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. left her in, and hid herself in the little out—of-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

your father was dead: for nineteen ‘ears your
inothcr knew he was alirc, and r5151 1g at hIS
English estate, Dornoch—Weald— ’_‘ _

“\VHAT!” Monica, sprmgmg to her
feet. “my fat er alive!—oh,imp0531ble!f’ She
gazed from one to the other wildly: their faces
inexorablv repeated the assertion; she suddenly
wheeled and walked to one of the Windows,
where, with her face hidden, and her hands
tremblingly clasped over her breast. she re-
mained still as a stone.

But a storm was raging through’her soul; the
verv depths of her nature were stn'red. The
idea of a father had ever been but an abstract
one to her, the theme had never been dwelt
upon by her mother—she had always seemed to
shrink from ,it with never blunted pain, and
Monica. had settled it in her mind that he had
been so passionately beloved, and so traglcally
lost in the first year of marriage, that her
mother would carrvfthe wound raw and bleed-
intr to her grave.

Yet he had been alive all the while, and, what
was it they had said about an estate? He was
then a rich man, living in wealth and ease, and
her mother—had died—of want: _ _

As the girl’s thoughts reached this climax
she stifled a sharp cry as of one stung, and went
back to face the whispering lawyers.

“ Go on, what else?” she demanded peremp-
torilv. I

Mr. Korner took upZthe narratlon where he
had dropped it. I

“ Your father is alive to Lthis day; and had

our mother lived to answer our advertisement
in person we would have reinstated her in her
rights without the slightest delay. She being
unfortunately deceased, we transfer our good
offices to you: and whenever you choose to put

ourself in our hands we shall present you to

r. Otto Derwent, and claim for you your le-
gal rights as his daughter."

“ But—but—why were they se arated?” falt-
ered Monica, still too stunned to a 't a thought
of her own ition.

“That is part of the secret your mother re-
served from you,” answered the lawyer; “ this
much I can tell you however, the separated
through no fault of your mothers. She was
utterly blameless, the victim of a slander, and
of the bitter pride of Derwent. Your father
comes of an ancient, proud race, and notwith—
standing that really seems to have loved his
young wife (who was extremely prett and
elegant, they tell me, although only the ( augh—
ter of a country schoolmaster), he was quite
able to desert her at a moment’s notice seven
months after the marriage, and to go home to
his fine estates, and never see her face again.
To do him justice I will mention that he in—
tended to have sent her all the money she could
desire, and began by doing so: but she had her

ride too, poor soul, and, besides, was also mis-
ed as to something she supposed him to be
guilty of, and she fled from the home he had

the-way hole you came from; so that for nine-
teen years they have not communicated with
each other, and he does not know whether she
is dead or alive. And he is stone enough never
to trouble his head about the matter; but lives
the life of a country gentleman, on one of the
finest estates in shire, whilst she, poor
soul, was starving herself to satisfy the rapacity
of aswindling villain who took advantage of
her—”

“Take care—that‘s the forbidden subject,”
interposed Mr. Price, Who was reading the ex-
pressive face of the daughter with breathless
interest, almost fascinated by its vivid changes.

“ Will you now be good enough to inform me
what your intentions, with regard to my
mother were, when you advertised for her!”
demanded she, between her teeth

“Oh, you can easil guess them,” said Mr.
Korner, cheerfully. “ Ye saw a chance to ren—
der justice to two people who had been parted
by a mistake to set the wife in her own place
and to clear er reputation in the eves of her
husband. We proposed to put each party in
possession of some facts which had come to our
knowledge to effect a reconciliation, and to
have had the pleasure (and profit) of making
two lives happy. IVe now propose, the wife
being one, to introduce you, the daughter.
with al the proofs of your identity in your
hands, to your father, who as yet is ignorant of
your existence~—when you will, without the
slightest doubt, receive due recognition as the
only child of a very wealthy man.”

Monica sat still as death for a few minutes,
eying her counselors with slowly gathering
scorn. When her heart was full to bursting,
her small teeth set in her lip, and her glance
flashing with pentsup feeling, she burst out
passionately :

“ And this is my poor mother‘s history, is it .3

Scorned—betra ed—abandoned—perishing in
want—because Le believed a slander ! Oh, God!
what a demon!”
. She wrung her hands, in a gust of grief: it
was easy to see how intenser the proud fine
soul of the daughter had loved and believed in
her haw-less mother.

