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far away. I am looking forward to that time

1!

ve
wit a Ion
“I’d advgise you to use your field-glass—the one
on take to the race-course, you know—to find it,
r. Garwell, for it is far, far in the future—that time
is 7,

She raised the mischievous, dazzling, dark-gray
eyes full to his face as she made this saucy speech,
and he saw that she was in earnest—more in earn-
est than he had dreamed such a madcap school-girl
could be.

“ Coralie, you are cruel

“ No', I am kind. I will

,7!

give you some good ad-
vice. Pro ose to aunt Charity. It is money you are
after; an she has ten times as much as 1.. Be-
sides, she is good, and her influence on you Will be
for the best. She is more suited to you in years,
too.” _

The elegant- flirt was nonplused; no girl, old or
young, had ever been so frank With him before. An
angry flush rose to his face for a moment; but he
thou ht it best to laugh. '

“ on are cynical, for sweet seventeen, Miss
Clyde.” .

‘1 don't know what I am ” responded Coralie;
“ but I do know that I don’t like men who gamble,
and race horses and break girls’ hearts. If I ever
love any one well enough to marry him he shall be
nearly my own age, brave as a hero, handsome as—
as—oh, awfully handsome l—and‘true and faithful
to me; somebody who has never been in love be-
fore, you know,” and she looked at hiiu again With
those fearless eyes of hers.

“ Indeed! A charming picture, I confessi-some-
thing like that of the foolish cadet who has prob-
abl ruined his good looks for life in that foolhardy
feat of which I read to-night." _ '

“ It was a foolhardy feat, perhaps,” said Coralie,
in a very low, sweet voice, the tears coming into
her eyes, “but it saved in life.” '

John Garweli, when he eard those liquid tones
and saw those shining tears was more intensely an—
no ed than ever.

ith that perversity which makes a part of poor
human nature, this man, who had wooed and cast
aside man an easily-won heart, now that this mad-
cap of a so col-girl refused to be dazzled by him, be-
gan in earnest to fall in love with her. He was an-
gry with her—he was jealous of this cadd who had
saved her life—but he was determined to con uer
this scorn and indiflerence—to make Coralie ike

him.

“ Who has told you that I bet, gamble and flirt,
Coralie ?” he asked, chan ing the subject. “ I did not
know that I was the vict m of the sewing societies,
and other feminine clubs, where the reputations of
us men are handled without gloves."

“I never said on did those things," answered
Coralie, bursting into musical laughter; and, rising,
she ran to the piano and began to sing a gay snatch,
to stop the conversation.

The Misses Featherflight had been so far ersuad-
ed out of the articles of their belief, that hey had
allowed “ that spoiled child ” a piano! I

“ I shall have my hands full with taming her,”
thought John Garwell, sullenlyl. “ But, tame her I
will! She has aroused my w‘ —for good or evil—
and she shall bend to it. She shall be my wife, if
only to have revenge on her, for her charming im-
pertinence.

“ I mustn’t show my hand too plainly at first," he
mused, as he walked on toward home a. half-hour
later. “ I’ll frighten her. By Jove! she’s a sharp
one! I couldn‘t recover from the blows she gave me.
Had to back out. She ‘ don‘t like men who gamble,
race horses, and break girls‘ hearts,’ eh? ‘11 pay
her off for that. If she knew how malicious I am
she would not dare to be quite so plain—spoken.
Hallo, Green, what’s this?’ to his father’s footman,
who placed a note in his hand, as he went in after
rin in the door-bell.

“ e t for you, sir.”

John opened the envelope under the light of the
hall lamp.

“ Lady’s writing,” he thou ht, with a feeling of
relief; for he was always thin ing of his debts and
his duns.

“ MY DEAR. Ma. GARwaLL,” the note said, “My
cousin Ethel seems in very low spirits. Was there
not an qfl‘aére de cwur between you two? It seems
rather cruel that you should remain away when she
needs your sympathy. Not that l have any busi-
ness to interfere—Ethel would be very angry with
me if she knew Of it, so please don‘t mention it to
her. You would do no more than your duty to pay
her a visit of condolence: don’t you agree with me?

“ Sincerely, MvaA WAmwaion'r."

“ What does that mean ?" queried the man of the
world. “ Is Ethel still hoping?—or does the little
cousin think to play the game herself?“

 

CHAPTER IL
A nousnn LOSS.

A nox'rn before that sunny October morning
which had witnessed the accident to the young ca-
det, a oung lady stood at her room window gazing
dreari y down into the street. It was the most su-

erb of Se tember weather, and, as she stood there,

etween t e heavy curtains of 3a satin, a ion
procession of fine equipa es swept a ong the stree
on its way to Fairmount ark.

Many gentlemen, ridin or driving, looked up as
they passed and lifted t eir hats to the beautiful
statue which made no response. One among these
was a tall, dark man of nearly thirty years, riding
a magnificent black horse. At any other time
Ethel Wainwright‘s cheek would have flushed at
his recognition, but to-day she did not even see

Her father was dying in another room!

Senselese, breathing heavily, he lay as he had lain
since they discovered him on the floor of the li-
brary, the previous evening.

