“That will do,” she returned, quietly, but
with a flashing gleam in her eyes. “ I told
you once before never to presume to pollute
my ears by your vile protestations, and I re-
peat it. Don’t dare take my husband s name
on your lips-my good, noble husband, whom
I love with all my heart and soul and life.” .

She was warming with her defense, and Vin-
cy sneered. mockingly. '

“You love him with all his devilish Suspb
clone of you? Ha! ha! ha! didn’t he foam
that night—curse him! when he assisted me
from the conservatory! If he had suspected
I got up the little tableau for his especial ben—
efit!”

Georgia paled at the memory.

“Itwas a cruel, inhuman, unmanly act of
yours, and you know how the result hurt me.
And yet I will not blame him—~he had every
reason to suppose I was guilty.”

“ If he wasn’t as mad as a March hare when
he gets one of his jealous rages on, he’d know
you are as immaculate as a snowdrop. By
Heaven, Georgia! you are the only woman I
ever saw in my life that I would u my soul‘s
eternal salvation to! And to think your lord
and master suspects you! Well, it is some lit
tle satisfaction for the disappointment I ex-
perience. To think you never have kissed me,
once, since I came to life again. To think
you scratched my face till it bled, because I
overcame you and stole a kissthat night in the
summer-house, when you gave me money to
preserve your husband’s peace of mind!”

Georgia listened coldly, patiently.

“ Are you through! Are you ready with
your wonderful news, or have you already
divulged it!”

Vincy hit his lip to keep from cursing at her
imperturbable hauteur.

“ By Jupiter, Georgia, I will wring your
stubborn neck, yet! Have I not used every
means in my power to make your life a hell
on earth, so far? Have I not planted a gulf
between you and the man you worship, that
grows wider every day? Are you not both
perfectly miserable, through my machinations?
And there is yet another stroke waiting for
you. Hear—woman, who has scorned and re-
pulsed me—hear that your baby, Jessamine, is
alive today, and not ten minutes’ drive from
here 1”

He said it as if he delivered a prophecy; ex-
pecting, if ever he expected anything in his
life, to see her faint at his feet in sudden emo-
tion; or to hear her scream, or to see her pale
with agitation, and possibly grove] at his feet
in suing for more information.

Georgia heard, calmly.

“ I know it. You were riding with her last
evening. I saw you both. Is this your news?”

Vincy’s face was a revelation. His mouth
was parted in astonishment at her reception of
his news. His eyes were fixed on her beauti-
ful face, in speechless wonderment.

“ Now—our interview is over. I presume
you came for more money in return for your
‘immense news;’ but you will never receive
another cent of my husband’s money. As for
my darling child-detectives are on her track,

 

and I have no fear of what you can do. Good-
morning.”

She bowed coldly—this tried, true woman,
who at last had come to the happiness of her

him, but hurled back the dead man who had
held his throat and, with a bound, was astride
of his splendid steed and dashing down the
glen. .

His companions rapidly followed, but knew
not what to do, for they felt that their chief
would visit vengeance upon them, or even
then might be ambushed ahead to shoot them
down; while believing that they had been be-
trayed by Bad Burke, whom they really had
little confidence in, they concluded they would
run the lesser risk for their lives and shove
out for the prairies once more, where the
could turn their attention to other pursuits that
would gain them a living, but whether an hon—
est one or not they Were not particular.

Being good frontiersmen they took their
bearings and struck for the low lands in all
haste; but as they were never seen again on
the border, and the skeletons of three men and
their horses were found upon the banks of the
Niobria river, a year after, it is to be surmised
that a violent death rid the settlers of their
unwholesome society.

To return to their chief: after his flight
from the gulch he urged his horse rapidly on,
convinced, by the absence of Bad Burke, that
he it was who had plotted the attack against
him. for of late he had somewhat suspected
the faith of his burly lieutenant.

Swearing vengeance against Bad Burke, if
he should ever lay his hands upon him, or any
of the treacherous crew who had entrapped
him, Kansas King rode on at a sweeping gallop
until mile after mile had been cast behind him,
and his tronghold was not far away.

Fearing treachery there, also, upon the prin-
ciple that a “ burnt child dreads the fire,” the
chief determined to make a flank movement
upon his camp, and approach it from the hills
overhanging the vale where they were en-
camped, so that, in case his suspicions of danger
to himself were aroused he could withdraw
immediately and rapidly, and returning to
the cabin of the Hermit Chief throw him-
self upon his protection, telling him frankly
his men had turned traitors.

