Sweet, girlish wisdom and fa-th conqueredhim,
and he nnswcred her, unste'adlly, yet With a
voice thrilling with nervous foice:

"I Cannot deny you—you shall go on your
errand n f mercy, hopeless though it seems.
You shall go, my blessing. my prayers always
With you, an i While) I shudder at the perils you
will encounter, the destruction you must avllld.
I repeat—you shall go. my grand, brave girl,
of whom I am not worthy to be called the la-
thel'.”

And he bowed his splendid head in reverence
before the slum, star-eyed young creature. Who
I inked, indeed, like an inspired pl iestess, as she
stood there, all hlr beautiful soul'iu hei pale,
passionate face, her triumphant shining eyes.

 

CHAPTER XIV.
Lucrrsn‘s OWN.

THE sight of Cyril Claire sneaking like a
bound upon the tracks or May Clyde’s servant-
maid, told Mr. Fcl'l‘al‘s plainly enoum that this
chier, of some sort was meant. He had been
well aware of the fact that Cyril Claire had
been a Visnor at Mrs. Clyde’s house, and that
he had neen greatly admired by that lady, who,
indeed,mine much of all handsome inen,young
or old, who came in her way; and, because of
her su nosld guardianship and womanly watch-
care, i r. Ferrars had not for a moment feared
or ruspected harm to the young girl ne secretly
loved, trom acquaintanceship With the man he
had no respect for, whom, in fact, he believed
to be pretty much such a character as he really
was.

But now, outside the shelter of her home, no
longer under even the n0minul protection of
Mrs. Clyde, false to her sacred tru~t though she
had teen, it was quite anotherthing—a most
appalling thing that (‘yiil Claire, having dis-
oovered May’s homelessness and friendlessness,
scouted intent to derive some advantage from
the fact. as evidenced by this secret skulking on
Batty Donna‘s iracks.

"Ill not lose sight of him," Mr. Ferrars
thought. " Harm can never come to May
through Claire, while I have life and reason. I
am convinced he does not rt even know May’s
address, but has accrdenta ly stumbled upon the
girl, and by following her will undoubtedly get
possession of it." I

His handsome face was stern, and his lips
compressed resolutely as he walked on, at a
leisurely pace, keeping at the same distance be
hind Claire, and not IOsin.-.r sight of the saunter-
ing figure of May‘s servant, as all unconscious
of too double espionage upon her, she continued
on her way home.

She had been to the stores on some errands
for her mistress, and was returning, several lit-
tle parcels in her hands, enj lying the pleasant
summer evening, the throngs of people prome-
nading tne broad thoroughfare.

But presently her steps quickened, and Cyril
Claire's iiickened also, while Mr. Ferrars kept
them still at equal distance from him, as Hettv
went on and on, into the suburbs of the city,
past villas and mansions, reaCiiiug less preten
tious cottages, set in pleasant little gardens,
until, finally, her pursuers Were rewarded by sea
ing her enter One of the gates, pass through the
yard to the side of the house, and disappear
within a door which she carefully closed after
her.

A moment afterward, Cyril Claire came up
to the gate, pausing a second to look scrutiniz-
ingly at the house, and then, he went promptly
up to the front door and runs the gong, waiting
a second for admission. during which Mr. Fer-
rars came up to the gate, halting, while he t0ok
a close, comprehensive view of the cottage, by
which he was informed. upon a. card at the
side of the door, that there were “ Furnished
Rooms to Let.” .

lt we a pleasant, homelike-looking place,
the Windows shaded and draped with white
linen and Nottingham lace, and thrifty plants,
green ani flowering, ornamenting a southern
bay Window. The house was neat, tidy, emi-
nently respectable, even ambitious in appear
ance, and, as Mr. Ferrars observed all this, the
door opened in response to Cyril Claire’s sum-
mons, and Mr. ll‘errars saw a plain, grave-faced
woman of perhaps fifty-five or sixty years of
age, admit the caller.

Satisfied that there were other people, there,
in the houses beside May and her maid,and not
for a moment believing Claire would dare make
himself annoying, Mr. Ferrars concluded to
wait until Claire had ended his call, which
Would not be long, as May would of course dis-
miss him at once, if indeed, she saw him at all,
and then see her himself directly afterward.

The evening was rapidly darkenin ,and in
the dusk Mr. Ferrars walked on leisure y up the
Street and then back on the other side, waiting
his time, while Cyril Claire, having been ad-
mitted to the cottage, paused in the little hall,
and asked to see Miss Clyde.

“Miss Clyde does not receive visitors, sir,
ontlemen visitors,” the woman answere‘d him,
coking with stern severity upon his dark, hand-

some face.