It would seem that he had felt the illness coming
on, for his desk was open, and lying upon it was a
paper of importance, not completed.

He had not revived in the least, even for a few
moments, and was now fast sinking, and never
would conclude what he had endeavored to put in
writing. ‘

The ph sician and friends had at last overper-
suaded t e daughter to leave his bedside for an
hour’s rest, promising to call her at the slightest
change. Instead of lying down as they advised
she had gone to the Window and stood there in a
cold stupor, while the world—that bright, success-
ful, gay world of which yesterday she had been a
part—went flashing by in its careless joy and ex-
trava ance.

Cy ll Wainwright was a gentleman of large in-
herited wealth; once when his only daughter re-
turned from her pension in Paris, she became the
queen of a courtly circle. Especially had she been the
idol of her fond father, who answered her slightest
wish with all the devotion of a doting parent. Such
indulgences would have spoiled many girls, but not
Ethel. She had spirit and intelligence as well as
personal loveliness.

A trifle above medium hight, with a slender, sup-
ple figure, a proud head set superbly on a smooth
white neck; abundant silken chestnut hair; e es of
darkest hazel, at once passionate, sweet an ten-
der; a mouth of lovely curves and color: all these
charms were enhanced by a complexion of creamy
whiteness, soft and rich as the velvet inner texture
of lilies.

She was dressed for the opera, when, going to the
library, gayl calling her father with word that they
were ate, s e had found him on the floor, irre-
sponsive to her cry of alarm, breathing stertorous-
ly. Since then she had not changed her dress—had

one nothin but sit near his bed with a pale,
stricken loo . Some one had taken off her lace
hat, hours before; otherwise, as she stood by the
Window, she was in her evening toilet even to the
once blooming tea—rose which ay withering in the
bosom of her dress—a dress of thick satin almost
the shade of the rose, a pale yellow, with a blush of
crimson through it, and with a broad flounce of old
Venetian point as ellow as the robe. Two strings
of pearl glimmere in the dark haunt of her hair,
which was d0ne 11 high on her graceful head , and
a rope of pearls g eamed on her neck.

If some beauty of Gainsborough‘s time had ste -
pod down from one of his canvases Ethel mig it

ave been mistaken for her.

But. her Witching wit and gayety were gone now;
her cheeks were pale, and there were heavy sha-
dows under her listless eyes.

Presently into her room came some one with a
ste which made no sound on the thick carpet—a
litt e creature with noiseless motions, small fea-
tures, and a face that would have been plain but
for the large, blue eyes which had a questioning
look like those of a child, albeit their owner was
twenty—a year older than her cousin Ethel.

Gliding up to the motionless figure by the win-
dow, and laying her tiny bit of a thin hand on the
arm which uivered at being touched, she spoke:

“ Cousin thell“

“ Has anything happened, Myra?“ asked Ethel,
with dry lips.

“ They want you to come, Ethel. There has been
a change. and they want you to—to—-”

“ My father is dying!” cried Ethel, and ran to-
ward his room.

It was true; as his daughter entered the room the
stricken man expired. Vithout a word, a look of
farewell, gone forever!

With a cry that rung through the house she threw
herself on her knees by the bed, drooped her head
on his moveless breast, and remained there a long
time almost as quiet as the dead. They had, at
last, to lift her up and carry her away by main
force.

The three days which followed were ever after-
ward like blank darkness to Ethel.

On the third day Myra and their dressing-maid
came to her bedgide, and her cousin, in soothing,
tender tones, assed her if she wished to be dressed
to go down-stairs and listen to the funeral services;
then they robed her in black, stifling garments. and

helped her down to that dim drawing—room, where
she stood a few moments taking a last look of her
dead earthly idol. Then they led her awa to a
smaller room where she reclined on a sofa, l and
wretched, but where she could hear the comfort-
in words spoken by the cler man. ‘

Then there was a soft bus e in the rooms; her
cousin came in with her bonnet on, to kiss her; the
hall-door clos ' carriages drove away from before
the house, and those left at home to watoh_over her
found Ethel in a dead faint.

The day followin that of the funeral Ethel was
summoned to the library to hear the reading of the
wil . Her father’s lawyer was there, and her cou-
sin, and others. Half-fainting, Ethel sunk into a
chair; the forms about her seemed like 3 cters.
There never had been on this earth a more evoted
daughter than she; and, when the reading of the
Will be an, the lawyer‘s voice sounded far away
and in istinct; she was not thinking of the will at
all.

Other ears, especially those of Myra Wainwright,
heard eve word only too eagerly.

Not unti Mr. Dobell spoke directly to her, in a
raised voice, did Ethel pay the least attention.

Then, suddenly and vividly, she comprehended
what was going on.

“ To Ethel—commonly called Ethel Wainwright,
and understh to be my daughter—I leave ten
thousand dollars in cash, to be paid as soon as pos-
sible out of my estate. She is no child of mine; and
the circumstances under which she has been im-
posed upon me as such, and which have but lately
been made known to me, are such as to offend my
sentiments of right and honor. I do her more than
justice when 1 leave her the sum named above.

