"If-WI; ' v~ ' .1. 1' l; . fl: . iii .: t .2»? if“: vr‘ni ‘ . if ,_ ti". . ' .fl ' f ‘. . '7‘ 2‘ - .J _ .‘ ' . :- . l‘ t i.#. w‘)’ w" .0“. Li.’ u“ ."i' . i . Us 5 9:, I (v "H ‘- 2 7., 1 $55.} 5 .i r s . ; T‘ - ~ o: la 33' ' i . .r; .,.. .. ‘i . . i t .. 4 l l . 1‘“ ' .. ‘smgesmsaesasm’ fithva ‘;~.;;‘,- Ena‘ ' " a s ‘ VEM'”'"" w ,W’ . '3" \ :7 p c— a ' IRE: vans-a. z 7.;- an; A .A 'a‘A-vliv?! n2. SISTERS. BY C. J. The day had gone as fades a dream; The night had come and the rain fell fast; While o‘er the bleak and sluggish stream Cold blew the wailing blast. In ensive mood I idly raised he curtain from the rain-splashed glass. And as into the street I gazed I saw two women pass. One, shivering with the bitter cold, Her arments heavy with the rain, Limpeg by with features wan and old, Deep-furrowed with sharp pain. A child in form, a child in ears; But from her piteous, pa lid face The weariness of life with tears Had washed all childlike grace. And as she passed me, faint and weak, I heard her slowly say, as though With throbbing heart about to break: “ ‘ Move on!’ ‘ Move on!” Where shallI go?” The other, who on furs reclined, In brougham was driven to the play; No thought within her vacant mind Of those in rags that day. With unmoved heart and idle stare, Passed by the beggar in the street, Who lifted up her hands in prayer Some charity to meet. Both vanished in the murky night— The outcast on a step to die; The lady to a scene of light, Where Joy alone did sigh. But angels saw amid her hair What was by human eyes unseen; The grass that grows on graves was there With leaves of ghostly green. And though her diamond flashed the light Upon the fiatterers gathered near, The outcast’s brow had gem more bright— An angel’s pitying tear. Blood-red Rubies. BY JENNIE DAVIS BURTON. RALPH HAYT opened the door and looked within to behold a striking tableau. A girl, dressed in shabby black, with ha gard face lit up by passionate Southern 6 es. aced his bride of an hour, with one hand 1' ted heavenward as if she had just completed some solemn adjura- tion. The latter in sn0wy robes, with a ruby necklace—her bridegroom’s gift—runnin in a line of lurid light about her throat, was ' e a woman suddenly turned to stone. Hayt took in the scene with a single glance. He approached the visitor’s side, and just touch- ed her shoulder. “ Come,” he said; “this is neither the time or lace for such sensational acting. If you have usiness to transact with this lady, let it be at some more suitable season.” The girl turned upon him fiercely, a flash of menace coming in her eyes, but he checked the hot words which sprung to her lips by a mutter not intended for his bride’s ear. “ Go down to the pier. I will follow.” She went, after a single hesitating, burning glance from one to the other of that “ hapcpy pair ” and Hayt drew a step nearer to his bri e. , . Her eyes, full of anguish and horror, turned slowly u on his face. She gasped, and put up her han to clutch her throat; it came in con- tact with the ruby necklace, and with a shudder she tore it off. It slid down the shining folds of her dress and lay in a glowing heap at her feet. With a swift motion the bridegroom stooped and secured it. “ You dropped your rubies, my dear. Allow me!” She half-lifted her hand, keeping him back, and the stood for an instant with level glances directe straight into each other’s eyes. “ Do on ask me to wear them again?” “ I ask it, of course. There is no reason why my wife "—with emphasis on the title—“ should not wear the 'ft of her husband’s choosing.” He reclaspe the jewels on the snowy throat, then caught her in his arms suddenly and look- ed daringly down into her face as he kissed her on brow and cheek and lips. “ Not only my wife, but my love, Louise. My love and loving me. Nothing in past or future can ever alter that.” She struggled to be free, and he released her instantly. “ Never do that again,” she cried, passionate- ly. “ You have fastened your chains upon me and I will wear them, but for your own sake and mine never dare to do that a 'n.” They went back together into t e resence of the wedding guests, and next day rs. Hayt fainted quietly away as she read in the morn- ing paper that Dolores Alcana had been found in the vicinity of the pier—drowned. Those were troublous times when Richard Ericvert was traveling through Guanajuato with the remnant of his once princely fortune, which he proposed investing in the mines, risk- ing everything in the hope of gaining much. Before he found stock to suit him, he fell head over ears in love with Dolores Alcana, and as luck would have