He smiled slowly, composedly hanging his
hat and cane upon the hall rack, and deliber-
ately drawing off his gloves.

“Miss Clyde will see me. n'vertheless. I
have a message from Mrs. Clyde which I am
pledged to deliver. Show me the way to her
rooms, if you please.”

She looked at him narrowly, her face relax-
ing somewhat.

“ Oh, if you come from her people, it is a dif-
ferent matter, I suppose. That‘s the door to
her suit—~ju~t between the stairs and the but
rack; she has a first floor through. I’ll take
your name in, sir, however, and see if she Will
receive you.”

“Thanks, very many,” he responded, coolly,
“but I have anticipated the pleasure of sur-
prising Miss Clyde. I am a very old friend of

ers, and I prefer to appear unexpectedly be«
fore her. This is the door? Ah, yes, thanks,
my good soul. I will not trouble you fur-
ther.”

With no regard for the ominous shadow on the
woman’s face, or the halfsstartled look in her
eyes, he smiled easily, and rapped lightly on
the door indicated—the door of May‘s little
parlor, to which no answer being given, he
turned the knob, and went boldly, unhesitat-
inglyin, closing the door in the Very face of
the astonished woman, who had fully intended
to accompany him into May’s presence—shut
the door, and turned the key in the lock.

The mom was unoccupied, but there were
abundant evidences of a recent feminine pre-
sence in it—May’s open writing-desk on the lit-
tle lambrcquined stand between the windows,
a pretty blue trimmed work-basket on a hassock

ide a low rocker, with a piece of lace knit-
ting lying beside it, just as May had laid it
down, and a book, one of MacDonald’s exquisite
Scotch novels, occupying the seat of the chair.
A cabinet organ stood open, and a copy of a
church anthem was in the rack: a. vase of fresh
flowers stood on a little bracket near by, and a
photograph of Dr. Clyde, and a companion pic-
ture of his deceased wife, occupied their silver
easels on the low mantle-shelf, just as they had
done at home.

The room, bright and pretty, with its gay
Persian Brussels carpet, its suit of dark gray
and garnet, was cheery and homelike, and as
Claire took it all in by the soft, steady glow of
the shaded lamp in the center of the room on a
little brass table, he heard a light step in the
room adjoining, and, in a second, May entered
his presence.

She was paler than he had ever seen her—as
she had been since the terrible crisis in her
fate, and her black dress of thin, soft grenadine
enhanced the marble fairness of her face. But,
she was by no means the prostrate-scaled,
broken-down creature he had confidently ex-

cted to see, had pictured in his mind, while,
just as Mr. Ferrars had done, he had traced May
from Mrs. Clyde’s home to the railroad station,
and thence to Poughkeepsie. He had, by
merest good luck, stumbled upon Hetty Danna,
'ust as Mr. Ferrars had upon them both, and

ad followed her up, as has been seen, fully ex—
pecting to find his young bride heart—broken and
utterly crushed.

 

 

But, to his exceeling chagrin, he saw his
great mistake at a glance. Her pale face was
calm and Sweet as of old, her Splendid blue eyes
Were bright and undinlmed, her exquisite
mouth tenccr, sensitive, but more itsolute thnn
he had overseen it, w. ile the bright charm of
her face was not I~Ssened an ioln.

She showed, indeed, that she had not only
passed through some great sufierlilg,_hut that
si e was still enduring with that keen intersily
which Only such grand natures are capablepl,
hut, witbal. she was patient and brave, hiding
hrr sorrow in her heart, and forbiddi. g it to
sp ail all her life.

He took all this in at a glance, as she entered.
not seeing hiin as he stood just within the
room, leaning against it with insolent careless-
ness, but, as she approacvled, he stepped for-
ward, and bowed elaborately.

To his supreme astonishment, she did not be-
tray the least alarm or even surprise at the on
eXpected sight of him. She did not cry out, or
even Shrink back as she recognized him, but,
With quiet grace, she .imply retreated toward
the door through which she had just emerged,
and in a 10w, self-possessed voice called Betty,
who came at once, and whose dismay an d
alarm manifested itself by the exclamation she
uttered, as, pale and nervous in the presence of
her young mistress’s enemy, she stood aghast
behind her. , .

Then, May turned toward him, freezmg
hauchtiness in her altitude, her look, her tones

“May I inqu re to what I am to attrihuie
the Very great hoaor of this viSit, Mr. Claire?”
she demanded.

He IOUkGd at her, mingled irritation and re-
proach in his gaze.

“ I do not see that there is anything at all re-
markahle in he fact of my Visitin you. Why
should I not? I have the right yond ques-
tion.”