“To Myra Wainwright, my brother‘s daughter,
who at least has the Wainwright blood in her veins,
I leave the whole estate, with the exception of the
$10,000 above named, and the legacies to charitable
societies enumerated below. The gift is unequivo-
cal, and includes my bonds and mortgages, railroad-
stock, landed property, oil-stock, my house with
the furniture thereof on Walnut street; all my
personal property, an the money in bank, whereof
an account is appended.

“ Ethel is to have the right ofahome in this house
for one year. and retain absolute possession of her
jewels, wardrobe and all personal effects previous-
y given to her.”

This was the substance of the document upon
which the few present hung with breathless amaze-
ment.

Myra sat quite still, making no exclamation, nor
did she speak when the reading was quite finished.
There grew a red spot in either cheek and her great
blue eyes shone with a sudden curious light. She
stole one swift glance across the room at her
cousin, who had arisen and was gazing fixedly in
the face of the attorney.

Mr. Dobell was evi ently nervous under that

aze.

He hastily roduced another paper—a sheet of
foolscap whic had never been folded or sealed.

“ Whatever be the myster surrounding your
birth, Miss Ethel,” he be an, is voice quavering,
“it is certain that the eceased loved you as a
daughter, and repented of the hasty will made in
an er only six weeks a 0. Here is the incomplete
wil , found under his and, upon which he was at
work when the fatal stroke deprived him of the
power to finish it. It deserves Miss Myra Wain-
wright’s consideration; and must appeal to her
sense of justice. It reads, as far as it goes, thus:

“Being in feeble health but of sound mind and
good judgment, I, Cyrill ainwright, do hereby re-
voke all other wills made by me, and do aver that
this is my last will and testament.

“ To Ethel, my adopted daughter, who is as dear
to me as if really my child, I leave all my posses-
sions of every kind, bonds and mortgages, oil-
stocks, railroad-stocks, real estate, money and per-
sonal property, with the exceptions mentioned be-
low, viz.: 810,000 to my niece, Myra, and a similar
sum to be eiually divided between the three so-
cieties, as I s all designate below. AndvI recom-
mend to my beloved adopted daughter, Ethel, to
continue to Myra the home and protection hitherto
afforded her. Ethel, being now nineteen ears of
age, is to have no guardian, but to manage t e prop-
ert as she chooses: and I recommend her to retain
as or adviser and man of business, my friend and
attorney, J accb-Do—" here the writing ran ofl wild-
ly into a mere scratch.

“ You see what the real intention was?” remark.
ed the lawyer to Myra, as if he would ask her what
she was going to do about it.

“ What is the law!" The voice of the little cousin
was hard and cold.

“The last will as I told on is unsigned, but—”

“ The first remains the egal one ?"

“I 511 pose so—for the present."

“ The is all I want to know, Mr. Dobell. And
now, if there is an attempt made to break the will
which you yourself declare to be the legal one, may
I enga 6 you to conduct the defense ?"

The awyer stared at the fairy-like young lady in
blank astonishment.

“By J u iterl that is cool and keen!” he mutter-
ed under is breath. “ The hand of steel under the
velvet love!” then, after a brief hesitation: “ Miss
Myra, here is such a thin as equity, as well as
law. M dead friend desire to make me the ad-
viser of is adopted daughter Ethel. I feel in self
retained by her. If there is any trouble I ah act
for her, ou may be sure; yes! if she never aye
me a do ar. And I warn you that if my 0 ient
makes an effort to break the will, I believe she will
succeed. Equity triumphs over the letter of the
law, sometimes. ’

Meantime Ethel stood quite still, pale as a ghost
in her black dress, murmuring over and over to
herself:

“Not his daughter! Not my own father’s daugh-

ter! Whose dau hter am I then. i wonder?” and
she looked down, ewiidered, at her mourning gar-
ments.

As she stood, whispering wildly, half out of her
senses, Myra crossed over to her.

“ Don‘t mind it, Ethel,” she said. “I will be a
sister to you. You shall not want for anything if
the property is mine."

Already t e modest dependent assumeda tone of
patronage.

Ethel turned her soul-reading eyes upon her in a
sudden calm, superior su rise.

“What is that you say, yra?”

Myra colored and fldgeted; she had been used to
accepting favors poured out n on her with lavish
muniflcence by her cousin; an her new osition of
patron was embarrassing even to her at rst.

“ I mean that you must consider this house our
home,” she replied, rallying, “and let everyt in
go on as before. There is room for you as we
as me. I want you to remain with me cousin
Ethel, as my friend and companion. I shall be at a
lossl‘what to do with all my property, at first, you
see ’

A flash of lightning disdain leaped out of Ethel’s

es '

ey .

“ Poor little Myra,” she answered, “ are matters
thus with you?”

The great blue eyes fell despite of their owner’s
attempt to look innocent; M ra felt suddenly call-
ed upon to examine the bind g of a book in a case
standing near.

Startled out of her deep grief by the shock of all
this, Ethel turned to Mr. Dobell:

“Since you helped to draw u the will, a few
weeks ago do you not know it is t e fact that I am
not what Ithought I was ?"