it, found the opportunity of quadrupling his money at the same time. Senor Alcana, who boasted his descent from the old Spanish grandees, and about to fly, lis- tened to the young American’s impassioned suit as he unlocked his brass-bound casket. “ I am sensible 0f the honor which the senor doubtless thinks he would confer upon us, but the blood of the Alcanas has never yet mingled with any but a noble strain. I cannot give you my daughter, senor, but I will do almost a well by you. I will give you the first offer of my magnificent family jewels with which I am ob- liged to part. Among them is the incompara- ble ruby necklace which was brought over by an ancestor at the time of the first Spanish in- vasion. They are a surer investment than Mexican mines, and will not cause you half the trouble,” in which he spoke without revision of what those jewels were to cost their future possessor. Ericvert bought them at the other’s price, for had not Dolores whispered in his ear: “ He thinks more of the jewels than he does of me. Truest of hearts, he will be lad to ransom them with his dau hter’s hand a r the first bitterness of his exile 13 over.” Later, he made his arran ements to return home by the overland route, ut was so far per- suaded by the representations of his friend and traveling companion, Ralph Ha ,that he re- linquished the precious casket in .o the care of the latter and took his receipt for the same. “ After all, they would be a nuisance to me, and I can trust them with on, Hayt. I would- n’t miss the adventure of t e trip for half they are worth, but you are right enough in taking the monotonous security of steamboat transit since you prefer it.” But careless, adventure-loving Dick Ericvert paid the penalty of his folly and realized the payment when he found himself in the hands of awless brigands, with a noose about his neck and the rope over a limb, and the strong life al- most fluttering out of him from having been already suspended for a moment in mid-air. “ Once more, will you tell me where you have concealed the jewels?” This from the ruthless captain of a ruthless gang who, with one excep- tion, looked on with indi erence while the cap- tive gas ed and struggled in his agony. “As eaven hears me, I have told you the truth,” reiterated the unfortunate man. “ I have not got them; I intrusted them with my friend.” “Senor Capitaine,” ventured to remonstrate that worthy’s lieutenant, “ he seems to speak the truth. You cannot go further with safety.” “The pitiful fool lies,” retorted the captain savagely. “ lVith safety or without it, he sh take the result of defying me. Up with him once more, my men.” Once more the quivering, convulsed figure went high in the air; the lieutenant turned away sic at heart; the signal was given to lower the victim again, and one of the men stooped to release the noose from the prostrate form while the leader repeated his question: “ Now, senor, will you be satisfied to answer me by confessing the hiding — place of the ems. ’ g The stooping bandit laid his hand over Eric- vert’s heart, and glanced up. . . “He will never confess, mio capitame,” said he, grimly. “ The man is dead.” Mr. and Mrs. Hayt were at the theater, and as usual the target for many glances. The world had never pierced their mystery nor be- come quite reconciled to letting it alone. “Snow and fire! the ice-mountain and the volcano! I can think of nothing else when I see her with that red blaze at her throat, and when I compare her passive endurance with his impassioned devotion.” “ Is it the old story, a marriage of con- venience, with love on one side balancing gold on the other?” “Not as you think Rainstellar. The love and the old were on er side, first. She was Louise ehard, the heiress and belle of that season, and he was something of an adventurer and entirely impijcunious when she showed her preference .for 'm first. We all thought she was sacrificing herself to an out—and-out for- tune-hunter until some lucky speculation raised him to a pecuniary level with herself, and so- ciety was graciously pleased to acknowledge him where he had only been admitted on suf- ferance before. Nobody knows what has changed her so, any more than they can tell why she is so fond of that striking necklace which makes her own ghastliness the more pro- nounced.” “I am interested. I have a talent for un- earthing household skeletons, and this looks like a fair field for exercising my skill. I sigh for the opportunity.” “It shall not be lacking, my friend. I will take you to their little supper, after the play is over. You will not unearth their skeleton, ut you