“ And you wish me to go to the man who did
this, and to fawn at his foot for my rights?"
she cried flashing from grief to the most
scathing and contempt. “You expect me
to go, straig t from the rave of my mother,
with the memory of her eleton form and un-
happy eyes, and my onl reminiscences of her,
toil—worn and sad—to I at noble estate where
my father lives luxuriously and thinks scorn-
ingly of his poor young wife ! IVhy, gentle-
men, are you human, that you think I could do
it?- I should curse him, and call on God to
avenge my mother’s blood on his head, instead
of kneelin in humble duty for his paternal
greeting! a! ha! ha! My father, forsooth.”
_ She was rapidly walking from end to end of
the office now, panting with excitement and
emotion, and flinging lanccs of the utmost de-
rision and disdain at er would-be counselors.

Mr. Price, whose softer manners made him
usually successful with the lady-clients, ap—
proached her with deep solicitude, delicately
tempered with deference, and be ~ged her, for
her own sake, to calm herself, an look practi-
cally upon the matter.

“Just think of it, dear Miss Derwcnt,” he
laintively urged. "How few in this world of
ard work and crowding competition can, like

you, step from dire poverty and friendlessnem
mto a wealthy and refined home? Be a rich
man’s only daughter~with every chance in life
of being his sole heiress—heiress to a fortune
worth twenty thousand pounds a year."

“You have said enough," she cried sternlv.
“ I understand you perfectly. Because he is‘a
wealthy man. you will kindly trouble your-
selves to effect an acknowled ent of his child,
as you would have effec a. reconciliation
with his wife—simpl with a view to your own
future reward. Ha he been a r man, the
knowledge which you had accidentally obtained.
and which you could use to remove the obstacles
between two mistaken people—would have re-
mained forever locked in your own breasts.
Oh. yes, I clearly comprehend the position as far
as you are concerned. But I am a free agent,
3’011 031111015 Obligf’ me to present myself to Mr.
Otto Derwent 1n the character of long-lost
daughter and heir—expectant. Let his money go
where it will—I shall touch none of it. I should
choke upon his bread—thinking how my mother
died for want of it: I should writhe under his
caressing hand remembering how it flung aside
my mother with a broken heart.”

“ But, oh, come now,” remonstrated Mr,
Korner, with growing anxiety, for neither of
them had ever dreamed of any opposition from
their client—who in their senses would reject a

 

 

 

 

are rushing on at a mad pace. Your
father—” I _

“ Do 'ou persist in the term?” cried she, 1m-
Eetuous y, “ Then I shall not stay to be insulted

it.”

She hurried, with burning checks, to the door;
the pair sprung with one accord to arrest her,
and she turned, between them, clasped her hands,
and looking Heavenward. said solemn] :

“So help me God, I repudiate Mr. _ tto Der-
went as my father. even as he repudiated Ada
Rivers as his wife."

“But on are terribly mistaken—when we
reveal! —if you would but promise to place
yourself in our hands, we could disclose enough
of the truth in three words to secure your con-
sent to our scheme.”

“ Keep your secret, I have learned enou h to
show me what I ought to do,” said she. “ ow—
ever. lest I might make the terrible mistake you
so dread, I shall ask you a few questions; so,
gentlemen. I be vou will please  anSWer
plainly what I as ,” said she, reseatmg herself
with a gloomv derision in her manner.

“Did Mr. Derwent authorize you to search
for his wife L!”

After a hurried consultation by glances, the
senior lawyer answered, “No.” '

“ Does he know anything whatever about
yourvmpvements ?”

“And this action is undertaken solely upon
your own authority, and merely in hopes of
future business Ll” ‘

" Oh, come, come—not quite so bad as that,"
remonstrated the man of affairs, wincing ;
“surer no one, with the chance accidentally
placed in his wer to see justice done the inno-
cent and helpless. could fail to do otherwise than
we propose to do by you."

“ You say that Mr. Derwent separated from
my mother because someone slandered her. Did
he give her any chance to vindicate herself, or
did he abandon her without explanation?”

“ N-n-no—that is to say, yes. I fear he must
lead guilty to this charge; still, when you
%r__i7

“ Now, this is the last uestion,” said she, with
a faint, bitter smile. “ as Mr. Derwent ever,
to your knowledge. expressed either contrition
at his early conduct, or indicated a Wish to find
my mother. to reinstate her in her rights?”

.“ Well#not exactly."

“ Tell me the truth?" cried she, sternly.
not dare to deceive me!”

And, for once in his life, singularly awed by
the dark menace of a woman's eye, the lawyer
blurted out the awkward truth, and spoiled all
his pretty scheme.

“ No, never.“

She rose, folding her poor little crape mantle
about her shoulders, as an empress might have
folded the royal purple.