With this intention he changed his course,
and turning into a narrow canon which he
knew would lead him round toward the hills
overhanging his camp, he urged his horse into

{a gallop, to suddenly rein him back upon his

haunches with terrible force, for the sound of
hoofs rapidly approaching through the gorge
startled him.

Drawing his revolver, Kansas King sat qui-
etly a Waiting the coming stranger, whoever it
might be, and an exclamation of delighted
surprise broke from his lips as a steed dashed
around the bend, bearing upon his back-«a wo~
man!

Yes, a woman; nay, a young girl, for she
was none other than Ruth Ramsey, who,
quickly discovering an unlocked-for obstacle
in her path, attempted to draw rein; but too
late; her steed was a willful animal not easily
checked, and ere she could come to a halt the
outlaw leader spurred alongside of her, and
his left hand grasped her bridle-rein.

“ Leo Randolph! You here?"

It was all the maiden could say, and across

her face swept a deathly pallor.
“Yes, sweet Ruth, your lover of lang syne
days is delighted to behold you once more,”

 

life.

For, as she inclined her head, forth from one
of the dozen recesses of the library, came Theo
Lexington, his grand face white with agita-
tion, his eyes scintillant with a passionate joy
that made Georgia’s heart bound. He sprung
to Georgia’s side, and crushed her to his
breast, his arms clinging around her, his lips
raining kiss after kiss on her bewildered ch -.

“ Georgia! darling! darling! wife! Oh,
thank God for this hour—thank God!”

He seemed overcome with his great joy,
and Georgia, with strange quiet, nestled in his
passionate embrace, as if to die there would
repay her for all her years of suffering.

“ Theo—dear! the cloud is pastaforeverf
You trust me, now?”

He kissed her quivering lips, her tearful
e es.

y" Past manna! you will forgive me, and I
will make amends for my wicked jealousy by
making you so happy you will think it almost
worth the price we have paid. My own—my
wife!”

Vincy mood, in grim, stolid silence; a spec-
tator to the bliss his own lips had unwittingly
wrought. His whole soul was in a tempest of

fury, but he felt he had come to the end of

his part of the drama, and he accepted his
situation with a grace worthy a better man.

“ I wish you joy of your wife—only it will
be well to remember occasionally she was mine
first. I don’t think I shall bother you again,
unless you call it a bother to be obliged to know
your happiness depends, after all, on the man

, who is the father of your wife’s child—the man

who played for high stakes and-didn’t win.”

Lexington never once spoke to him. He
listened, half-smilingly, with an, arm around
Georgia’s waist, as'if he knew the sight of his
and Georgia’s reconciliation was a keener
blow than he could strike. And he was right.
_ When Vincy had done, he rung the call-bell
on the table.

“ Show the gentleman the door.”

Then, when the balked, discomfited vil—
lain had left the room, left their life forever,
and leaves our story, Lexington drew his wife
into his arms again, with a passionate ardor
that thrilled her from head to foot.

“ Georgia, darling—look in my eyes! let me
see your sweet face as I have prayed to see it
so often. Kiss me, dear one-—:vife! and with
that kiss let us seal the grave of our past, and
the vows for our future! And together we will
1: :in hearts and hands in finding your little Jee-
samine—the task you gave me, you remember,
with the reward attached! Now, there is no
grave between us; no grim ghost of suspicion
——~nothing—~nothing! my darling! my wife!”

And so, through the man who had caused
their misery, their great bliss came, never
again to be destroyed.

(To be continued—commenced in No. 298.;

Kansas King :
THE, RED RIGHT HAND.

BY BUFFALO BILL (HON. WM. F. Cour),
AUTHOR or “DEADLY-EYE, THE UN‘
KNOWN scour,” “THE PRAIRIE
nevus,” mm, are.

CHAPTER XXIV.
THE MEETING IN run canon.

WHEN Kansas King rode into the midst of
his treacherous followers, he certainly would
have been captured by them, in spite of his
gallant resistance, had it not been for the div.;r~
sion in his favor created by Red Hand‘s fatal
shots, which laid two of the outlaws low.

A man of lightning thought and ready ac-

 

 

 

‘ z 1 tion. he did not stop to inquire into the cause

of this move in his favor, or who had aided

 

 

said the chief, with a tone of irony in his
voice.