“ N o, sir, you haw not the right to follow me
here. I demand you leave this room, this house
at once. sirl"

Her voice rung out prompt and clear, inof-
fable scorn and displeasure and decision in the
words, while her eyes flashed like living fires.

Claire instantly saw he had adopted the
wrong tactics, and be instantly changed his
tone.

“I have something of vital importance to
say to you, May—the cause of my seeking you.
Send your servant out, for I do not mean to
have every word I say eagerly gaped at and
commented upon.”

“ I shall not send Hetty from the room. You
have nothing to say to me which she has not
my permission to hear—I shall never. under
any circumstances, Cyril Claire, see you alone,
or hear you without the witness of a third
party of my choosing. If you have anything
to say, say it at once, and briefly, in the pre-
sence of my maid. Then go.”

Claire frowned angrily as he stepped nearer
his young wife.

“You seem to forget, May," he said, “that
you are my wife, my lawful wife, from which
bonds you cannot break away.”

"Forget? Forg 3?” she asked, her sweet
face convulsmg With the sharp pang of suffer-
ing—“ahl no, I shall never forget that. Its
memory is like a blight upon me.”

“My lawful wile,” he went on, “who aban-
doned me at the very altar, with the echo
scarcely died away of the vows on your lips to
love, honor and obey me. You fled and con-
cealed yourself that I might not readily find
you. And is it thus, May—thus that you re
gard the keeping of your marriage oath which
was registered in Heaven!”

The young girl’s face was not pale now, a
warm rose tint made it all aglow, and her
splendid eyes seemed absolutely to blaze their
righteous wrath upon him. Her slender, lis-
som figure quivered with indignant scorn,and
her bright, golden head was held up in conscious
inte lity.

“ glow dare you accuse me of wrong-doing?”
she demanded, like an imperious young queen.
“I went with you to the altar, trusting you,
grateful to you, with a heart so full of tender-
ness that you might easily have won it to your-
self forever. I did not love you—God is my
witness of that—but I needed a friend. a pro
tccfor, and I believed I had found it in you—un-
Lil—until—your friend brought you the letter,
and I overheard, with horror unspeakable,
every word you said—every cruel word, which
dropped upon my soul like living coals, that
outraged my pride, my modesty, my whole na-
ture, that suddenly turned every possibility of
tenderness for you into detestation and loath-
ing unutterable. You showed me your low,
vile nature, you, who hated and scorned me be-
cause 1 prevented your marriage to a richer.
grander woman—and I shrink from you as I
would from a loathsome leper.”

His face grew momentarily whiter with rage
as her words, like needlevpointed icicles, stung
him to his very soul‘s core.

But, he forced himself into calmness, for he
had come determined to secure the evidence
Camp had told him his young wife had ob-
tained of their marriage, her marriagevcer-
tificate, and it was politic to try all fair means
before he resorted to foul, but his voice was
hoarse and full of reSlrained passion as he an-
swered.

“May, can you not find it in your he rt to
make an excuse for me? Consider the condition
in which I was mentally when I uttered the
words which wounded you so cruelly? I had
just received a letter from home, telling me
that that for which I had planned for yearS, to
be always disappointed, was at last likely to
come true, that now fortune equal to my Own
awaited me. Conceive the effect upon me, the
excitement of the moment—you will perceive
how terrible it was, that it made me utter such
base, mean, cowardly words, which I never
meant you to hear, and which spoken in the
heat of the moment I bitterly regret. I repent,
from my very soul, May, and I pray you to for-
give me.” .

Her little scarlet mouth curled slightly.

“You have my pardon, Mr. Claire,” she said,
coldly.

“And, as token of your forgiveness, you will
live with me as my wife, which, of course you
knOW, you legally are?”

Her face flushed deeply, then a pale, haughty
surprise was all over it.

“ Most certainly not, sir,” she returned, with
quiet, defiant scorn.

A murderous look flashed into his 9 es as he
glared upon her, so slender, so girlis that he
realized that one blow of his fist would crush
the life out of her as she stood there. so won-
drously lovely, with her head haughtily crested,
her blue eyes glowing, her red mouth curled
with proud firmness. Then, as he looked at her,
as a wolf at a lamb, a sudden mighty revulsion
of feeling took possession of him, an all the old
mad passion for her came over him in a hot,
swift tide. He did not, even in his suddenly
renewed infatuation, desire to acknowledge his
marriage With her, so keen and deep was his
far-sighted villainous plans, but, as though Lu-
cifer himself had whispered it into his ear, there
occurred to him the sudden thought that since
she was lawfully his bride, there was no reason
why he should not possess her, her glorious
beauty, her enchantin sweetness, in secret—
going on with his woomg of Muriel Tarleton
just the same, Cyril Claire to May and Laurie
Cecil to his cousin. He would gain possession of
and destroy all proofs of his marria e to her
that the second might not be jeopa izod and
invalidated, yet, with it all, preserve to May the
honor and self-respect that was dearer to her
than life itself.