will be delightfully entertained, and pos- sibly find more grounds on which to feed your conjectures.” Accordingly, Rainstellar was introduced at the Hayt mansion something later that night by his friend, Van Wythe. He bowed low before his hostess, and waited near until comers had ceased and she was at liberty. He leaned over her chair, then, and took the fan which hung at her side. “Am I bold to compliment (you upon our taste, madame?” He Indicate the 1 -red line at her throat as he spoke. “ You must at. tribute it to my admiration for the courage you dis lay in wearing that ornament.” he cold eyes were lifted to his in a haughty stare. “ I do not understand you, sir.” “I mean that almost any one of your sex— for women, as a rule, are superstitious, madame —would shrink from the burden of treachery, hypocrisy and cowardly assassination with which t ose rubies are frau ht. I should think you would also fear t e retribution which guilt is sure to bring, which may over- take the passive participant in the spoils as well vas the active agent toward their posses- SlOIl. “Will you tell me, in as few words as os- sible, exactl what you mean?” she deman ed, quietly. “ efore we attract attention, please.” “ I mean simply—ruin to you and yours. I mean that to—morrow 'our husband will be under arrest for the wil ful murder of Dolores Alcana. I mean that I am the avenger of her wrongs.” Two hours later, when the brilliant lights were out, the ests all gone, Mrs. Ha tapped at his study oor and entered her usband’s presence, voluntaril seeking a private inter- view with him for t e first time since their mar- ria 9 day. e looked 11:8; and at sight of her agitated face, arose. ' own aspect was listless and calm, but after one glance, she knew that the warning she had come to give was not re- quired. He was the first to speak. “Well, we have reached the end.” She put up her clasped hands with a shudder- in cry. . g‘ Oh, Ral b, that this should be!” “It will hard on you, Louise, with your grids and your abhorrence of even venial crime. ut it is strange, is it not, that the end should come in arraigning me for a crime I never com- mitted? Oh, "—as she looked at him sudden- ly with a. wil eagerness in her eyes—“ I know you have thought me guilty from the mom- mg1 you learned that she was drowned, but I ad no hand in that. I did not even see her thpre. I kept my appointment, but she was gone. _ Louise came a step nearer him. “ If Iyou had only told me before! I thought — on now the story she told me—” ‘Which she proved so conclusively that I never sou ht to deny it. It seemed scarcely worth whi e to set myself right with you where the other matter was concerned. Being an in— grate, a traitor and a thief, I was already the object of your loathing, and I could hardly hope you would accept my unsu ported word with circumstances to your know edge pointing suspicion at me as they did.” It was curious to see with what indifference the man a plied those terms to himself. “But, 0 , Ralph!” she cried, with eyes stream- ing tears now, and voice choked with sobs. “If you could know how I have been haunted by remorse; how, believing you guilty, I thought had I been more forgiving to your first trans- gression I might have redeemed you; how, for my hardness, have held myself almost equally to blame.” “ Nay, sweet,” he said, with a touch of pity in his voice. “ Do not blame yourself. I have al- ways been irretrievably bad. Listen and be- lieve me when I say that not even your love could have saved me. Evil is inherent in my nature; I am possessed of a restless demon which is forever driving me outside the pale of honesty and morality. I tell you the simple truth that on ma spare yourself reproach. It is almos kind 0 fate to order my sentence for a crime I never committed, rather than leave me to bring down the punishment by some new act of sin. I know myself, and I know, that it would haVe surely come soon or ate. “Oh, it shall not be. You must fl . Listen, Ralph! Only blood- iltiness shoul have ever come between us. ithout that do you think any shame shall keep me from you, now? I have suffered too much. Escape for m sake, if not for your own, and some dayI will nd the means of joining you. Our mutual lives shall atone for all your ast.” He listened and esitated, even while a shade of darker despair settled over his face. Love of life was strong, thou h life itself had wearied him and he yielded a length. Morning brought a very early visitor for Mrs. Hayt, a lady, at sight of whom the other pressed her hand over her heart, and stared in bewil- derment and amaze. “You are