“ Yes, it was proven he was an outlaw—the
leader of a wild and desperate band; men
called him Kansas King because he ruled the
border and none dare face him.

“Yes, all these things were proven, and—-
and—I found I had loved unworthily,” and
Ruth spoke half aloud, her eyes downcast, as
though musing with the past. 5

“Ruth, all these things were told against
me; yes, it was proven that I had been brought
up by a fond mother who idolized her boy, yet
upon whose life a stain rested, and hence the
curse fell upon the son.

“That mother died, Ruth, and then came
the news to her son that a brand rested upon
his life.

"Was it any wonder, then, that he threw
away the advantages bestowed upon him by
his loving mother, and became a wild and
reckless outcast?

“Oh, Ruth, you know not how I have suf
fered, and what a curse, a misery my life has
been; and if you knew you would pity me—
and, pity begets love—’tis said—ay, you did
love me once, Ruth,” and the chief laid his'
hand softly upon the gloved hand of the
maiden, who, quietly withdrawing, replied
kindly:

“ I thought I loved you once, Leo; but I knew
not my heart; and yet_ had your life been dif-
ferent, and not a blot upon the earth, we
might have been more to each other than lov-
ers; but you have not forgotten that when my
father exiled you from our home, and I told
you I did not love you, you baser endeavored
:30 carry me off.”

“No, Ruth, I have not forgotten; but I
loved you, and that must be my only excu‘e.
I longed to have you with me, to have you‘my
bride, and—forgive me, Ruth—-I was mad
enough to think that I might persuade you to
become my wife. ”

“ M y consent never could have been won by
force, Leo Randolph; but, this is idle to thus
stand and talk with you. Believe me, I feel
for you in the evil career you have chosen,
and—but I must hasten, for the night is com—
ing on, and I was foolish to venture thus far
from the fort,” and Ruth attempted to ride
on, but the outlaw chief still kept his hand
firmly upon her rein, while he asked:

“ How is it you are thus far from your camp,
and alone?” _

“ I came out with my father and brother for
a ride. They discovered traces of Indians
near the fort, and rode on to investigate, tell—
ing me to return, for I was be" half a mile
away. I lost my road, and only just now
discovered that my way back lay through this
gulch, ” hastily said Ruth, and again she urged
her hmse forward, and yet the chief held him
firml y in his strong grasp.

" Mr. Randolph, will you release my bridle—
rein‘s’ said Rut-h, in a firm voice.

“ Miss Ramsey, I will not-hold! hear me,
and heed :~~——you are in my power, and I am a
desperate man. .

“Go with me willingly; become my wife,
and I will relinquish my evil life and live for
you alone; refuse, and —”

“You plead in vain, MN. Randolph; your
evil life has already put out every spark of
regard I ever felt for you.

“ Again I ask you to release my rein.”

“ And again I say I will not; nay, more“
if you will not be a willing bride, you shall be
an unwilling one."

“ God have mercy upon me,” groaned pom
Ruth, and she reeled as if about to fall from
her saddle.

 

CHAPTER XXV.
THE ANSWERED CRY.

THE moonlight that fell weirdly upon. the
haunted valley, and lighted up the sad scene
enacted there. also cast its silvery radiance up-
on the mountain but of the Hermit Clllef.

 

Pacing to and fro in the moonlight, with
quick, nervous tread, was Gray Chief, his brow
dark and lips set stern and hard, for a few
moments since the White Slayer and his chiefs
had left after the council held there, and which
had determine-d a deadly exterminati .n of ev-
ery pale face in the Black Hills—ay, all, for
the proud Indian warrior, whose forefathers
before him had ruled the destinies of this
tribe, would not become the ally of outlaws,
and plainly had he told the Hermit so.
ifAnd Gray Ccief had been pleased at the
decision of White Slayer, for to him all white
men were enemies, he said, and he desired that
not only should the miners perish, but also
the outlaws.

Then it was agreed between them that they
should seem to agree to Kansas King’s arrange-
ment for an alliance, and by so doing disarm
suspicion and get himself and men in their
power, and then the Sioux warriors would fall
upon them and not a man should escape—no,
not one, swore the Hermit Chief.

Having thus disposed of their would-be al-
lies, the Indians could arm themselves with
the weapons taken from the outlaws, and then
make war upon the two camps of the invaders,
and they, too, should fall.