As he thought it out, quickly, intelligently, a
change took place in his countenance, but May
was in no wise moved by the softening manner.
Already she knew him to be dangerous, treach-
erous, unstable, whom to trust was destruction.

“ I beg you to retract that, May,” he pleaded,
impetuously. “ Nothing can alter the fact that
you are my own wife, nothing can break the

onds by w ich we are united. I pray you for-
give me in more than words. I pray you let
me atone, come back to me, be my own dear
wife in earnest. May.”

He opened his arms, his dark eyes blazing

 

passionately, While May’s lip curled disdain-
fullv.

“Never. You can never cross the chasm be-
tween us, which you your own i?” made. I will
never be your wife, I will never be lulled by
your n'llllt’, l will never do lare to the world I
am your wife. I have nothing for you but
contempt and disgust.”

Her words, her look set him beside himself.

"I will force you to liVe with me—l can, I
will i" be said, fiercely.

“I think not," she returned, calmly. “At
all events, I will put you to the tr-uble of going
to law to get possession of hit. I am, unfortu
nately, your wife in name,and that is all I eVi—r
propose to be. I will make One single compact
with you, and only one. Leave me alone, and
I will leave you alone.”

"Exactly! That your lover, Mr. St. Clar~
ence F: rrars, may have his golden opportunity
of courting you! T at you may be free to
marry over again? Thanks, very many, not I
want you myself! I love you, I worship you:
I make a last appeal to you, praying you to
overlook my faults, to come back to me. to—"

“You must enjoy being refused, Mr. Claire,"
May interrupted, scornfully. “I decline to
waste any more time u n you. Leave my
rooms, sir, at once, and Pi take care you do not
intrude again.”

With a gesture of command. aversion and in-
dignation she pointed to the door.

“ You are afraid my presence here will com
romise you with your vinegar-laced land
radyl” he sneered. “ Well, I’ll unIOck the dam
now, and proceed to make myself as much at
home as possible in my wife‘s rooms. Here!
stay, May. I swear it, until you consent to be

miiwite, if I have to stay all night!"
ay turned to Betty, her voice quivering
With passionate soorn.

“ Come, Betty. We will go to Mrs. Nash. and—"

uAnd I’ll fol10w you, and tell Mrs. Nash you
are my wife. You’d better make the best of it,
May, for, by Jove, if you persist in getting me
out, I shall think you are expecting your lover
by this timel If any such business as that is
going on, I wouldn’t scrapie to kill you both!”

And as he sprung to his feet, looking at her
with eyes kindling with jealous fury, there
came a ring at the street door, and in less than
a second, Ma ’3 parlor door was flung open, and
St. Clarence errars entered the room.

 

CHAPTER XV.
GONE roa'ru—ro WHAT!

FOR the first time in all the years of his ex-
ile Mr. Orris felt a thrill of hopefulness as be
caught the inspiration of Olyn’s faith and cour-
age and resolution. To be cleared of the dread-
ful horror of his lot; to be able to once more
mingle among his fellowemcn; to once more be
free of the terror of a death shameful as agoniz-
ing—was it not worth anything, everything, all
t ings? Was it possible? Surely, it was worth
trying, and who, of all the wide world, could
undertake the task as well as his own child, to
whom love would lend wisdom, love make
keenly alert, love ever keep continually on the
watch and guard?

He did n0t retract his promise that Olyn
might leave him and go upon her mission of
peril and mystery, but hefiiew restless and ex
cited at thought of it. is blood warmed to
fever heat, his pulses throbbed hard and fast,
and his brain and soul seemed alike 0') fire, the
more he thought of it, yet never thinking to to
tract his promise.

Olyn suffered no time to be lost, and the
next day, breakfast over, she presented the sub-
jcct again.

“I may go at once, papa, may I not? Reflec-
tion has only confirmed my resolutiOn. I do
not want to leave you, but I must—I could
never live contentedly again were I to give up
my roject.”