“My dear young lady, I know nothing of this
strange affair. I have puzzled m brain over it,
hours at a time, since the will was rawn up. Inti-
mate as were our relations, I did not venture to
question Mr. Wainwright, since he did not see fit to
tell me. I only know that a little over six weeks
a 0 he sent for me to come, that evening, and help
him get his will into shape; that I came, and he
was greatly agitated; that somethin a peared to_
have disturbed him on that day; the when 1 look-
ed up], in wonder, at the declaration that you were
not is daughter, there came ,on his face an ex-
pression which checked all uestions I felt inclined
to ask. He was never so we lafter that. i noticed
it, and felt uneasy about him.”

“ It grows upon my memory," murmured Ethel,
“ that a strange personage visited papa—Mr. Wain-
wright, 1 mean one day, about that time. I re-
member it, because I chanced to be passingthrou h
the hall at the time, while she was parleying wi h
the servant; and she was such a. singular. foreign-
looking woman, and eyed me so sharply." ‘

“I would give half my own oor fortune, Miss
Ethel, if your father—I must ca! him sol—had been
given time to sign that last will,” said Mr. Dobell,
earnestly, in an undertone—~for Myra still stood as
it listening—"I cannot hear to see you, so proud
and so worthy, placed in a subordinate position.”

“ i thank you for being in friend. But, how
strange that you should have been told nothing! I
must have had parents—where, who are they? I
am robbed even of the privilege of loving and
mourning," very sadly and hopelessly.

“No, no, Miss Ethel, do not say that! Remem-
ber that your father repented of his harshness, and
calls you. in that last paper, his dear adopted
daughter. I knew that he idolized you. His heart
was wrapped up in you."

“ Yet he has taken everything from me—even my
name! He says I have none of his blood in my
veins-~he speaks of Mrya‘s blood—yet he does not
tell me J0 whom I belong. Is there no one in this
wide world to whom I can cling? Am I alien to all
the l appy people in this world!" beginning to Bob
wildly. “ Alas! I am homeless, fatheriess and
nameless! Who, who, was ever so desolate as I?"

 

CHAPTER III.
THE ROSE THAT nLooxnn IN A HOSPITAL.
As Coralie Clyde was brushing out her lovely hair

 

before her mirror the morning after the accident,

 

reparatory to going down to breakfast—lovel
hair, brown, but full of olden lights, and waywar
as the girl herself, brea ing into a thousand curls
and tendrils, determined to have its own way—she
allowed the brush to fall from her hand, as she said
to her own reflected im e: '

“I shall not go to adame's this mornin . I
know where I shall go! I‘m bound to ay a vis t to
my ero—to ni poor, poor glorious o ——my Ber-
tram» Leigh! ity aunties say it won d not be
proper; but what do I care for the pioprieties when

erhaps he is dying, without friends, in that udgly
hospital? N o doubt my aunties will go there to- ay
to ask after him and thank him, but the will be so
formal, so cold, while I—oh, I knoww at I shall
do; i shall cry my eyes out over him!” and then
Coralie sprung up and made a dash for the water
in the basin, for the tears had come and she did not
want her eyelids to become red.

She ate so little breakfast that the dove-colored
ladies inquired gently if she were ill.

“ N o, no, dear aunties; but the mornin s are

rowing shorter, you see, and I have no t me to
gawdle over oatmeal," and she left the thble, kiss-
ed the soft, ale cheeks of each, asked to be excused,
and hurrie away.

“ I wish she had waited for the omelette," mur-
mused Miss Charity. “I'm afraid, Priscilla, our
alone will never take to porridge, just because it is
good for her. "

Ah! no oatmeal porridge for Coralie that morn-
ing! She was in that state of excitement when the
soul triumphs over sense-when it seems a very
commonplace thing indeed to be hungry. No stu-
pid lessons for her, either!

She first bent her steps toward a florist's in the
next street, where she procured a costly and fra-
grant bouquet of cut flowers, for the young lady
was not limited in the amount of her pin-money.
Having secured this she took the car running to-
ward the hospital to which the apers said he had
been conveyed. Very shortly a ter she stood, with
crimson cheeks and fast-beating heart, before the
warder. She was not refused admittance, but di-
rected on and on, until she found herself in the
ward where patients were treated who had received
accidental in‘uries.

Coralie he never been in such a place before.
She turned pale as death, and felt tempted to run
away; but she mastered her faintness and crept
after the attendant until she came to one of the
many long, narrow couches, and saw a figure mo-
tionless under its white coverings.

Just for one cowardly moment Coralie shut her
eyes; then opened them to meet a. pair of dim blue
ones fixed on her in a rapture of surprise. She saw
a pale face, a mass of golden light hair which curled
at the ends though cropped so close; two slim,
brown hands folded over the counterpane. The at-
tendant had passed on to others leaving the visitor
alone with her hero.

The beds on either side chanced to be vacant, so
that no one was near enough to further embarrass
Coralie.