The old hermit chuckled gleefully as he laid
his plans, and saw how eagerly the Indians
agreed to them, and yet had he known that
within the cabin window stood one who heard
every arrangement made, and after learning
all she could, arose from her crouching atti-
tude and stole away, he would not have walked
the ledge in the moonlight, gloating over his
diabolical invention to rid the Black Hills of
every pale-face who had invaded their un—
known fastnesses.

Yes, after parting with Red Hand, Pearl
had returned home and learned from Valleole
that the chiefs were to assemble at once, and
instantly had the maiden secreted herself in
her room, and from her ambush learned their
plans, after which she hurried away through
the cavern, descended the hills to the Indian
village. and quickly mounted a splendid horse
which White Slayer had captured in battle and
presented to her.

Like the wind she then rode through the
valleys and over the hills, directing her course
toward the Ramsey settlement, as she dared
not take the lower canon leading to the fort of
the miners.

At length she drew near the spot where she
had been told the pale-faces were encamped,
and was just turning into the narrow gulch
leading to the stockade fort, when she heard a
loud cry for help.

“ Help! help! Oh, Heaven, save me!” again
rung the cry, and in a woman’s voice.

With the impulsiveness of her nature, Pearl
was about to dash at once to the rescue, when
there came the sound of coming hoofs, and the
next instant, riding up the gulch, she beheld
two steeds, bearing a man and a maiden, the
former holding the latter firmly in her saddle,
and at the same time grasping with his other
hand the bridle rein of her horse.

They were Kansas King and Ruth Ramsey,
and infuriated at her refusal of his love, the
outlaw chief was hearing the maiden by force
to his camp, in spite of her heartrending cries

for help.

“ Hold 1”

The voice was that of a woman, and yet it
had in it a stern and determined ring that
brought the robber-chief and his captive to a
sudden halt.

Before them, seated upon her horse, and
with her rifle leveled at the broad breast of,
Kansas King, was Pearl, the Maid of the
Hiils.

And at the command Kansas King drew
rein, and quickly said:

“ Well, girl, what would you?”

“That you ride on and leave that maiden
alone,” firmly replied Pearl.

“Ha, ha! a stern command from such sweet
lips; but, what if I refuse?”

“ I will kill you.”

“ Harsher still, my mountain beauty; but
your aim may not be true, and—”

“ One wave of my hand, Kansas King, and
you may find out how true is my aim. Do

you think the Pearl of the Hills a fool that she

comes this far from her home unprotectedl”
and themaiden spoke as though there were a
hundred warriors at her back.

The outlaw chief glanced somewhat nervous
ly around, and doubtless believing that the
rocks and trees did conceal innumerable red—
skins, he said: '

“You hold the winning card, fair Pearl of
the Hills. I yield to the command of sweet
lips, which yet I may punish for their unkind
words, with a kiss.

“Ruth Ramsey, we will meet again.

“ Fair maids, I bid you good-evening.”

Then, with a muttered curse, Kansas King
drove his spurs deep into the flanks of his
steed and dashed away up the gulch at a mad
speed.

Yet, ere the rattle of his steed’s hoofs died
away, there resounded through the canyon the
heavy tramp of many feet, and in dismay,
Ruth cried;

“ Come; oh, come, for the Indians are com-
ing.” .

Pearl listened an instant, and then said:

“ No, those are not Indians, for I hear the
iron ring against the rocks of pale-face horses;
théy are your friends.” .

Ere more could be said a long line of horse-
men filed around a bend in the canyon, and did
they prove friendly or hostile, it was then too
late to fly.

(T o be oqntiano:nmmwd in No. 815.)

n

 

TH E LAST ”

BY “TRIX.”

 

The last blight link i s- severed,
The last sweet hope has fled;

The last Word has be 11 spoken,
The old love lies quite dead

The last sigh heaved in secret.
The last tear wiped away;

The last caress iween given,
And we turn aside for aye.

The last look at a. pictured face,
And the lett~rs so often read;
And t.‘ e clods l heap on the grave are
smiles
Where my idol of clay lies dead.

Who Ruined Him?

B ‘ MARY REED CROWELL.

