

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