“ Then, gentlemen,” said she, passing a reso—
lute and disdainful look from one disconcerted
face to the other, “I beg leave to retire from
this field at once, and permanently. For nine—
teen years I have lived without the aid of a
father; I can live the rest as well. For nineteen
vears my mother has suffered from the brutal
Selfishness of my father, and I have toiled for
my bread and eaten it sweetly, because it was
clean, and did not come from is sullied hands.
I shall not forget her sufferinos, or abuse myself
for the rest of my years. four scheme is de-
feated; I will have nothing to do with it. Good-

da '77

And before the astounded practitioners could
open their frozen mouths to protest she had
gone.

£tD0

 

CHAPTER III.
OUT ON THE QUEST.

MONICA went back to her private boarding-
house locked herself into her cheerless, thread-
bare fourth-story bedroom, and thought.

This dav a cruel revelation had been made to
her; the first shock was not yet over; she felt
sick and benumbed, like one who, has had a ter—
Iible fall; she knew not as yet what of her bones
were broken and what remained to her sound.

She had been taught to believe her father
dead, dead in the first year of her mother‘s mar~
ried life, and so seldom talked of, and then so
vaguely, that he had ever been but a. faint,
poetical. and abstract idea, floating in tender
shades in which her girlish fancy reveled. And
instead of these reverent and dreamy thoughts,
she ought to have been cursing him at every
fresh pang inflicted by a hard and bitter life
upon her mother.

For While she was suffering cold, hunger,
loneliness, heart-break and hopelessness he was
lapped in wealth and ease thinking Wicked evil
of her, and in no want of er.

Monica laughed to herself, with mockery sour
as verjuice, at the recollection of the lawyer’s
scheme—that she should present herself to her
patrician sire in the character of a fond and
favoring daughter, she of whose very existence
he was ignorant, she, the issue of that brief and
luckless union, the inheritrex of her mother’s
wrongs—the self-imposed avenger. Oh, what a
comedy!

She laughed, sitting there by herself, so loud-
ly and wildly that footsteps came hurriedly to
her door through the long strange passage, and
ears listened in afl'right, marveling whether the
new boarder was going mad.

So she muffled her h esteria, laid her head
down on the meager litt e marble-topped table,
beside the frowsy map of New York, bound in
ill—smelling leather, her head that was so hot,
while her feet were like ice, and she tried to
soften her heart, and to ray to God, with whom
her dear martyred mot er was; but she could
not do that: no, no, no! not with the live coal of
vengeance glowing in her thoughts.

For Monica was thinking of revenge—revenge
on her father.

Onlv she never called him “father,” in her
thoughts, never permitted herself to picture him
with his arms about her mother, when that
mother was a. beautiful young village darling,
with her diamond bright eves resting sweetly
on his, and her velvet scarlet lips drinking in
his breath. in Love‘s Young Dream! No, rather
she thought of those eyes dimmed and caverned
by the flow of many tears, and the wastin of
much hunger and pain; of those scarlet 'ps,
pale and compressed by the repressing of many
sobs and the enduring of nights and days of hu-
miliatin thoughts.

And hIonica re ' tered a vow in her hot young
heart, that Mr. ,tto Montacutc Derwent, the
selfish English aristocrat, should yet quail before
the wrongs of the pure—souled young wife Whom
he had deserted nineteen years ago. because he
could believe evil of her.

She had so far resolved, that she would follow
the lawyer‘s wishes in that she would go to Eng-
land and confront Mr. Derwent, but not in the
character of his heiress expectant. Not that.

As her mother’s aven er.

By—and—by as the w irl of her excitement
abated, she could recall ractical details.

And among the first 5 e remembered, with a
great pang of disappointment, that she had not
even allowed them to give her Mr. Derwent’s
address, and how was she to find him? Not for
worlds would she again present herself to the
pair who had plotted to reinstate her in her

' hts at the e use of her self-respect.

ortunately t ey had no clue to her present
whereabouts, and could not, were they ever so
anxio trace her: and one of her instant reso-
lutions had been to elude them altogether, and
make her way, unsuspected by living soul. to
Mr. Derwent’s mansion, enter it in dis ' , an
after reconnoitering, she would be better ableto
cope with the cruel nature which had sacrificed
her mother.

