* bonnet on the sofa, she took one of the old man’s hands

WA ee ne

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A LOCK OF HAR.

BY MITTIEB POINT DAVIS.

A tress of hair you asked of me—
I send the gift to you,
Fresh-clipped from off the weary bead
Where late it softly grew.
No other token could I send
So eloquent of me;
No gift so strong in future years
To stir your memory.

 

 

Twill whisper, as your lamplight falls
Upon its silken sheen,

Of her who may be sleeping then
Beneath the churchyard’s green.

The follies that your wisdom blamed *
May then forgiven be;

And, as it twines about your hand,
*T will mutely plead for me.

In faney you will see the head~—
The little, haughty head— . .
With all its tresses flowing free.
Or softly coiled instead;
And you will think how restlessly
That little head has tossed;
And every hair will tell a tale
Of tears for treasures lost.

Ab, me! how many a burning thought
Has throbbed beneath this tress!

How many a longing, deep and wild,
You cannot even guess!

You see the smile my proud lip wears,
You hear my mocking tone, ~

And never dream how wretchedly
My spirit is alone,

Ab! do not harshly blame my faults!
Some day this tress of hair
Will mind you of a dead, white face
For which you used to care;
And you will say: ‘Poor wayward child!
Her pleasures were so few,
Her pains so many, that I might
Have been more patient, too.”
I know not if you’ll prize the gift;
Such memories as these
May sadden well your brightest hours,
And rob your mind of ease.
I know Pm wayward, strange and weak,
A taulty woman at the best,
Who seeks in pleasure’s fleeting thrall
To drown her spirit’s deep unrest.
But, if it please you, keep my tress,
Soft rippling in its silken length—
Frail as a woman’s hands, but, oh!
How powerful in its fragile strength
To raise the ghosts of buried years,
Reproaching you for cold distrust,
When this poor head on which it grew
Shall slumber in its kindred dust.
~ Well, it is friendship’s dearest gift—
This simple tress of dark brown hair!
Baptized in thoughts, baptized in dreams,
wv Ot sleepless nights, and days of care,
Tossed on a sleepless pillow’s pain,
* Strange that it keeps so dark and bright!
But in your care it may forget
The griefs that might have turned it white.

Saved by Her Blood;

OR, THE 3
DUNGEON OF TREVYLIAN CASTLE.

433 i By Grace Gordon.

(Saved: by Her Bleod” was commenced in No. 51. Back Nos
san be obtained-of any News Agent in the United States.]

CHAPTER XXI.

Lovell had no clew to Eugenie’s address, save the vague
ene of ‘*"General Post-office, London,’’ to which the week-
ly letter he sent, informing her of her husband and chil-
dren’s welfare, was alwaye directed. Yet he did not des-
pair of finding her, by exercising his patience. :

It is said by the other denizens of Hurope that each in-
dividual Irishman is perfectly unique, and Lovell, in the

 

 

plan he adopted to find his mistress did not depart from
the rade of his count, 4

rymen—iis pian was ulique.

He wrote a letter to Bugenis before leaving Count Ra-
monski’s Castle, telling her he thought he haa found her
little son, Harry, so long supposed to be buried under the
wawes of the Indian ocean; that the person who he hoped
would turn out to be her son was Sir Reginald Trevyylian,
in whom she had rcognized so strong a likenesss to her
frst husband as to cause her to shed bitter tears long after
she had been Count Ramouski’s wife, adding: “I have
come to London, and will waitin the post-office every
@ay till I see you.”

is letter he addressed, as was his wont, to Mrs. Jane
‘Gerald, General Post-office, London, and takingit there,
he waited for a week, watching every woman who went
for letters, but no one at allto be mistaken for his mis-
tress ever presented herself.

Each morning he madeinquiry if the letter he had
posted for Mrs. Jane Gerald had been called for, and
niways receiving the same answer: ‘‘No one had called
for it.’?

A3 last his patience was rewarded—the letter had been
called for the previous evening.

That day Lovell did not leave the vicinity of the general
delivery box forasingle minute. Late in the evening a
hand was laid on his arm, and he started as he beheld a
thin; feeble woman in black, whom, upon her half-lifting
a crape vail, he recognized to be the shadow of Countess
Ramouski rather than herself.

**Lovell,” said she, in an undertone, ‘follow me closely,
but do not speak to me.’?

The old man did as he was bid. Along the Strand,
down Cecil street they went, until they reached No. 14,

Opening the door with a latch-Key, Eugénie walked up
stairs, followed by her faithful servant, until she entered
the room with the balcony overlooking the river, already
described in these pages. ‘ ‘

Immediately on entering the room she signed to Lovell
to shut and lock the door, and throwing her cloak and

in both her own, saying:

‘Tell me all, Lovell; every word, and don’t stop, only
to take breath. Where was Sir Reginald all this time,
and how did yousee the marks?’

“Sir Reginald was in a dungeon in the Tower of Trevy-
lian Castle, put there by Sir Ralph, but noone knows in
whiat way Sir Ralph didthis. ‘he count found him out.
by little bits of wood which he cut from a cedar log in
his dungeon, and with a penknife cut letters upon them,’?
He putone of the precious little missives, which had
done its work so well into her ladyship’s hand, and
continued: i"

“There isonel brought tolet your ladyship see. Count-
ess Olga was the first who found one on the shore close
by Warsaw Castle, and afterward both the children found
several.* The count suspected there was something
wrong, and brougit the children and myself in the yacht
to Treyylian Castle, where we found the lake strewed
with them, The count got the wardrobe broken down,
and found the way to the dungeon, and there was Sir
Reginald and Lady Trevylian, who had both been shot by
old Sir Ralph. It was while Sir Reginald’s wound was
being dressed I saw the marks on his arm which Captain
Neville put, and in the night I watched by his bedside,
and saw the anchor, and the H N, on each side as clearas
the day they were put on.”