surprised,” said the visitor, “but I am still alive, you see. I am willin to unde- ceive you, Mrs. Ha . It was not who was found drowned, but if Ralph Hayt were to hang as high as Haman on that supposition, he would only meet with the retribution he deserves. I could not quite accomplish that, but I have done ahnost as well; I have sent him out to wander, as he su poses, a hunted outcast on the face of the cart . And I have come to give you the sequel of the story I told you on your wedding- da .” Mrs. Hayt sunk into a chair, and waved her hand as a token that she should proceed. Do- lores—it was she—went on steadil : “I told you, then, of the fatew 'ch had over- taken Ericvert. I tell you now that that fate was not the result of any accident. Your hus— band deliberately plotted against his life, and the brigand chief was bought to carry out his plans. Wait; that is not all.” But Mrs. Hayt, with a low cry, slid from her chair to the floor. The long strain of unnatural self-repression, the excitement of the past night, and now this revelation, which fell hke a pall to extinguish her awakening hopes, had done their work, and she lay there In a death- like swoon. The rest was told her afterward. Impressed by some foreboding, perhaps, Ericvert had made his will before he started upon that fatal jour- ney, bequeathing'tpvery thing he owned to Do- lores, his love. e young heutenant who had pitied him, chose the written papers .among them the will and Hayt’s receipt, for his share of the booty; and, armed with these, he desert- ed brigandage, sou ht and found Dolores, and by enterin into er scheme of vengeance, had induce her to ma him. His name was Rainstellar, and in beha f of his wife, he de- manded the full value of Ericvert’s legacy which was paid at the order of Mrs. Hayt, an so the matter was never brought into court. It was both oetic-justice and a proof that Hayt had told t 6 simple truth when he said he was irredeemabl bad, that he ended his course among the ban itti of our great West. The restless demon within him drove him to their midst, and a bullet from a resisting victim sent the masked road—agent to his doom. . The ruby necklace was sent to a religious iii- stitution as an anon ous gift, and was sold for a charitable ob'ect, according to the written re- quest of the un nown donor. A Heario History; BLIND BARBARA’S SECRET. BY MARY GRACE HALPI‘NE, AUTHOR or “ THE MISSING BRIDEGROOM,” “THE HUSBAND OF TWO WIVES,” “WHo was GUILTY?” “ELsm’s PRISONER,” “WHOSE WIFE WAS SEE?" “THE DIVORCED WIFE,” are, are CHAPTER XXIV. CAMERON’S SEARCH.——SURPRISE AND MUTUAL EXPLANATIONS. WE will now follow Mr. Cameron, in his ef- forts to discover the whereabouts of Barbara Worth. On reaching Poughkeepsie, he searched the directory for the residence of Dr. John Garvin~ and havmg found it, proceeded to the street and number indicated. It was a rambling, old—fashioned building, in a thinly-settled part of the city, situated some distance from the road. It might have worn a pleasanter look at a pleasanter season of the year, but now the bare branches of the few strag ling trees that sur- rounded it, together with t e neglected appear- ance of the garden and out—houses, gave it a very desolate and dreary air. A red-armed, slatternlmoking servant an- swered the bell, ushering ' into a small room at the rear. “Is Dr. Garvin at home?” “He ain’t fur off ” was the rather ambiguous reply of the girl, who stood staring at him with open eyes and mouth. “Give him this card; and say that I am wait- mgw see him.” he girl looked curiously at the little piece of pasteboard in her hand. “ What name shall I till him, sur?” “The name is on the card. Hand it to him, and be quick about it,” was the impatient re- spouse. The girl disap red. Ten, fifteen utes elapsed. ' Mr. Cameron walked impatiently up and down the floor of the little room that Dr. Gar- vin ’dignified by the name of his “private of- fice. The dust lay thick upon the shelves that lined one side of it, on which were various bottles and jars, most of them empty. The pen had rusted into the empty inkstand that stood on the pine desk in one corner of the room, and a pile of old newspapers lay in the old ricket chair opposite. I At last e doctor made his ap nce. He had, evidently, been calls in from some r h, outdoor labor; his hair and face bearing e once of being latel combed and washed. e wore a loose fias dressing- wn, whose bright colors contrasted oddly wi his soiled linen and coarse, dirty boots. Assumin a professional air, he took his seat at the d , making an effort to remove the rusty pen from the inkstand. ailing in this, he drew the folds of his dressing— wn as far as possible over the boots which insisted on maldngathemselves visible. I “ t can I do for you, sir?” “ About six months 0, more or less, a blind woman was placed un or your care, by the name of Barbara Worth?” A change passed over the doctor’s face; its rigid, solemn aspect gave place to a look of cu- riosity and interest. “A blind woman was placed under my care about that time, sir, but not by that name.” “No matter' that is her true name. Is she with you still?’ “ She is. I suppose you are one of the people she 0t me to write to?’ “ he wrote me a letter some time ago; but I was out of the country, and it was several months in reachin me. “ Well, sir,” sai the doctor, crossing his legs, and assuming a confidential tone and manner, “that was the most curious circumstance that ever happened to me in all my born days. “ You see, last spring I ut m usual adver- tisement in the paper, as ow ’d take a few patients to board; 'vin’ ’em every possible care and attention, as always do, sir. The fore part of last summer, a lady drives up to the door, as nice and genteel a person as you’d wish to see sir.” “ About how old?” interrupted Mr. Cameron. “I should say about fifty; though it’s hard telling a woman’s age, sir. She wasn’t any younger, I’ll dare swear. Well, she had a blind woman with her, partly insane, as she said, and from her appearance at the time I saw no rea- son to doubt her word. She told me that she had some very ueer notions about herself and others that ma e her very troublesome, and wanted me to take charge of her. As she pro- mised to y a good price, and eve hing seemed fair and square, I consented. 0 she went awe and left her; and if you’ll believe me, sir, I aven’t seen or heard a word from her since! She paid three months in advance, ’cording to my invariable rule, sir, or I should have sent her to the almshouse long ago. I was tellin’ Mrs. Garvin only; this morning that I couldn’t afford to keep or much longer. I’ve got a family of my own, sir, and can’t afford to lodge and feed ot er people 3 for nothin’.” For the last three months poor Barby had made herself very useful by takin care of the doctor’s numerous progeny; but r. Cameron was in ignorance of this. “ You need have no fears on that score,” he said. “If she is the person I think she is, I will assume all resgonsibilities, not only in re- gard to the future, ut the past.” This assurance produced a very visible effect on the doctor’s tone and manner. “Very liberal of you, indeed, sir,” he said, rubbing his hands softly together. “What was the name of this lady? and what did she call the erson she brought here? You say it was not orth?” “Well, sir, the lady called herself Smith; and she 've me to understand that the tient she brou t was her sister Mary. Mary mith, that is t e name I put upon my books, sir.” Here the doctor reached up, taking down a book from the top of the desk, and opening it. “Yes, here it is; date and all. As you see, sir.” Mr. Cameron looked over his shoulder and read the following: “ July 15th, 18—. “ Received this day Mary Smith. Blind and in- sane. ' , ' “ Board paid, three months in advance,ably Mrs. Julia Ann Smith, of New York, to whom com- munications are to be addressed." “Wrote her more than a dozen letters, sir,” said the doctor, closing the book and returning it to its place; “ but never a word did I get in repl .” “I, dare say not,” said Mr. Cameron, 3. little dryly. “ The lady who gave that name as her addrem was killed on the cars, two or three weeks after.” “ You don’t say so! Well, that accounts for it.” “This blind woman’s name is not Smith, but Worth,” continued Mr. Cameron. “That’s what she has always insisted ‘on, since she began to et better, sir; but I thought it was only one of or crazy notions.” “ What is her condition of mind now?” “Well, sir, when she first come, she was sort 0’ stupid, and, at times, wanderin’; but she has been improvm’ eve week, until now you wouldn’t hardly thin there was anythin’ the matter with her. She tells a ueer story about herself' but mayhap its truer t an I thought it was. It seems that she told the truth about her name anyway. For a lon time she was con- tinually pestering me and rs. Garvin to write to some place in Connecticut. At last I wrote, just to satisfy her, and thinking, erhaps, there might be something in it. But t e letter came back, ‘uncalled for.’ ” “ What name did she give you?" The doctor again referred to his book. “Here it is, sir. ‘Miss Irva Sutton, Edge- combe, Connecticut.’ ” Mr. Cameron looked at it in silence. “ Now I want to see this blind woman, Bar- bara Worth. I prefer to do so unannounced, if her mind is strong enough for it to produce no unfavorable result.” “ I don’t think it will harm her, sir,” said the doctor, rising to his feet. “ She don’t seem to act quite natural Iyet; but she is noways excita- ble, only melanc oly like. She’ll set by the hour and not speak, unless somebody ks to her. She is in the nursery; it sort 0 amuses her to look after the children a bit. Will you see her there, or shall 1 send for her to come out here?” “ Take me to wherever she is. I wish to see her unannounced, and entirely alone.” Dr. Garvin led the wayto a sparely-furnished, but not uncheerful room. There, seated by one of the windows, was our old friend, Barbara; looking little as she did when we first saw her. Her cheeks were thin and bloodless, and her hair perfectly white; while her whole counte- nance and attitude indicated a sorrow and de— jection that touched with pity Mr. Cameron’s heart, as he looked at her. A year—old baby lay sleeping across her knee, and four or five other children were playing about the room. “ Simply mention my name to her, and then leave us,” said Mr. Cameron. Low as this was spoken, it reached Barbara, as could be seen by the sudden turning of the headd toward the place where the speaker stoo . Dr. Garvin took the baby from her knee, say- in : ‘g‘ I’ll take Arty to his mamma. Here’s a gen- tleman to see you; Mr. Charles Cameron.” At the mention of that name, Barbara arose to her feet, sinking back into her chair again, trembling in every limb. Mr. Cameron si the doctor to leave the room, which he id, taking the children with him. As soon as they were quite alone, Mr. Cam- eron took a seat in front of her, looking in pity and alarm upon the wreck before him. . “ Pray do not agitate yourself so Mrs. Worth. nI am your friend, and would ladly think you mine. I got your letter only a ut three weeks ago. I was in London at the time. I sailed in the next steamer for this country, and have been searching for you ever since. In fact, I have been searching for on many years. You say, in your letter, that have andaughter: did you s truly?” “ hen the letter was written you had; but it is a long, long time since I’ve seen or heard from my pretty nursling. I feel as if I had been in a long and troub ed sleep, a sleep from which I had tried to waken many times. “That is all past now; do not think of it any more. Ha ier days are dawning for you, for us both. 0 scheming brain, that has caused us both so much troub e, is werlem to work us an further 111' Lucia Su 11 is dead!” Barhara bowed her head upon her hands. “ Dead? And I have felt so hard, so bitter to- wag’d her! God be pitiful to her, and to us “ Now that she has beyond all human jurisdiction, we will let her sins and follies rest with her; speakingoof them only so far as it ma be necessary straighten out this tangled we of mutual mistakes and misunderstandings. You ak, in your letter, of the dis ace I have brou t upon your name. As lives, your dang ter was my beloved and lawful wife! If I wronged her, it was in persuadin her into a secret marriage. But my father, a ard, hau h- ty man, was stricken down with the illness t at terminated his life, and I supposed the necessity for concealment would be only for a few months, at the lon est.” “And t e woman who told Alice that she was your wife, showin pa ers and letters in confir— mation of the trut of er statement?” “ I will tell you. Years before I saw Alice, when I was a mere boy I was entrapped into marrying a woman, pro i ate in character, and several years Ilrll‘i senior. lived with her only a few weeks. ousgbh all the usual forms were gone through with, e was not legal] m wife as she had a husband when I married er. I should have gone through the formality of a divorce had I not been desirous of keeping the whole thing from my father, who I knew would never pardon my associating his name with that of such a person. “ I first met Alice at Mrs. Sutton’s, with whom she lived as a sort of com anion and attendant. You, who knew and love her, will easily credit the impression she made on me—an impression that deepened with every succeeding interview until I resolved to secure her beyond the possi- bility of loss. Chance favored me. Mrs. Sut- ton was called away, leaving Alice in cliar e of the house. She remained awa two or t weeks; and so successfully did urge my suit that before her return I had persuaded Alice to consent to a secret marriage. “Mrs. Sutton was the widow of a man I es- teemed very highly. After her return, I con- tinued my visits at her house. At