 

fortune? “ Consider the case, my dear ladv; l
consider it calmly, and don’t rush to conclusions !

in this irrational way; there is so much to be
told yet, and after all, he is your father.” I
"Don't call him my father." cried Monica. v
gsslonately: “ I cannot and will not consider 9
_ my father. He who cast off my mother l
With insulting suspicions, expressed so cruelly ‘
that she scorned to up to him again. Never. I
were I starvmg—sl I own—” ;
“ Walt! not so rash, for Heaven’s sake," in- .
terposed Mr. Korner. aghast. “Pray, pray, be 2

seated again. and let us explain this thing; you
i

 

 

Suddenly she recalled the name they had men—
tioned—Bornoch-weald, in ——shire.

She sat up with sparkling eyes: she had found
the clue; it would be easy to trace the country
seat of a wealthy county family, once she was
in that county.

Before she rose from that fateful reverie,
Monica Derwent had determined upon her
com‘se—a course which was to lead her, all un—
w1ttmg of its tremendous possibilities, through
as strange and terrible an experience as ever
madman dreamed, or the King of Evil ever
placed before unwary foot.

.Dottie, I know; such a Piccolina.

She said:

" I will go and see this Otto Montacute Der— E

went, who has spoiled my mother‘s life, and what
heartless cruelty he has dealt her, will I render
to him again."

But the sinister shade of another influence I

stood behind her, gibbering of the awful future,
and she saw it not.

Well, she must go at once to Britain, if she
would elude the probable search of the New

York lawyers, who had set their hopes upon her I

as a valuable client. She knew that it was not

likely that they had gone to the expense and l
trouble of advertising for her mother unless;
they saw a good chance of reimbursing them- :

selves; also, that they would leave no stone un-
turned to trace her again, in the expectation of

overruling her objections, and molding her to '

their own purposes. So she dared not return to
Loangerie, even though she possessed not ten
dollars in the world, until she went back to her
school toearn it.

But Monica was brave in this, the outset of =

her singular career.

She felt ready to face anything, her burning
indignation against the living and her holy
love for the dead upholding her untried
courage.

The time was not yet come when she could
realize, through terrible experience, the true
horror of fear; she knew not its haunting visage

as yet, for how can one imagine that which has I

not yet a shape in the mind?

By dint of calm and vigilant search, she found
a way to cross the ocean three days after her
arrival in New York. She read in her old
friend the Herald, an advertisement for a child’s
bonnc, to travel with a lady and her infant to
England. She answered in person, found the
lady at a fashionable hotel, very ill very
languid, and not at all too shrewd in er in—
quiries. Apparently taken at once by the quiet,

rave and refined demeanor of the applicant,
ilrs. Frothingham beckoned her to approach
close to the sofa upon which she reclined in her
crimson shawl, and fixing her lustrous, hollow
eyes upon her face, pom'ed out her trials, her
helplessness, her re uirements, and her antici-
pated sufferings in 0W, purri accents flavor-
ed strongly of the Southern plantation.

“So thankful to see anybody as presentable
as you, my dear, at last,” she sighed, having
gazed herself satisfied and spoken herself fa-
tigued. “Such a dreadful lot- came at first. Oh,
mercy! I should have died! But you—why you
are quite, quite pretty, my dear; and, yes, you are
really lady-like. You will be charmed with my
I am so
wretchedly ill on the ocean I can do nothing.
Celeste, my maid, will nurse me, and you will
have Dottie altogether under your charge.
There, that’s all, isn’t it? You accompany me
to London, and if you suit, and by that time I
shall know it, you will remain with me. I am
ordered to England to be under the care of Sir
Fretwell Malade, the eminent ladies’ physician;
I may be there a year; perhaps not so long; it
depends upon my recover ; and if you suit you
will stay, you know. W at do you say?”

Monica ad gently ar ested er in the even
flow of her languid pra ling, by utting up her
slender, shapely hand, at which t e lady stared
sharply, recognizing perhaps through the cheap
blac glove the unusual delicacy of the supposcd
plebeian member.

“ I am so to disappoint you, Mrs. Frothing—
ham,” said onica, calmly, “but I can stay no
longer with you thantocross the oceanin charge
of the child; instantly upon my arrival I shall
have to leave you. I am extremely disappoint-
ed if this will not suit you, for 1 am obhged to
go to England, and I have no money to pay the
passage, and so must go in this or some similar
wa. .

The Southern lady, accustomed to have no re-
sponsibility whateveru on her delicate shoul-
ders, looked blank enou 1 at this announcement,
and piteously bewailed er hard fate.