 

 

 

 

A 000;. autumn evening that made the rud-~
dy glare of the big log fire in Farmer Dan-
ton’s kitchen remarkably comfortable; dim
star—shine outside that was less bright than the
downcast demureness of Nellie Danton’s blue
eyes that were lifted occasionally in shy de—
light as she listened to the conversation be-
tween aunt Margaret and Phil Barry—hand—
some, curly-haired Phil, who wasr so dilferent

 

 

from the rest of the country-side fellows, and
who, this last summer had been able to make
Nellie’s cheeks flush and her heart beat many
a time, with his low-spoken, ardent words.

Now, Nellie sat demurely by the kitchen table
mending a diminutive hole in a soft damask
napkin, and thinking it the one of the chiefest
joys of her life to sit thus with Phil’s low,
musical voice coming to her ears—such a sweet,
sweet voice, that had in it the elegant languor
and self-assurance Nellie had often heard in
the grand city folks who spent the J MW and
Augusts in the elsewise quiet little village,
and that contrasted sharply with aunt Mar-
garet’s clear, ringing tones that were the exact
indices of her honest, old-fashioned self.

She was busy darning stockings—great, im-
mense men’s socks of home-knit gray yarn,
and white lamb’s wool for her Own bony feet.
and just this particular minute, had stretched
over a yellow mock-orange, a tiny bus and
white striped one, with delicate clocking at the
sides, that could have fitted no girl in Seaview
but dainty little Nellie, with her warm, blue
eyes, and her wavy brown hair, and her well-
shaped hands and arms, and her graceful, wil-
lowy figure.

Phil Barry would have nudged Nellie under
the screening table-cover at sight of that

dainty hose, if it had been a month earlier in—
stead of this frosty October night; but as it
was, he didn’t seem to be at all mischievously
interested, and aunt Margaret folded it up with
its mate into a deft ball and dropped it into
the fast-filling basket on the floor.

“It seems to me I heard something about
your going to New York, Philip. Is there
any truth in it?”

Nellie’s needle stuck into her little white
finger, leaving a great, crimson drop, but be-
yond that she manifested no further surprise
at aunt Margaret’s news.

Phil leaned still more comfortably back
against the red woolen cushions of the big
rocking-chair, and stole a half uneasy, half
defiant look at Nellie, whose head was bent
over her work so that he could not even see
the pallor on her cheeks.

“Well, Mrs. Danton, I think there is some
truth in it. A miserable little place like this
can afford no scope for such ambition as mine.
You know yourself if I mean to succeed in
my literary career I must go where literary
work is in demand. I think I have decided to
go to New York.”

Mrs. Danton snapped her thread with her
strong, white teeth.

“I haven‘t the smallest doubt that New
York is the place for men who want to make a
mark in the world, Philip. But the question
is—are you a literary man?”

Philip caught an indignant, sympathetic
glance from Nellie, who looked from his
flushed face to Mrs. Danton’s serene one.

“Why, aunt Margaret, you know Phil has
written the most lovely poems for the Sea-
m'ew Mariner! Of course he’sa literary man.”

Mrs. Danton smiled—not at all harshly or
sarcastically.

“There is nothing like having faith in our
friends, Nellie, and I’m sure I shall be as
pleased as you when Phil comes out in boards.”
She reserved her opinion of his “lovely po-
ems ”—rhymes that certainly were pretty and
correct and jingling, if not strikingly original
and masterful and soulful.

Phil allowed his mustache to lift ever so
slightly in a faint, constrained smile.

“Thank you, Mrs. Danton. Thank you,
Nellie, for your belief in my ability. Other
people who profess to know about such things,
assure me I have only to go to New York to
work myself in.”

There was such a triumphant ring in his
voice that Mrs. Danton knew all his hopes and
aspirations and intentions the moment the
words left his lips.

“Oh, you mean the Deverlls, who have been
at the Sea View House all summer.”

Nellie’s heart gave another deathly pang—
she thought_ of Dell Deverll, the haughty-
headed, aristocratic young lady who had sin-
gled Phil out for her admiration and escort
more than once, or twice, or a dozen times.

“Yes—Mr. Deverll has engaged to interest
himself for me, and Mrs. Deverll has kindly
invited me to her receptions——her literary soi—
rees, gotten up purposely for amateur talent.
Miss Dell, too, is very thoughtful and interest-
ed about me.”

It was as impossible for Phil to keep down
the triumph in his voice as it was for Mrs.
Danton to repress a smile of doubtful belief in
the charitable intentions of the Deveills; as it
was for N ellie to keep her fingers from trem—
bling violently, and her hands growing icy
cold.