last, fearing from her manner that she was misconstruin them, I told her of my marriage to Alice and my reasons for keeping it private for the pres- ent, very foolishly, as now see; I also made a confidant of her in regard to my former mar- ri if marria 9 it could be called. ‘ From what I ave learned since, I know that she considered my marria to Alice as a great wrong done to herself. But so well did she suc- ceed in concealing her feelin s that I never once suspected it. She professe the utmost affec- tion for Alice and sym thy for me, and will- ingness to aid us to e extent of her power. She gave us every facility for seeing each other and when, a few months later, I was summon home by my father’s apparent nearness to death, I left my young wife under her care and pro- tection asconfidently as I would have left her in yours. “I found my father very-feeble, but much better than when m sister wrote me- his once strong mind so wea ened by e an sickness that he could hardly endure to ave me out of his sight a moment. “ In this way several weeks passed. One da , as I was wondering why I didn’t have a rep y to my last letter to Alice, I received one from Mrs. Sutton, saying that my wife had died, after giving birt to a still-born babe—that the sudden appearance of a woman, who claimed to be my Wife, had given Alice such a shock that she lived only a few hours after. “ What m feelings were at this intelligence, I will not a mpt to describe. “ I started immediately for Lindenville, where Mrs. Sutton then lived, but only to find that m wife's mother had made her appearance an claiming the body of her daughter, taken it awa . Mrs. Sutton soleme assured me that she ad not the faintest idea whither you had taken it, or even where you lived; and as I knew of no motive that she could have for de- ceiving me, I placed the fullest reliance on what she told me.” “ I left a letter with Mrs. Sutton for you. It contained my full addr together with a strong a peel to you for he abe that my straitene circumstances made me ill able to care for,” explained Barbary. “ She never gave it to me.” “I had what purported to be a reply, stating that you could do nothing for it, and advising me to let Mrs. Sutton adopt it, as she had offer- ed to do.” “ I wrote you nothing of the kind. In fact, I didn’t know, at that time, that the child was livin . Far from takin the course you emp- pose , I should have consrdered it as a most pre— cious gift, which nothing could have induced me to rclin uish. The love and companionship of the chi] of my lost Alice would have comfort- ed me as nothing else could. “ As it was, I was nearly heart-broken. All the comfort I had was to talk with Mrs. Sutton about my lost darling; she all the time express— ing the greatest sympathy for me in my cruel bereavement. “ This, naturally, threw us a great deal toge- ther: and final! shc startled me by a assion— ate avowal of ier love. I told her t iat my heart was buried in the grave of Alice, and that I should never marry. “ Finding me proof against all her persuasions and blandishments, she threw off, in ameasure, the mask she had worn, making use of this re- markable expression, but which is no puzzle to me now: ‘ You will have cause to regret, to the last day of your life, that you have twice scorn— 0 . ed in ve.” “ ut I ascribed it to the excitement under which she seemed tobe laboring, and thought no more about it. It was an interruption to our friendship, however; and as I left Lindenville soon after, we never met again. “My father being now dead, and in only sister married to a man in New York tate, I disposed of my estate in Maryland, and re— moved thither. “About five years later, I was summoned to the death-bed of the abandoned woma’n with whom my troubles first began. “In an agony of fear and remorse, she dis- closed to me the fact that Mrs. Sutton had hired her to come to my wife with the story of my former marriage to her; brin ing forward let- ters and papers to make g her claim. She said, also, that Alice’s child, a daughter, was born alive, and was still living, the last she heard from it, two years before. That Mrs. Sutton had taken charge of it, sending it away to nurse to some remote and obscure village, whose name and location she did not know. “ You will readily surmise that I lost no time in going to Lindenville, but on] to find that Mrs. Sutton had removed a year efore, leaving no clew to her whereabouts. “I then advertised; offering a liberal reward to any one who would give me any information that would lead to the iscovery of the child, or the woman who had stolen her. “The large amount offered brought me let- ters from various parts of the country; all of them purporting to have seen or heard of some woman with a child, and under circumstances that led them to conclude it was the one I was seekin . But, though I attended personally to everyt ing that he (1 out the faintest ho of success, it was only to meet with fresh 'sap— pointmcnt. “I had one anonymous letter. The hand- writing was evidently dlsguiscd, but there were certain peculiarities about it that made me think it was from Mrs. Sutton. It stated that ‘ I should never find the child I was seeking until to see her living would be far worse than to mourn her dead.’ ” “Thanks to my constant and watchful care, she failed to carry out her throat. In spite of her bad teachings and worse example, Irva is a child of which any father might be proud,” put in Barbara. “Irva? that was the name given me by Dr. Garvin; Irva Sutton. Then 8 e went by Mrs. Button’s name?” “ Yes; every one in Edgecombe supposed Irva to be her own child. Not long after the death of Alice, my sight began to fail Inc—I think I must have we t it away. This, together with my poverty, eft me helpless, and entirely at her merc . She offered to take care of the child and me, ut only on condition that I gave her full control of Irva until she reached the a of womanhood, leaving her to sup , until t en, that she was her own child. consented, on condition that I should have the care of m granddaughter through her infancy and chi] - cod, and that when she became a woman she would reveal to her the secret of her birth and the relation I sustained to her. She solemnly romised to do this, and I, in turn, promised to cave the revelation to her. “When Irva was five ears old, I became en— tirely blind. Lovely in cm and soul, she was the sole joyland comfort of my lonel heart, and I clung to er with a strength of a ection that I had never bestowed upon her mother. And though she never dreamed that I was other than her nurse, she returned my tenderness and de- votion with grateful affection. “As years went on, various thi occurred to shake my confidence in Mrs. Sutton’s truth; and I be an to think that on might not be the hard an evil man she he represented. In an unguarded moment she had let fall words that made me think she had some feeling of rsonal ill-will against you. This, together With Mrs. Sutton’s indifference, and, at times, positive aversion to Irva, made me often very uneasy. But, blind and helpless, I could only wait hop— ing that she would redeem her promise. When I ound that she intended to delay, if not to evade this, I decided to again remind you that you had a daughter, and her claim upon on. “As soon as Mrs. Sutton knew of this otter, I was seized with the strange mental affection under which I have labored until the last three months. I must have been ver ill when I left Edgecombe, as I have not the slightest recollec- tion of it. Indeed, it was only at Intervals that I had any consciousness of what was assin around me. When it fully returned, fo myself here, alone, among strangers.” “When did you see my daughter last?” “ I couldn’t ell you. I remember trying to speak to her, and how distressed I was at not being able to do so, but where, or when, I can- not say.” “ She was in Edgecombe when you wrote me?” “ Yes; and BOme weeks after.” . _ “ Then she must be there, or in that Vicniity. Or if gone away? some one there will know her whereabouts. shall surely find her. Now the sooner we ct away from here the better. This is no lace or the mother of Alice. My home from enceforth, is yours. I am your son, and you must let me care for you as such.” (To be continued’commenced in No. 401.) FAT Mmr ma Consunr'nvns.—-A taste for fat meat is, unfortunately, not universal among children, and when it does show itself it is often —almost universally—repressed by parents. This taste is an expression of the wants of the living system which we cannot disregard with im unity. Without fats the organism cannot be b t up in perfection. ‘ats counteract the ten- dency to consumption. Observation has estab- lished the interesting fact that persons who in earl life show a taste for fat meats seldom fall victims to that disease; and vice versa, that con- sumptives have generally sh0wn an early repug- nance to such food. There can be no question as to the lesson taught by the fact—that when the appetite exists it ought to be indulged, and that if possible, it ought when wanting, to be crea by tonics and abundant exercise in the open air. 3%,. a (v 1:9,; 3. 5s- ‘-.-..: s HEW 312???? -$1'!‘:.‘駑$; _ F:- ‘ -' 233:7: "z I 23' ,.