“ ou shall go at your own time, in your own
way,” he returned, firmly. “ To day you shall
drive to the town, and purchase whatever is
necessarv, trunks, clothing, for you, to start,
and in New York you can complete your out
fit. Buy whatever you need, or think you
need, Glyn—there is no lack of money, with all
our other troubles. And that reminds me—
abOve all things, in your seal and" devotion
for our cause, do not employ a detective—he
would pry out our secret, Wonder at your mo-
live, unearth your histor , discover me and
then bring my estructlon ,

“I shall be my cum detective, papa, never
fear. And I promise you, I will never, than
one, reveal my identity—not even to safety
mother if I should by‘an‘y chanco'ovor meet her
—never, papa, until your name is cleared before
all the world, or—you are dead.” '

“I trust you as I would not trust myself.
Olyn. And now I want you to take cur mem~
orandum-book, 1nd write, in short nd, the
names I shall give you—of those persons who
were aware of tho ‘qcarnel between my brother
and myself, and who testified to my anger. my
desperation may mud oath, who proved at the
trial that I ha amotive fordestioying‘m bro-
ther and that I was in a dangerous moo ' that
fata night. Take the names, stenographically,
Ulyn, for your possible future help and service."

She unfolded her little crimson leather book,
and looked up at him.

“ First, there was Cyril Claire, then visiting
Cecil Court, a distant relative, who, I told you,
is now known as Laurie Cecil, and, in conse-
quence of your supp0sed death, is considered,
and considers himself, heir to the Cecil estate.”

Olyn w ote it down, in curious little lines and
marks, curves and dots her father had taught
her.

“ Then, write down Fisher’s name, Peter
Fisher, the reliable, trustworthy butler and
house steward, who had served in the family
since I was a boy.”

OI n took the name and description silently.

“ 'IYhird, John Emmons, my brother's secze-
tary and land—steward—-one of the faithfulest,
finest fellows I ever knew, honored and re
soected by every one who knew him: and
lastly, Cyril Claire’s confidential valet—Cam p,
who had been well and favorably known to our
family for years—a silent, gentlemanly man,
well educated and valuable—chief favorite in
the corps of servants while at Cecil Court.”

“And that is all i” she asked, gravely.
“ No w, pr pa, I want the evidence against you.
Tell me, will you!”

Despite the ineffable gentleness in her tones,
Mr. Orris shrunk as if from a cutting blow.

“I meant to have told you,” he said, after a
second. “ First, the fact that I did not return
to my room until past midnight. Second, that
I was seen by Fisher who was awake from
sickness, to creep stealthin through the hails
from the direction of my brother’s rcom ;
thirdly, the threats I had made against him,
and lastly, the benefit I would have derived
from his death, grantin I had not been sus-
pected. Yet, beyond t is serious evidence,
was more, Olyn. On the floor of my brother‘s
room was found a scrap ofa leaf of a check-
book—and in my desk, the next day, my check-
book showed a torn check, which the crum led
fragment fitted—who tore it, how the piece
came in my brother’s room, I cannot imagine.
Again, the death-wounds were inflicted with a
stiletto, making a curious triangular wound,
which fitted exactly with a little jeweled toy I
possessed merely as an extravagant curiosity,
and which was gone from its cabinet, and,
found a few days later, rusted With blood, in
the middle of a clum of bushes not far from m
brother’s window, w ere, had not police search
been made, it would have lain undisturbed for
centuries. Taken altogether, it was a terrible
chain of evidence, so convincing, so complete,
that it was no surprise that the jury found as
they did.”

Olyn’s face had grown pale as death as she
listened, realizing the tremendous task she was
undertakih .

“ It is indeed clouded in mystery. beyond my
powers of solution,” Mr. Orris went on. “ I had
no enemy of whom I knew, yet—my check-
book, my daeger,were certainly stolen ‘ nd used
—malice of the most deliberate form in the act.
Yet, in all the world, I can lay my finger on no
one and say—I suspect cu.”

“I shall remember w at you have told me,”

Olyn answered. "I dare not commit the evi-
dence t.) paper—mob Overwhelming evnienCe
that I cannot wonder that strangers believed
you 5 uilty. But. that lhey who lineu- you, who
Inved y ou, sluou'd believe it, is incredible.
Your wife, papa—although she trusted you at
first, yet her faith and love failed at length, too,
it Seems."

His lips twitched a Second before he replied.

" She was such a pr. 11 woman, Olyn, and
mha eVer hi'r father told her was her law—it
was be, I am sure, who, while with her. left no
means untri d to save me, and finally did efi'vct
my 9e0upe—Wh0 Convinced be r of my guilt,
Wl-o inr'UCed her to seek a divorce, and to resign
my dishonored name I shall never see her
again, 01) n, but—if I only might have my name
Cleared for her sake! She will no doubt merry
Claire, Laurle Cecil, I should say, but 1 Would
oie happier if I knew she knew I was not un-
worthy of her.”

le n‘s dark eyes flashed like lamps.