Mrs. Danton rolled the last pair of stockings
up, and looked over her glasses at the old
fashioned clock in the corner.

“I guess, Nellie, you can put by your mend-
ing for to-night. I‘ll go set the Sponge.”

Nellie folded her sewing slowly, and Phil
watched her uneasily, thinking what a lack of
style there was in her compared to Dell Dev-
erll, with her classic head, and trailing d. a-
peries, and her city-bred airs; and wondering
how to accomplish the errand he had come on,
purposely—of bidding good~by to this little
country girl, whom he had made love to, yet
without ever having compromised himself by
an actual offer. He caressed his thick mus—
tache with his white hands—countryA-born and

country-reared though he was, he had all his
life shirked work with sufiicient success to
keep his hands White and shapely—and built
an air~castle of the days when he should be the
pet and lion of New York society, where his
handsome appearance, his wonderful talent
w uld make him sought for far and wide, and
whre his position as Dell Deverll’l betrothed
would give added prestige.

Neilie’s voice dispelled his delightful dreams.

“ Phil, is it really true! really true that you
are going to leave Sea View?"

His conscience gave a terrible qualm as he
met her questioning eyes, but he smiled with
an indifferent nonchalance he flattered him- elf
was the essence of successful acting.

“Really true, Nell. So true that I am ex-
pected at Mrs. Deverll’s reception to morrow
afternoon. 1 came in to-night to say by-by.”

Nellie was swallowing hard to keep down a
dreadfully sufif‘ eating ball in her throat.

“ But, Phil, it is so—-so sudden. When shall
you come back?"

He saw he had to make a desperate plunge,
and he made it.

“Come back! bless your heart, Nellie, do
you think I ever could be content in this dead-
and. alive place after once taszing life in New
York!”

A whiter look cam:> over the girl’s face, he
was so cruel, so cruel and hard, and after those
whispered love words, and those kisses! Yet,
because he neVer had said, “Nellie, you will
be my little wife, one day,” she had to sit and
suffer, endure and—die if needs be!‘

He rose suddenlymthat set, white counten—
ance was stabbing him through and through.

“I must go, Nellie; I’ve a thousand things
to do, if I want to be off in the ten-thirty to
morrow morning. Remember me to Mrs. D.

i. January.

 

 

and your uncle, Nellie. Good-by—what a cold
night for October! Don’t stand in the door—-
You‘ll catch cold.”

And as the garden gaterlatch clinked on his
heels, Mrs, Danton came into the kitchen to
find the girl sobbing with hopeless, bitterest
agony, and a mighty fury sprung to her honest
eyes, followed by such unspeakable tenderness
as she laid her hand on the girl’s bowed head.

“ Nellie, Nellie, child, he’s not worth it! Let
him go to his fine city acquaintances if he
wants to; and then he’ll find out what I know
now, that he’s only a bundle of conceit and
superficial gloss, Nellie, dear child—a. year
from today you’ll agree with me that you
never had a kinder fate than the one that
seems so cruel now.”

But—long after the midnight stars were
sinking, long after the hush of early dawn
was on the brown earth, for days and weeks
Nellie grieved and mourned comfortless for
Phil Barry’s handsome, faithless face, and fool—
ish, indiscriminate heart.

Such an intoxicating dream as it was—such
perfect fulfillment of every anticipation in
which he had ever indulged, and Philip Bar-
ry had come to think life was made entirely
up of rambles through fragrant-odored aisles
in dim—lighted conservatories, of mild, pulsing
dance music, of bright-eyed women looking
in his eyes, of only now and then an hour’s
easy writing, of perfectly fitting clothes, and
faultless hotel fare. ,

He had come to the Deverlls in the very
nick of time—for the Deverlls—and he thought
for himself as well. He had come with several
hundred dollars in his pocket, money his fool—
ish, doting old father had toiled for and Saved,
that his handsome, gifted boy might have a
send—off worthy of his talents—money that en—
abled him to dress as well as the richest, to
board at the Saint Horan, to drive around to
Gramercy Square in his coupe with footmen
in livery.

He was sure he was handsome, he was cap—
able of little bell-like rhymes dedicated to
Miss D51] Deverll, and Miss Dell and her fam-
ily and their set took him “up,” and courted
him, and feted him, and petted him, until it
seemed there was nothing left for the gods to
bestow—except the acceptance and publica—
tion of and payment for his manuscript vol~
ume of poems that Mr. Deverll had “seen”
reached a publisher’s hands.