“ Sit down, please,” said the cadet, indicating
with a motion of his hand the chair at the head of
his bed. “ Turn it please, so I can see your face,”
and he smiled, radiantly; but his voice was so low
and faint that Coralie felt frightened.

“ You don’t think it wrong—bold—for me to come
to see you, do you, Mr. Leigh? You know, I could
not find out just how seriously you might be in-
jured—and so I could not rest, not knowing but that
you—had sacrificed our life to save mine. Oh, I
pray, it is not so be as that. My aunts will come
to see on to-day; butI was—was afraid they would
not to i you how grateful—and sorry—I feel. I
wanted to see you myself, and tell you; and bring
you these flowers,” and having said all this in a

ufled, tremuious manner, she laid the sweet flow-
ers close to the pale face on the pillow, smiling and
blushing.

Any one could tell what an innocent, if impulsive,
child she was, by one glance into her expressive
ace.

“ I don’t know how to thank you, Miss Feather-
fiight. You must be an angel 0 goodness to come
here to see me."

H

“ Oh, no! My aunties don’t think I'm an an el, I
assure you. And my name is Cllzyde—Coralie Cf do;
it is on y my aunties who are eatherfiights. ou

must not thank me for anything, after what you did
for me Mr. Leigh. I learned your name by the pa~
pets—Bertram Leigh.”

“Do you like the name?“ he asked, feebly smil-
ing, unable to take his gaze from the sweet, fresh
face before him.

“I do, indeed. I kept saying it over to myself,
last ni ht—Bertram Lei h.‘

“An I like yours at! more," he said, delighted-

ly.

“ Perhaps you ought not to talk,” Coralie sudden-
ly su gested.

n; e doctors did forbid it.

Coralie drew a soft, cool, perfumed rose from the
bunch and laid it lightly on Lia lips.

“ There! ou cannot talk now. I will say all
there is to e said. I'm coming to see you every
day until you are able to leave this horrid place.
And now I must be oin . [shall be awfully late at
Madame's as it is. ut will come to-morrow. Ah
there is the doctor! Now, I’m going to wait until
I hear what he says about you.’

The medical man smiled at the rose which sealed
the lips of his young patient; he felt his pulse, then
turned to the visitor. '

“ He is doing well, youn lady, very well. Pulse
stronger and less rapid. un away now, little one,
for I must look to the injured side. By the way,
this is Coralie Clyde, isn't it?”

“ Yes, doctor. My aunties are coming to-da .
But I couldn‘t wait on their deliberate movemenis
—-for, you see, he saved my life l”

“ He did a very good deed then, Miss Coralie; and
I’ll do my best to save his,” laughing. “ Now, run

away.”
late at Madame’s, after

But, how can I help

Coralie was not so ve
all; but she failed shame ully in some of her exer-
cises, for her thoughts were not where they ought
to have been.

When she returned home she learned that her
kind aunts had visited the hos ital, with little
bunches of flowers for all the pat outs, and a bas-
ket of fruit and jellies for her especial patient;
and that he was pronounced out of danger, now
that the eflects of the shock had not rove fatal.

“May I go with you, to-morrow, w on you go to
see him, dear aunties ?” -

“What! thee to visit a young gentleman? No,
indeed,”childl Thee does not consider the pro-

“ Very well. It’s a thousand times more delight-
ful to go alone," thought willful Coralie: '

The next day she delayed her visit until after
school, so that she might sta longer. She found a
pair of blue eyes looking or her with restless
ea erness.

‘ You have nearly brou ht my fever back, keep-
in me in sun use so orig," was his greeting.
“ ut on are ere, at last and he sig ed con-
tented y as his head fell bac on the pillow.

“ Let me put the withered flowers in in basket—-
here are fresh ones. ‘And these black amburgs
are delicious; try them.”

She fed the luciouim'apes to him, one by one. A
faint glow came into pale cheeks and his faded
eyes brightened.

“Had an noticed me, following you about the
streets?’ he began, when he had eaten the last lus-
cious grape.

“ Followin me?” cried Coralie, slyly.

“Yes. If had not fallen into the bad habit I
should not have been near enough to save you from
those horses.”

“Is that so? But, explain ourself, Mr. Leig ."

“ I will, if you will promise 0 call me Bertram."

“ Let me hear the explanation first.”

“There is no ex lanation. Only—l fell dead in
love with you the rst time I saw you.”

“Oh!” murmured the gipsy, looking down and
coloring.

“ll d_i' , indeed. So deep that label! never get out
a a n.‘

“ III'ush! that man across the aisle might hear

on ’

“ Let him hear! it will do him good. Yes, I love
you, Miss Clyde, madly, desperately. I did not
mean to say this to you before I had made your ac-
guaintance in the regular way. I meant to be pru-

ent and honorable. I try to be honorable in all
my actions, Miss Clyde. But, how can I help telling
you, when you are such an angel as to come and see
me, and bring me these blessed flowers, and take
such an interest in me ?"

“ I don’t know,” murmured Coralie.

“ I don’t ex eat you to love me in return,” ran on
tihe;1 cadet, rat er wildly, “ for I am poor and you are
r c .”

“ But I do I” said Coralie, earnestly, her cheeks
rid as the crimson rose she was swinging by its
s cm.