“She shall know it, iapil Your proud, beau~
tilul wife shall yet live to—”

“Ytu do not call her mother, Olyn. Why
not!”

" I could not-I would call no woman ‘ mother’
who could turn her l-ack upon ,\ on, who can live
her life of luxury, a belie, a coquette, the prom
ised bride of another men, while you—papa, let
us not speak of hei l”

Mr. Orris caressed her gently, while he shook
his handsome head sadly.

“She will ever be to me the sweetest, purest,
noblest of women, whatever her lack of fai-h
be in me. She is worthy of your low, Ol n,
your highest respect and hor or, and I wore ip
her in spite of her doubts, her abhorrent-e of
me. If you, by any chance see her, write me
all about her—haw she looks—describe her, in
ever little detail, tell me if she nearly loves
her uture—husband—that is, if you think she
seems to, for she is so reserved and haughty,
yet so enchantingly sweet and gracious.”

His voice quivered as he spor e.

The conversation lasted for hours. Mr. Orris

told Olyn that he would decide upon his own
place of abo ie after she had left him. and agreed
to write her every week. He instructed her
where to address his let'ers. and ave her full
and explicit explanatiOns of her me of travel
to New York, to Cecil Court, to Tarleton To-r-
el s. And the while, his heart momentarily sink-
ing.
“It is not too late to give up your scheme.”
he said. “How can I let you go from me, my
little darling? A presentiment grows upon me
that danger surely awaits you—oh, Olyn, let us
give it all up, and hide ourselves forever in the
obscurily which has served Us all your lite!"

She kissed him caressincly, and feigned a
cheerfulness that deco ived him.

“You do not mean to send me away with
that grave troubled face to remember, papal
Let me have a happier look to take with me,
let me feel you have faith 'in me, that your «on
vic ion Is as stron as my own of the glorious
iesult awaiting us. ’

Seeing his anguish. which he grandly strove
to conceal, Olyn resolth notto pl along the in-
terim before starting. That sime day she
drove to the town and made a few net-essary
purchases, and before night, had her possessions
packed and in readiness to be taken away.

Mr. Orris provided her handsomely with
money to the amount of several hundred do!
lars, which she carefully bestowed about her
person, and then—she was ready to go, by the
evening train, which would land her in the city
in the morning of the next day.

She bade L r z. D. no good-by, that lady dum-
founded beyond expression at the strange at
fair, and then in the library, with the carr age
waiting outside, her trut ks strapped on, Olyn
and her father said good-by.

He took her in his arms, in an agony of fear

and grief.
“ My little Olyn, my little Olyn l” he breathed.
May God bless Omand keep on, and lead
you eVer step! y (tailing—ta 9 good care
of yourse 1, your health—4m that is more to me
than all else. And may God unite us again, my
little Olyn 1”

“He will, pa dear, in joy, and peace, and
happiness! by. dear._good-hy.’

And With a soft fragrant kiss, Olyn took her-
self, with gentle ores from his arms, and got
herself out of the house, and into the carriage,
and was gone.

sound of tho. heels was like the falling
of '1 (106‘ on a. coma-It‘d to Mr. Orris, and with a
.long sth'sr of keenest‘ agony, he turned away
 the window and buried his face on the
ta 9.
“ She has gone.” he thought-" my little dove
in quest of an olive brancb,_out in the cold wild
storm! Will she find a pitch to rest her? Will
she be lost? My God, be merciful, be merciful
to my darling, for I shrink with mortal fear
lvlvhen I dare wonder what fate is in store for
er!‘ '
(To be continual—oode in No. 644.)

it

 

 

Hunting the Swordfish.

BY THE “ax REPORTER.”

 

 

“ PORT!” sung out a blue-shirted man astrido
of the crossti ees of a trim schooner hailing from
the port of Biddelord. The vessel fell away a
point or more. Another hand nimbly ran out
upon the bowsprit, grains in hand, and took his
place in an iron rest or stanchion put there for
the purpose. “ Luff,” came softly from the head-
man a sin. In a moment more the harpooner
raised is hand in token that he had placed the
fish, and soon all hands were watching with
greater or less intcrest the glistening dorsal fin
of a. sworcfish as it moved slowly along 11 u
the surface several hundred yards away. The
lock-out now signaled to the helmsman by
hand, and, again Iufiing, the schooner slowly
gained on the luckiess fish.

“ What is the fish worth, captain?” asked one
of a party of New Yorkers who had shipped
for the da .

“ Wall,’ replied the skipper, “ I calculate he’d
bring eight dollars, as near as I kin make out,”
shading his eyes and looking at the chase; “ but
they’re dretful onsartin, dretful.”