“I thought it was too good to be true that I
should get such a capable, wise, superior person
to go with me " she bemoaned; “ and Celeste is
such a fool! However, of course you can‘t help
it. and it is extremely honorable of you to tell
me at once, and not make a tool of me as you
could so easily have done. You, see, dear, I
am utterly unaccustomed to rough it by myself,
as these dreadful, independent, self-reliant
Northern ladies do. My husband is not dead
six months, and he used to do everything—he
and the blacks; I never had to even purchase a
ribbon for myself, he did it all, or to pick up my
own handkerchief, they were always on hand, a
score of them. But now, oh, dear!” and she
dissolved in weak, self— itying tears. “But you
will cross with me. T at is enough for the pre-
sent,” she resumed in ‘a. minute. “I am over-
come with the fatigue of examining applicants,
and will put off the evil day, now I have
got you, until we are settled in London. Come
to me at once, for we start to—morrow at noon.
By the way, What. is your name ?"

Monica was prepared for this question.

“ My name is Monica Rivers,” she answered,
adding her mother’s surname to her own. She
had decided not to enter Mr. Derwent’s house
bearing her patronyniic; she wished not to ex-
cite his attention until she had studied him well.
And as she expected to gain access to his patri-
cian mansion only in some menial character,
she had no object now in assuming any name
that she did not intend to use throughout the
whole season of her retributive visit in England.

And that was how she crossed the Atlantic,
and overcame the first obstacle presented to her.

“A good omen,” she told herself as she hur—
ried to her boarding-house for her slender be—
longin , reflecting on the special Providence
which ad sent her in the wav of a lymphatic
and heedless character like Mrs. Frothingham;
anv one else would have been sure to demand
references, ask definite questions, pry into her
concerns. and generally make it impossible for
her to retain her own secrets without suspicion
and eventual rupture. But Mrs. Frothingham
was possessed of as little worldly wisdom as a
girl of ten; 'ven to fancies, too thankful to
lean on anyt in that offered calm enduring
strength, and p eased with Monica’s refined
face. respectful maimers, and simple honesty.

The little party went amicably off to ether;
and Monica, standing on the crowded deck of
the mammoth steamer, under the drearin fall-
ing winter rain the next day at noon, and
watching the wedge-shaped city lessenii ' in
the distance, till the pale gray of Castle bar-
den was all that was Visible, felt one anguished
heart—wrench, as if she had done something ir—
revocable: and then, looking down at the wee
sparkling face of her tiny charge, smiled away
her forebodings, and thanked Heaven for her
traveling companions.

CHAPTER IV.
THE MASTER OF DORNOCH-WEALD.

THE hamlet of Dornoch, among the hills and
fastnesses of ———shire, presented a picturesque
enough t to the weary eyes of the young
woman w o entered it one gusty evening in the
end of March, on the top of the country stage—
coach, which carries the mails and passengers
from the railway station, Linnhe, twenty miles

off.

She had been traveling all day, in steamer,
rail—car, and coach; she was not yet completely
recovered from the enervating effects of her
rough and sea-sick passage across the Atlantic,
and the tiresome swimnnng of the head conse-
quent on the sea voyage, had not yet left her.

But- Monica Derwent possessed a prompt and
determined 5 irit not tobe delayed or dlscour-
aged by an ing short of impossibility.

Having eft the uiet nest of her sheltered
girlhood, she found er wings both broad and
strong, and was now swooping on swift pinion,
like an eagle on its prev.

Arrived in Liverpool, it had not taken her
long to discover where to find the information
she required, that is, the address of Otto Der-
went. The peerage was handed her by the
shopmau; leafin it rapidly over she soon had
her small taper ‘

 

under the illustrious heading:

finger-tip upon this passage. '

“ FELTRIE. FAMILY NAME DERWENT.

“_ Otto Montacute Derwent, Master of Feltrie,
Hoarshire, family seat. Dornoch-Weald, — shire.
Born July 14', 1827. Only son of Copeland Moray
Derwent, Master of Feltrie. Hoarshire. Appointed
chief secretary to the Government of , 1854;
resigned 1860. Created lord lieutenant of —-shire,
1860, and still serves. Never married. Next of kin
. and heir expectant, Geofl'ry Kilmyre, eldest son of
! Marina Derwent, sister to ()tto Montacute, mar-
ried to 881‘ er Kilmyre. manufacturer, Cornlea.“

Monica flashed so VlVidly over the words,
I “never married,” as she bent her graceful lit—
tle head over the page, that the vulgar cockney
bookseller tried to peep over her shoulder to see
what on earth the young woman was reading
that excited her so; but she closed the book,
, quietly thanked him for. his civility in letting
_ her see it, and glided out. And two hours
; afterward she was aboard a coast steamer,
f home over the chopping, sickening coast waves,
1 North, death-sick, and weary beyond words,
; but inexorabl resolved to continue on her way
until she stoo face to face with Otto Monta—
cute Derwent, Master of Feltrie, and Dornoch-
IVeald.