“ Do—do love me, do you mean ?“ gasped the
young cadet.

“ Yes, ever since you risked your life for me."

“ I am afraid it is onl gratitude, Miss Clyde.
You are fond of me, per aps, for what I did for
you. You are generous and good and I thank
you. But your relatives will never allow you to be-
come attached to a roving fellow like me. You will
never be allowed to love me, Coralie,“ sadly.

“ I’m my own mistress, in some things," retorted
the girl. gayly. “My mamma fell in love with a
sailor, too—a gallant captain in the navy—and her
relatives did not like it. They did all they could to
break off the match—but she married him!” tri-
umphantly.

“ And you will marry me, some day?” demanded
Bertram Leigh, risin on his elbow, and looking in
her drooped face wit sparkling 6 es.

“Perh ps—if you want me to,” flashingaglance
at ihim which set his blood to dancing through his
ve as.

Their eyes did all the talking for the next few

minutes. Then a sharp pain in the injured side
caused Bertram to sink back, nearly fainting. But
he rallied presently, and began, in a weak voice, to
tell this lovely girl by his side something of his his-
to : ,
“ryCoralie, I have no father mother or relatives
that I know of in the world. I do not even know if
my name is truly mine; I do‘ 1 0t know who my
parents were. .I was brought to this country, when
a little child. of six, .by a gentleman who took a
fancy to me. This gentleman is not wealthy; but
he has educa me, and, by his influence, got me a
place in the aval Academ at Annapolis. I ought
not to ex act that he will 0 any more for me. I
feel that must from this point, make my own .way.
I have recently been placed on board a Governinent
ship, now in port here for a few weeks; but ordered
to sail for the coast of China, the first of December.
You see what in pro ts are: ,

“ ‘ A Ii 9 on 6 ocean wave,’
small wages, an un tied life, a;few months on land
to years at sea—a future contrasted to yours,
Coralie." _

“I don’t care; I like sailors!" avowed the girl,
with decision.

“ Thank you for that, my own b_ave darling!”

“ And I have mone of my own. Not so much as
my aunts have; but have 875,000 out at interest.
Bertram; and that is not to be—sneezed at, ‘ she
concluded, inele antly.

” You do not t ink would let you support me i"

“ Why not?”

“ Because I have some pride, I hope. I foresee,
too, the displeasure of your aunts, and all manner
of difficulties. But, Coralie, if you are really will-
ing to promise to be faithful to me through all, I
shall take heart and fight all these difficulties till
they are vanquished.“

“ We are very youn , Bertram; we have years in
which to give you a c ance. i know you will suc-
ceed."

“ indeed, I am determined to do that. And,
Coralie. I will confide to you that lately—within a
few months—I have discovered a ciew to my birth,
which may lead to a knowledge of my) family. Some
instinct assures me that I shall not 0 ashamed of
my lineage. I was glad to have a few weeks in
Philadelphia; for it is in this city that my search
must begin.”

“ Yet here you are, losing time in this dreary hos-

ital."

p “No, darling Coralie, not losing time, but gain-
ing you ! Think of that! If you had not found me
here suflering you would never have fallen in love
with me. I’m not so vein a s not to realize that.”

“ Perhaps it is only ity I feel, after all,” said the
tease, putting on a 100 of trouble.

“Don’t torture me, Coralie! I‘m not strong en-
ough to stand it.”

‘ I should hate to be the death of you.”

“Then take that back and vow that you do love

me. "

“I‘ll think of it, sir."

“ You are cruel, Coralie.”

“I know it. I told you I was no angel.”

“ But you are, even when you are heartless.”

“ If I am heartless it must be you have stolen my
heart. I had one yesterday."

“ There! Now you are my darling again."

“ How foolish you are, Bertram! I’m certain
that man with his leg in plaster-of-paris is laugh-
ing at us.”

“ That is healthy for him. By the we , Coralie,
do you know a famil by the name of ainwrlght
living in this goodly gua er city?”

“ There is a famil of Wainwrights on Walnut
street. My aunts Visit there occasionally. Tue
father, Cyril! Wainwright, died about a month ago;
and I have heard—I’m sure I do not know or under-
stand the case—but I have heard my aunties talking
of it—that when his will was read, he disowned his
daughter Ethel, his only child, and made his broth-
er’s daughter heir. I know it is thought very
strange, and that there has been some excitement
about it.”

Again Bertram Lei h raised on his elbow in his
e mess to listen, w lo the color came and went
in is face. -

“ Cyrill—Cyrill. That was one of the names I
wanted. I‘m positive, now, that I have a clew!
lAh! It’wieh I were able to set about my search, this

our

“ You will not be able very soon, young man, un-
less you obey orders better ” said the voice of the
sur eon, who was making is afternoon rounds;
an Bertram lay meekly back, while Coralie, blush-
ing, pulled her hat over her eyes, and went awa .

t was to he expected that the patient shoul be
feverish and sleepless that night. He had the sec-
ond link of the chain of evidence which he hoped to
forge—and he had an avowal of love from the sweet

lips of a glorious  n d )
con mu .