“ Well,” said the reporter, “I want to bar-
poon that fellow, and if I miss I’ll pay the eight
dollars. That’s fair.”

“ Sartin, sartin,” rejoined the skipper, and
singing out to the harpooner, “ Yere, yaou
John, et this gentleman heft that iron.”

Thus commissioned, the green hand took the
iron and accepted the place of honor in the iron
rest far out over the cutwater. To the iron was
attached a long rope that led aboard, where it
was coiled up an fastened to a barrel which
could be thrown overboard if the fish proved
too unruly. By this time the fish could be

lainl seen, so that the helmsman was follow-
ing it imsalf. Gradually they grew nearer un-
til about twenty feet to the leeward. The har-
pooner steadied himself, the skipper waved his
bi hand, and the schooner shot into the wind,
bringing the fish across the bows.

“ Stri el” yelled the skipper, seein thencvice
hesitate, perhaps with asymptom of uck fever,
and down went the bar 11. The water caught
by the fish’s tail covere the striker, who slipped,
but caught in the jib down-haul, and was
jerked aboard by his laughing friends, who
were leaping about in a fantastic dance en-
deavoring to keep clear of the line that was
rushing out, making music for all hands.

“ Stand clear of the keg,” shouted the mate,
as the rope neared the end of the coil. A sec-
ond later the end came, and with a leap over-
board went the keg, to rush away for a mile or
so and effectually wear out the gamy mon-
ster.

“ That was a good one,” said the skipper, af-
ter the schooner had taken her bearings, for the
keg was a quarter of a mile away. “ The first
time I struck a fish I didn’t fare so well. We
fished down South off the Cape than, and when
I struck the line got foul of my leg, and over I
went, and I believe I must have been towed

 

ten or twelve fathom: under water afore I got

 

clenr. Then they lost sight of me, and thought
I was gone. There was a heavy sea on, and I
swam until a schooner picked me u :und when
I walked ahoarlt that night at ond's Hole
you‘d ha’ thought I was a ghost. They'd all
given me up But that wasn’t nothii-g to
Daniel Perkins’s experience. His vessel, a bi
coaster, was of! S lem last summer, boun
down, when, just afti-r dark. a whirlwind took
’em and laid the schooner on her beam-ends,
and in ten minutes she was d0wn in the con-
science knows h0w much water. Daniel was
the only man that cou d swim. and whilethe rtst
clung on to the planks that floated he struck
out for shore seven miles away, for hel .
While she was a-goin' dOwn he had just time £0
throw off his oilskins. Wall, to make a lang
story short, he swam two hours toward shore
in the (link and a heavy sea, and finally caught
sight of a ship‘s light to south’ard. He swam
for her, and Just made out to head her off, and,
as she went by, hailed her. They lay to, and, af-
ter a long hunt,pfcked him up. The captain
said he never saw a man git into a boat quite
so lively as ‘Squire Perkins did. He told lhem
where the rest Were, and they picked the crow
up an hour later, and saved ’em all, with the
Except-ion of one poor fellow that went down at
st.

"Starboard," n0w came from the look-out.
and the schooner rushed up into the wind; the
looms cleared a movement, the white sails
fiapped, and the swordfisherman fell 03 and
bore away toward another fish. The ski per
swung into the rigging, and, gaining a ook
ahead. sung out:

“ What's the matter with ye up there! Can‘t
ye tell a sunfish when ya see it?"

To the Device the great fin that was lazily
flapping to and fro might have seemed that of
a swor fish, but as the schooner sailed t- tho
creature was seen to be an oval fish, 5 or
seven feet high, with a. large fin at the top and
bottom. Some one expressing a wish to catch
it, the schooner was have to and the dory
brought alongside.

“There is only one way to catch a sunfish,"
said the captain, "and that is to gaff it in tho
eye 0r mouth. You can’t put a harpoon through
its hide: it‘s as tough as leather."