It was all so fine—so perfect—from the
men-u at the St. Horan, to the tender little
nothian Dell Deverll vouchsafed him as
they strolled, arm in arm, through the fernv
ery, or by the fountain, or lounged in the mu-
sic-room, where the sunshine came through
gorgeous stained glass windows.

All fair, and fine, and perfect—until——-one
day—he discovered to his horror that he was
at the end of his purse that had seemed bot-
tomless, when he discovered he was in debt at
the hotel a sixth of what he had owned at first,
when he found out his wardrobe was needing
instant replenishing if he intended circulating
in the exclusive society he had sped—and when,
worse than all, “Sweet Seringias"—his fa-
mous poem collection—was returned to him
branded boldly by some heartless reader as
“not worth the paper it was written on,”
a perspiration of horror started on his fore-
head—it was a climax he had no more expect-
ed than that New York would be swallowe‘.
by an earthquake.

Moneyless, indebted, literally a failure—a
stranger. No, not a stranger, never a stran-
ger while Dell Deverll lived—bright eyed,
low—voiced Dell, who allowed him to retain
her hand and press it softly, whose beautiful
blue eyes had taken refuge behind her hand-
kerchief, to hide the tears, when he had read,
sothrillingly, his latest effort on her matchless
loveliness.

His face lighted wonderfully as he remem-
bered it; and he went on direct to the grand
house on Gramercy Square, resolved to ask
Dell Deverll if his love, his talents, his devo-
tion would win him her, inplace of the wealth
and position he knew she had a right to ex-
pect, that she woull grace so royally. He
had it all fixed very neatly, as he was ushered
into the grand darkened parlors— how he
would lay his lyre at her feet, and devote his
life to her happiness as they together wander-
ed in the rosy paths of——

A distinct exclamation from the room above
banished his flowing metaphors.

" Oh, dear! James, you can tell Mr. Barry
I am not at home. I wonder if the fellow
will ever see for himself we are all tired to
death of him—as if any man with a grain V of
common sense wouldn’t know he had sickened
us all with his insane “hearts” and “darts,”
and “ Dell” and “ bell.” It was Dell Dever—
ll’s sweet, clear, angry voice that came ring—
ing down through the open register from the
morning room directly over the parlor, where
she and Clarence Tremaine were lounging in
the pleasant warmth. ,

Barry heard a masculine voice reply in a
tone, in language that Stung him hotly.

“What could you expect better of such a
bar Abrained genius? Dane and Bellington and
the rest of the fellows have been laughing at
him for the last week.”

Barry was on his feet when the respectful
servant entered, with face as impassive as a
statue’s.

“ Ldiss Dell is—”

“ i‘here’s no need of your lying, my man.
Miss Dell is at home, and you can tell her for
me that I am not quite such a fool as she takes
me to be.”

It was a bitter, bitter blow, but it was not
all. At the Saint Horan, he was detained un-
til he could pay his arrears of board, which
was only accomplished by his sending back
to Sea View—the "dead—and—alive” country
place he had so despised, but to which he so
naturally turned for succor, and from which
relief came so promptly—but not from old
Mr. Barry, who could not have raised a dol—
lar beyond that hard-earned, well- saved six
hundred. Not from his father, but from far—
mer Danton and his wife, who came to the
Saint Horan in a day or so after the sad news
from Phil came, with full purses, and honest,
thrifty faces, bringing Nellie, with her sweet,
shy face into the room Where Phil was a pris«
oner.

“ Of course we couldn’t see you suffer, boy—
and yet, after all, it’s more Nellie’s doings
than ours. She was coming to York after her
wedding clothes, you see, against the let of
I believe you and Harry S.ewart
settled on he Isl}, d dn’c you. Nell? and she says
to me when your father showed us the letter,
‘ Give Phil what one of my dresses would cost
——\\ on‘t you, uncle John?’ And so here’s a
hundred and fifty. dollars from Nell, Phil, and
she won't suffer for it, either.”

That was the end of the romance to Philip
Barry—indebtedness to the girl he had scorned;
and—he took the money and paid his bill, and
walked out of the hotel with curses in his heart
Twalked out on a career of loafing, of lazi-
ness, of recklessness, of sin-and God only
knows when, and where, and how the career
win and to which Dell Deverll’s White fingers
beckoned him.

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

   
  
  

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