 

ADJ URATION.

BY OCTOBER. JAMIE.

 

Geraldine!
Will you tell me what you mean
B those sly and winsome lances,
hich, like shafts of burn ng lances,
Pierce my spirit through and through?
Do not b those looks deceive me!
But, wit potent word relieve me

 

Of this doubting, which, believe me,
Fills my soul with thoughts of you.

Geraldine!

Sweeter face than thine, I ween,
Never haunted heart of lover;
Sweet as flowers the bees hum over,

Or the buds where dew drops shine.
Never blossomed fairer roses
Than thy crimsoned cheek discloses;
And thy temptingliip exposes

Rubies richer t an the mine.

’ Geraldine!

Tell me not my eyes have seen

All in vain thy modest blushes!

Heard thy laugh, whose music gushes
Like the rip le of a stream.

Tell me quick y! I implore thee;

Tell me l—kneeling, I adore thee;

Ah l—Love’s spirit hovering o’er thee
Says it is not all a dream.

 

' Wife orORWidow?

ETHELIND ERLE’S ENEMY.

BY RETT WINWOOD,

Aurnon or “A GIRL’S HEART,” “A DANGEROUS
WOMAN,” “'rnn wnononn nnmnss,” n'rc.

 

CHAPTER XV.
0N 'rnn vnacn OF DOOM. ‘
“ Know’st than not all erms of evil
In thy heart await eir time?
Not thyself but God restraining,
Stays their growth of crime.
——WBITTIIR.
THE morning subsequent to that night of ca-
lamity, Mr. Chalioner was quite ill—confined to
his room, though not to his bed. The fatigue
and ex e he had undergpne were too much
for his enfeebled m.
A wretched night it had been! He had
scarcely closed his eyes for thinking of Dolores,
and the ' her willfulness and disobedience

caused hnn. It seemed too aggravating that

she should have met her loVer secretly so soon
after their conversation of the previous day.

The rain was over, and the morning sunshine
poured in at the windows- but no cheerful
thoughts were awakened in the old man’s breast
by its brilliant glow. He sat Propped up in an
invalid-chair a dark look 0 trouble on his
withered, yellow face.

At last be summoned Dolores to his presence.
The girl entered, anxiety and dread plainly de-

icted in her countenance. She knew rfectly
well that the interview to which she ad been
called would prove a tryin one.

“Sit down, ’ said Mr. C alloner, sternly mo-
tionin her to take the chair on the other side of
the ta 1e.

Instead of obeying, she drew near, and sink-
ing at his feet, Ii ted her clasped hands and wist-
fu e es.

“ on are an
sobbed, “ and I
don is accorded.

“ Rise, miss.”

“ But you have not forgiven rue.”

“ Forgiven on!” hissed the angry man.
“ Take care! f you have the presumption to
ask for mercy, I am not so besotted as to grant
it.

“ But, and pa—”

“ Rise lgrhe gzrcely exclaimed; “and draw
further away. Your touch is distasteful to

with me, grandpapa,” she
prefer to remain here until par-

 

me I?

longer.
consent to do it.” .

suppose you are

man.
a poltroon, a sneaking villain—it was better
broken than kept.”

flash of en
apply such epithets
sence.”

truth.
He is my husband, and therefore his authority
over me exceeds even your own.”

the direction of the
there with uplifted hands, her mouth and eyes
Wide open, drinking in every word.

cious !
stolen marriage!

lips trembling. “I
this abandoned girl has tosay for herself.”

in
pleade .

treated Do ores,

 

“ One moment,” said Dolores, her face grow-
ing lividl white, and her heart beating furious-
ly. “ I ve a confession to make. Let me
make it here, at your feet.” '

“ A confession?”

“Yes; it is wicked, sinful, to keep my secret
Whatever the consequences, I cannot

“ Humph i” came the sneerin use. “ I
to inven a satisfactory
excuse for your conduct of last night. Pray do

not trouble yourself "

“Yog‘are mistaken,” Dolores returned, in a
low, .treinbling voice. “The indiscretion to

which'l am about to confess dates further back
than that.”

He bent upon her a puzzled look of surprise.
' “‘Last night’s act of disobedience is crime
enough for which to answer miss. How dared

Hm‘meet that villain after all 1 had said to you?

ow- dared you, miss?”
“ promise was already given. I could not

break it.”

“Your romise?” echoed the exasperated
“ at isit worth? A pledge given to

“Hush, (grandpapaP’ said Dolores, with a
den energy. “ Even you must not
0 Vi

ncent Erle in my pre—
“ Why must I not, I beg to ask?” sneered Mr.

husband !”
suddenly exploded at his

Chalioner.

“ Because he is in
Had a bombshe

feet, Mr. E bert Chalioner could not have been
more start cd, more confounded. He leaned
forward, with bated breath, staring at the girl
half incredulously.

“ What?” he ga. ed.

Dolores repeate the words. A ghastly hue

overspread the man’s face as he gathered in their
meaning.

“ You are trifling with me,” he said, with a

faint, forced laugh.