All night surgin with roar and grind and
tremor through t e swashing sea; at gray
dawn whirling in a cold, contracted railcar
through flat green meads and wet black earth-
furrows, where the ridged snow still lies; up,
up, further and further North, at midday stand-
ing, dizz ' and faint on the latform of the sta—
sion at t e market t0wn of innhe, the nearest
to Dornoch village; then set high in airb the
side of the brown, parchment-skinned, airy
coach-driver, whose gnarled hands grasp the
“ ribbons” of his four enormous spankers scien-
tifically, and whose conversation consists in
sulphurus oaths delivered to his steeds, and
now, at last she is rolling through the roughly—
macadamized principal street of Dornoch, her
glittering eyes straining away over the heads
of the quaintly-dressed villagers at the lordl '
tm'rets and shining windows of her fathers
home.

It lies, perhaps a mile beyond the last thatch-
roofed cot of Dornoch: it is set proudly upon a
gentle eminence, not so steep or embowered in
trees as to conceal from these qflestioning eyes
the velvet expanses of its r0 'ng parks and
broad garden-acres ; the grand house of
Dornoch-lVeald, with its encircling pleasure
grounds. occupies a circular tract of some two
hundred acres in the heart of a forest, in which
may be seen some of the finest and oldest tim—
ber in England.

This forest, with its preserves, its charcoal
fields, and its stretching wealth of wood, as
well as the whole village of Dornoch, are de-
scribed in the title—deeds of the estate of Dor-
noch-“’eald; Feltrie, the other estate, and the
older, from which he derives his distinctive ti-
tle of “Master,” lies in another county, not
only far removed from Derwent’s residence
here but left to decay, ever since one of the
gay erwents of the last century filled the sa—
cred halls with rout and lasciviousness, and was
finally murdered in the banqueting hall by one
of his vile companions.

The stage-coach sweeps up to the broad front
of an in, over the wide-set door of which a
vast shield-shaped sign is swinging, displaying
on its gilded surface the escutcheon of Derwent,
some mythological monster ramping amid hie-
rogliphic signs, with the legend underneath,

“ DARE Nor DEanNT. ”

 

 

 

Mine host emerges, ipe in mouth, and cap
askew; helpers run rom the stables; lights
twinkle in the Windows of the inn; uncouth
men and boys in moleskins and corduroys,
loiter into the yard from the street; and every—
body With all his eyes as the taciturn
coach—dri ver helps down his only passenger from
the box—seat, and hands her her slim little trav-
eling sachel, which, with a. small box, com-
prises all her belongings.

She stands silent a moment, looking atten-
tively about her; she has thought to find quiet
lodgings in the village for a few days, until she
can effect her purpose unobtrusive] ; but by
the appearance of the rude, half—civi ized huts
she has passed, and the surly or stolid villagers,
she begins to realize that she may find this im-
possible.

“ For the Weald, Miss?" inquired a voice at
her elbow; the landlord was scrutinizing her
with all the hungry curiosity of one whose
glimpses of the outer world are few.

“ l\o, I expected to be able to find some sort
of lodgings in the village,” she replied, in her
quiet, yet crisp and sufficiently independent
tone, her accent sufficiently nil-English to mark
her alien extraction; “can you direct me to a.
suitable house?”

The man stepped back a pace in order to'have
a look at her, from the crown of her plain little
black silk hat to the tip of her slender shoe;
then he passed his vacant globular orbs slowly
around the circle of onlookers, as if for inspira-
tion.

“ A furriner!” muttered one voice in the
quickly gathering crowd.

“Looks like one 0’ they nun—women,”sug—
gested a second.

“Where can she come from, for to look to
Dornoch for hotels and the like?” grumbled a
third.

“Let me step inside, please; I shall take sup-
per here,” said the object of remark anxious to
esca. from these candid express10ns of the
poop e’s opinions; and thus set in a path mine

ost'mechanically lumbered on in it; with a
dumb-struck air he led her into the inn parlor
and set her by the hearth upon which a grand
fire of fagots was roaring and crackling, and
sending its glimmering reflections all up and
down the wainscoted walls and the burnished
brazen ornaments on the rude shelves.

She sunk upon the broad wooden settle with a
long sigh; she was so weary that eve hing
she saw in this strange new world ooked
dream—like and unreal, and she herself was be-
ginning to seem another being, with nothing
left of the original Monica Derwent save a
wound which quivered in pain when she re—
membered her mother.