-he gufl’, that resembled an overgrown boat-
hook, whs tossed in, and the dory shoved off.
The sunfish paid not the slightest attention,
but wallowed about, sometimes on one side
and sometimes upright, and not until the gafl
had been jerked into its small mouth did
it attempt to get away. But then it made up
for lost time;,the great fins crashed against
the frail dory. The boys clung to the wind—
ward; the painter was caught about the fish,
which, after a short struggle, was brought
aIOngside and hoisted aboard the schooner. It
Weighed 560 pounds, and certainly was one of
the mOst remarkable fishes to be found in the
sea. In shape it was almost a perfect oval, the
two fins projecting from the opposite sides,
and Whether swimming on its back or belly it
appeared to be equally all right. The skin was
as hard as leather, and seemed formed of
crystals, and was beautifully iridescent in the
sun, the entire surface being covered with a
gelatinous substance cer tainly half an inch
thick. The tail, if it could be called a tail, ex-
tended the entire length of the creature. Great
muscles radiated into it, showing the manner of
its mOvemmt The reporter kept the skin as
a memento. Underneath the skin was a bean-
tiful liniv-g of gri tie, pure white and as elastic
as rubber. Instead of teeth there were two
horny ridges like those of the parrot fish of the
South. The liver of the sunfish is valued as an
ar icle of food. In the Mediterranean su- fish
are regularly fished for and one variety is
noted for its wonderful phosphorescence, under
water resembling the reflection of the moon
ml ving along.

The vessel was again headed for the barrel,
and, as the swordfish was evidently exhausted.
the schooner soon overhauled it, and Wall
rounded to. The dory, manned by the captor,
was soon alongside. The first haul upon the
rope spurred the swordfish to renewed exer-
tions, and it do: ted away, bringing the rope up
hissing through the water, and burying the bow
of the dory in a mass of foam. Slow] y the line
came in, and soon the great fish could be seen,
and than the slack was taken in with a rush.
Toe scythe like tail beat the water with terrific
strokes. The bardpoon had struck near the tail
so that tho swor had full play, and in oneof
its powerful sweeps it threatened to decapitato
all hands; but a rope was skillfully thrown
about it, and, writhing in great curves, lilting
the dory from the water, and making things
lively generally, the fish was taken alongside
the schooner. A lanyard was rigged, and,
squirming, thrashing, and plun ing. the mon-
ster was hoisted from the sea and lowered u n
the deck, where it was killed. It was fully t2?»
teen feet long.

“ Theydo right smart work with that sword,"
said the skip r, measuring it at with a tape
at 3 feet 8 inc es, “ and it’s a pretty sight to see
’em dash into a school of herring. The way
the slashes about with the sword is a caution
an at every stroke the herrings are mow
down and fall in a. regular shower like silver;
then the fish slide under them and pick ’om up,
one after another.”

“ And the habit‘s so strong,” put in the mate,
“that if you throw a dead herrin over on a
line toaswordfish he will cut at it before he
takes it. I’ve seen one put his sword through a
dory just as if ’twas pa er, and twist around,
wrenching the planks o , and tearin things as
if they had been struck by an ax. on might
have heard of the ship Maud that sprung a leak
at sea. The pumps were kept a-going until she
reached port, and when she was dry-docked the
sword of a. wordfish was found run clear
through her side. Once a vessel was sunk by a
swordfish, and they had a big time about the
insurance, as that ind of accident wasn't pro-
vided for. You might just as well be struck
b a cannon ball as by one of ’em, and we very
o ten“ catch ’em with their swords broken 01!,
having hit on the rocks. There is some kind of
a parasite that bites ’em and makes ’em so crazy
that they rush into anythin , although those
that I’ve seen without a. swor have been poor
looking, and I shouldn’t wonder if they starved
to death without ’em."

The man at the top now sighted another fish,
and in the course of the day seven large fellows
were taken.

The swordfish is really a mackerel, and a near
relation to the bluefls mackerel, the tuhny,
and others of the tribe, which accoun's for its
marketable value. All alor g the New England
coast, from Montauk Point north, the swordfish
fishery forms no unimportant item in the indus-
tries of the Eastern States. Concerning the
breeding and habits of the swordfish the men
are totally ignorant, and among a large num-
ber of fishermen interviewed, not one had ever
seen a swordfish that weighed-less than seventy-
five pounds. In fact, the dung are never seen
on the Maine coast, and it is the general impres-
sion that they breed on European shores and
come over here. In the Mediterranean they
first approach the land to breed in the late
spring or early summer. If a. young swordfish
is ever caught in our northern waters the finder
will do well to forward it to the Smithsonian,
or some such institution, which would be glad
to get it.

“—
a

As the earth keeps cooling it will become
porous, and greater cavities will be formed in
the interior, which will take in the water. It
is estimated that the process is now in progress,
so far that water diminishes at the rate of the
thickness of a sheet of paper each year. At
this rate in 6,000 000 years the water will have
sunk a mile, and in 15,000,000 the water will
have disappeared from the face of the globe.
The nitrogen and oxygen in the atmosphere
are also diminishing all the time. It is in an
inappreciable degree, but the time will come
when the air will be so thin that no creature
we know could breathe it and live: the time

 

will come when the earth cannot su port life.
That will be the period of old ago, and1 then will
come death.

  

 

 

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