‘No, fiandpapa, I am telling the sim 1e

at is why I met Vincent last nig t.

At this instant a sup ressed groan came from
oor. Aunt Jerry stood

“Shocking!” ejaculated the spinster. “ Auda»

What is this generation coming to? A
Oh, dear!”

Mr. Chalioner held her back with a sweep of

his arm.

“Remain where you are,” he said, his white
wish you to hear what

“ The shameless creature!”
“ When did this marriage, to which you so

boldly confess, transpire?” he demanded, fixing
his] eyes steme upon the face of the kneeling

Ohc,1 do not speak so coldly, grandpapa?” she

“ Answer my question.”
“We were married last Christmas. I spent

the day with a friend in New York, you will

rhaps remember. Other guests were in the
ouse, and soon: after dark I stole away quietly
s

for an hour, and met Vincent at a clergyman
house, where the ceremony was performed.

She controlled herself to speak calmly, but

she felt faint and sick with suspense and misc -
Mr. Chalioner’s features seemed to harden iilitb .
stone as he listened.

“What induced ou to consent to a secret
marriage?” he ask , after a pause, in a low,
ominous monotone.

“It was a foolish, wicked step,” sobbed the
poor girl. “I felt it so even then. But I could
not resist Vincent’s entreaties, and my own
heart pleaded for him strongly. We believed
you would forgive us, eventually and were
onlfinwaiting for some signs of relenting in your
fee 3 toward Vincent to declare our mar—
riage. ’

‘ W

by have you declared it now?”

“Because conscience accuses me, and I can.
not feel reconciled to keep the secret another
hour.”

Mr. Chalioner fell back, wiping the cold per-
spiration from his forehead.

“I might have known how it would result,"
he muttered. “Like mother, like child. This
one was certain to come to the same evil end as
the other.”

“ Grand pa,

say that you forgive me,” en-
li ting her e, pleading face.
“Now that it is too ate, bitterly repent of
my disobedience, and Wish I had waited for
your sanction to bless my marriage. For my
sake, conquer your prejudice, and receive Vin—
cent as your friend.’

“Never—never!” cried the old man, rin —
ing to his feet, and looking down at the gir wit
blazing eyes. “ I will never for ive you or him
for the base deception that has n practiced!
Not a. dollar of my wealth shall go to enrich
you or that scoundrel—that adventurer. I’ll
make a new will—I’ll cut you off witha shilling.
Now leave the room. Go, before I am tempted
to curse ou. I do not forbid you the house—
as yet! prefer to take a little time in which
to consider your case.”

Trembling! Dolores arose, for the storm of
wrath she ha evoked frightened and ap alled
her. Receding to the door, she tottere past

the amazed Aunt Jerry, glad to make her es-

ca .

Mgr. Chalioner sat down again. His coun-
tenance was ghastly as death itself could have
made it. A man of strong prejudices, he was
at least honest in all his convictions, and the
£2.31 at his heart, just then, was the keenest he

ever e rienced.

Whether is estimate of Vincent Erle was
just or otherwise he could not help clinging to
it tenaciously. Ear rather would e have con—
signed his loved granddaughter to the grave,
than given her to the protection of such a man.

While he sat there pale, silent, suffering, a
shadow suddenly intercepted the light from the
window, and a man’s tall figure stepped over
the sill. It was his grandson Ra ond Chal-
loner, but at the first glance t e o d gentleman
scarcely reco ' him, he looked so worn
haggard and miserable. For some seconds not
a word was uttered, but the two looked at each
other in silence.

“Are ou not going to welcome me?” Ray-
mond said at length.

The young man was advancing eagerly,when
Mr. Chalioner put up his hand.

“ Why do you come now?” he inquired.

“ Permit me to fasten the door, and I will an—
swer you. I prefer to keep this visit a secret.
I left my horse in a grove down yonder, and ap—

reached the house on foot. It is fortunate that

found you here, and alone.”

Mr. Chalioner sat staring at the young man
in a bewildered way While he latter slipped the
bolts into their sockets, and drew down the
shades over the windows.

“ What has happened?” he gasped, at length.
“ Are you a hunted criminal, that you are com—
pelled to resort to such precautions?”

“ It isn‘t uite so bad as that,” Raymond ful--
swered, wit a bitter laugh. “ But the good
Lord only knows how soon it may be.”

“ What have you been doiiigé”

“Sellin myself to the Jews, body, soul and
spirit, the ’s all.”

He threw himself into a chair, a strange frown
u n his face, and sat glaring at his grandfa~
tgeor.

“ I know,” said the latter, grufliy. “ One of
your creditors had the impudence to write to

me.”

“Did he! That’s not at all strange. The
rascal! They are on my track at this moment.
They’ll stop at nothing, now, until they got
their money. I have put them off with pronr
ises so many times that they no longer believe
in them.”

Mr. Chailoner grew cold as he listened. That
agitating interview with Dolores had left him
in no condition to cope with a second trouble.
It seemed too bitter, that disgrace and shame
should be brought u n him by both his grand—
children! His sou sickened, his heart very
nearly stood still.

jififi-‘f'rigfizts'ifisia.

is

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