She was left alone while the landlord strolled
out to regain his senses and to find his spouse.
She tried to stagger to the window for another
gaze at the turrets of Dornoch-Weald, but her
limbs refused to bear her, and she curled down
again in the corner of the uncushioned dais,
and soon succumbed to the resistless influence of
slumber’s three handmaidens, Weakness, VVear-
iness, and Warmth.

Dim and distant came the tramp and bustle
of the noisy inhabitants of the “ Dornoch
Arms ;” mine host lumbered in with his wife at
his heels, a tall stalwart female like a grena-
dier, who approached to shake her guest roughly
awake, but was arrested by the mute refine-
ment of the small ale face and the long silken
lashes, and who t on busied herself clatter—
ingly about the supper-table: two chamber—
maids slipped in under cover of askin r for or-
ders from their imperious mistress, hint with
the real intention of slaking their curiosit
about the “young wench” who talked “hal‘f
fmren," and ordered round her like a duchess;
the bay of dogs came on the light evening
breeze, and sent mine host, his wife, and the
maids scattering in all directions in mad haste;
the clang of horses’ iron-plated hoofs sounded
filoping nearer and nearer; the court-yard

ed with noise and clamor, voices shouting,
loud laughter, the occasional whinny of a fa
vorite steed or the whimper of a wounde
hound; then heavy footsteps came, with the
jangle of spurs and slash of hunting rattan,
across the stone hall, and two men stood before
the sleeping girl lying on the settle, in the
bright blaze of firefight.

“ ’Pon my life—see here, Rufus!” exclaimed a
deep rough voice, “what d’ye suppose this
means E”

“ Means the advent of something spicy to our
hunting dinner, by J ove—a regular snow-drop—-
5 but hush—” replied another voice in a. cautious
: undertone.

; Another step (Monica thought she was dream-
? ing all this) another step came slowly and ma-
jestically acrom the oak floor as it is in dreams;
it seemed to be a long, long time in coming; so
‘ long indeed that she waited for it with gradu-

 

 

 

 

allyintensifying curiosity; at last it seemed to
halt between the two speakers, and in a deep
silence (she went on dreamin ) a pair of burn-
ing eyes were fastened upon er face.

And she awoke to lift up her own eyes and to
find this true.

It was with a singular shock that Monica first
met those orbs. hey were large, the pupils
dilated and intensely black, with a surrounding
iris like a ring of fire; well cut, wi -open
eyes, and sheltered by e ebrowsvof  black,
drawn straight across a row as wh to and cold
as monumental marble, and deeply depressed
half-way between the eyebr0ws and the hair.
At the moment that Monica fixed hers upon
these strange eyes, she caught a look, indescrib-
ably wild, and accompanied by a sudden pale—
ness of all the features; fascmated, horrified,
she did not move; she felt a ghastly constriction
of the heart, and her breath coming in '
gasps, as if from under a mountain.

A smothered laugh broke the weird spell; the
eyes released hers; their owner bowed with ma—
jestic dignity and turned away.

One of the young men in tarnished scarlet
hunting—coats had touched his comrade’s elbow,
and was endeavorin to stifle his memm‘ ent.

They were both g cing from her, as she sat
up with flaming cheek and but half—aroused
faculties, in her corner, to the owner of the
eyes. She, too, in all her embarrassment, gazed
earnestly after this person as he strode to the
window and leaned his arm on the sash, and his
head on his arm.

He was tall, portly: his fine jet—black hair
waved in careless locks over his broad pale fore—
head and fell about his coat—collar; his hands as
they gleamed in the fire~li rht, seemed white as
a woman’s, and broad an muscular as an ath—
lete’s; his costume was a well—worn hunting one,
richly appointed, but utterly devoid of orna-
ment other than the necessary items of hand-
some hunting-gear.

The two youn er men, having decorously
banished their c uckling amusement at the
episode of the young lady’s spellbound stare
into the elder man’s eves, strolled outside to
cross-question the landlord: and Monica re-
covered her composure, resettled herself in her
corner. and turned a. quiet look upon the fire.

Suddenly the stranger wheeled, saw her sit—
ting calmly there, and strode with a firm, quick
trend to the opposite side of the wide hearth—
stone: where, with his elbow resting on the tall
mantel shelf, and his gaze also turned quietly on
the fire, he stood motionless as a statue, and not
unlike one of the grand old Knights Paladin,
with frame worthv of the Herculean achieve-
ments of those rude days of glory.

“lithout looking again at him, Monica mutelv
made 11 her mind that this was one of the lords
or landholders of the nei hborhood, and won-
dered whether Mr. Otto erwent had been at
the htmt, whether he also would come into the
inn )arlor.

“ shall know him when he comes,” she mused
with a swelling heart. “He must be about
forty—three now, a stout, middle—aged man, with
mixed hair, and a hard or sinister expression.”

On and on went her thoughts; her fine face
contracted, her soft red mouth com reused.
Fire shot from her frowning eyes; 5 e was
looking along her vengeful future, lit up by the
torch of her mother’s wron . She forgot the
stranger standing opposite fir; she forgot the
quaint old En lish inn; she saw nothing, felt
nothing, but t e baleful flicker of her chosen
mission.

The sudden scratching and scurrying of dog-
feet across the slippery floor roused her; she
started violently and half rose—for the stranger’s
face was within three feet of hers, and his
strange eyes were riveted upon her in breath—
less, wondering scrutiny.

“Stop. Excuse me, young lady, but—who
are you?” said he.

There was something in the low iron voice, as
in the wide, vivid eye, which overawed and
mastered her.

As if in a dream she sunk back again, never
feeling the cold, sharp nose of the hound as it
traveled over her hands in suspicious examina-
tion, nor realizing the eccentricity of the ques-
tion; and said:

_, “Monica Rivers.”

She saw the eager expectancy of his gaze
quench like a light blown out, a moment of
blank vacancy, then a shrinking of the dilated
pupil, and a sudden glare of fury and con-
tempt, succeeded by a scowl of cm-iosity, which
remained.

“ Rivers ? Ma I trouble you to explain
what Rivers? ou speak like an American.”

How did he know that so instantly? Her ac-
cent was pure enough, and fortunately unmar—
red by any provincialism or dialectism what
ever. How ad he guessed? A dark thought
shot into her mind.

“ I am an American,” she replied, meetin his
frowning in uisition with a sudden flash 0 re-
pulsion “ an my family is entirely unknown.

am a Rivers—that is all I know.”

“Be explicit,” said he, in a lower, and yet
somehow, a more iron and domineering tone.

“Who is your mother?——your father! From
what part of the United States have you come?
Answer me, child. I have, rhaps you may
find, some right to demand in ormation on these
points from you.”

Monica started to her feet, panting and agi—
tated. For a moment she thought, wildl :
“ Yes, this is he, and he has, in his unearth y
clairvoyance, discovered me.”

But a second thought resolved her to force the
recognition from him, rather than herself avow
it; so she answered, proudly:

“My parents are gone; my father ”—this she
said with a passing malice, waiting to see him
wince—“my father was only a village school-
master, my mother a lace—maker, and I was
brought up in poverty and sorrow, to be a vil-
lage schoolmistress, as the hight of my ambition.
New York was my birth-State.”

She was describing, as closely as she dared the
very circumstances of her mother, as Otto er-
went had come upon her twenty years ago; and
she had the satisfaction of seeing him wince
and pale, and gnaw his lip with a fierce self—re—
pression.

“ The name of the village, girl ?” be de-
manded.

And she named her mother’s village, reckless,
in the sinister glee of her first triumph over

1.

“ Addiscombc.”

The hunter drew u , gazed at her for a few
moments with a stric en, astonished air; then,
with a mechanical bend of the head, he strode
from the room.

As he went out, the hostess came in, ivin
him wide room to pass, and an old-fas 'one
curtsey down to the floor.

“Who is that man?“ cried the youn girl
with a voice as high and clear as silver befis.

“That,” answered the woman, reverently—
“ oh, that is our squire, the Master of Dornoch-
Weald. I’ll warrant you never saw a kinglyer
gentleman Wheresoever you come from.”

And Monica, headless of the implied invita-
tion to confide her nationalit to the mistress of
the “ Dornoch Arms,” turn away with a very
piculiar smile, “that kind of made me creep
' e,” as Dame Hicks said afterward, when
these apparently trivial events were talked of
over the length and breadth of the British
Isles_ (To be continued.)

 

Y0 ' can’t always tell. We have known a
sweet-faced young man, who spoke such
beautiful melodious words of moral benevo-
lence at the boarding-house table as brought
tears to the eyes of the tender-hearted land—
lady. suddenly depart with a month’s board
unsettled, and all the souvenir he left is his
valise, a second-hand pocket-testament and a
pair of faded paper collars.

WHEN the head of a family comes home at a
shockingly late hour, deposits his weary self
on the top of the piano, and while gently tink-
ling the keys with his major toe murmurs some
thing about the annoyance of a squcaking bed,
it is entirely safe to draw conclUsions.