‘‘And the-mole on his shouider ?” inquired the countess.

“Oh, my lady, [could not look for that, but I will ask
him about it when you send me back. Iam sure enough
without that. When he lay asleep he was as perfect a
likeness of Captain Neville as could be.”

“7 see it all,2 exclaimed Eugenie. “Ralph Trevyllan
stole my child in hopes that I would become his wife, if I
believed I had lost husband and child in one day. My
utter loneliness he supposed would drive me into his
arms. But, Lowell, how is it that the terrible man who
came to Naples to claim me for his wife did not know that
littie Harry was saved ??? ,

“JT don’t know, my lady, but perhaps little Harry him-
self can find out about that, or the Count Ramouski, my
lady. There is a letter [have brought from him; he forced
me to tell | was coming to your ladyship. kt was no use
Saying no; he knew I was,’

*You did not tell him I wag in London ?”?

“Oertainly not, my lady.’

“Would to Heaven he could forget there ever was such
@ person as the unfortunate Eugenie Fitzgerald.”

@ pale face of the countess became paler as she spoke,
ressiug her hand over her heart and compressing her
; ips together rigidly asif she feared her heart would

‘“‘He will never do that, my lady,” was the reply of Loy-
ell, given with a sad look and deep intonation of Yoloe, 4
the poor fellow remembered the misery he knew well his
master suffered by her absence, adding:

“The counvs hair is turning gray.”

“Lovell! exclaimed Eugenie, passionately, ‘‘don’t say
that; tell me that it is not true.”
“It is but too true, my lady.

if he was an Irishman.”

Tn other days Eugenie would have smiled at the last re-
mark of Lovell; now it made the tears fall down in great
drops On her Jap.

Now was the time to deliver the count’s letter, and
taking it frem his bosom, Lovell placed it in her hand.

She glancéd at the superscription, and saying, hastily:
‘Go, Lovell, and get some breakfast from Mrs. Wardlé;
you must leave London by the first train, and send Harry
to me,” Eugenie sought her bedroom, fastening the door
behind her as she entered,

He loves you as truly.as

 

*The female children of Russian nobles are always styled
countess, and even if they marry a man without a title, they are
ressed as countess, and their ietters directed after the. name

She knelt down by her bed, and opening her husband’s

letter, spread it out before her. Asshe did 80, a bill on
the Bank of England for a thousand pounds fell from the
envelope. ‘

That letter was too holy a thing in her eyes to be read’
as another letter would have been. There were long,
loving sentences, pleading with her to return to him, ad-
juring her by all she held sacred by her love to himself,
for her children, and last of all, came these words:

“You say you have unwittingly been an impostor. If
unwittingly you have not beep an impostor, I am the best
judge if this is to separate us, and by the vow you took
at the altar to obey me to my life’s end, | command you
to return to me, orto send me your address, so that we
may converse together one hour. If you refuse to do this
you are sinning against both Heaven and me.’?

She folded the letter, and put itin her bosom, her sobs
coming so fast and quick as to leave her almost breath-
les8; and burying her head in the pillows, she murmured:

“Adolph! Adolph! you are breaking my heart,”

Reginald Trevylian sat by a cheerful fire in his bedroom.
The clock had tolled eleven, yet he sat reading. He was
now strong and well again, and he had had enough of
rest all those weary days he had been keptin bed against
his will.

A slight tap at the door.

‘Come in.??

Lovell entered, with a face from which the lines of care

}had half departed. He had a strong faith that iittle Mas-

ter Harry was somehow to make all the wrong of the last
few months right again.

How this was to be done he could not clearly define,
although it had occupied his thoughts since the moment
he made sure that he had identified Sir Reginald Trevy-
lian with the Countess Ramouski’s lost son.

Sometimes his fancy would stray to a distant island, to
which Sir Reginald would banish the sailor Neville, and
where the latter could live a comfortable, Robinson Crusoe
sort of life, or give him aship and let him sail to the
North Pole never to return; anything, in short, to get rid
of him, and let the man himself be happy in his own way.

Lovell was too innately good iimself to indulge in any
plan that would invoive misery even to Neville, who ha
been the cause of such intense misery since he first came
to blight the life of Eugenie Fitugerald, in Colambre Cas-
tle.

“You, Lovelll’? exclaimed Sir Reginald, in tones of
pleased surprise. .*‘Why did you desert me? Where have
you been ??? :

“Dye been to see your mother, sir, an’ to tell her you’re
alive. :

Ashade of displeasure, not unmixed with sadness,
came over Sir Reginald’s face as the man spoke.

“Don’t speak in that way, Lovell. Perhaps you do not
know that I never saw my mother?’

“Sir, have you a mole about the size of a spangle under
the skin on your left shoulder? If you have, the Countess
Ramouski is your mother. and when you was a boy of
four years old you put a sapphire ring on her finger, and
promised if she died before you met again you would
never forget her, but say your prayers for her every night
of your life.”

There is no such thing as forgetting—we never forget.
Each scene we have gone through, all the knowledge we
have ever acquired is treasured up in the greal storehouse
of our memory. And the scene Lovell described came
back again, as fresh as yesterday to the heart and mind
of Harry Neville.

 

“Yes,’? he cried oat, in accents of joy. “I have the
mole you speak of on my left shoulder, and, better far, I
have the evidence in myself. I remember well the hour I
put that ring on my mother’s hand, the strange trees we
Sat under, the two men standing by, with whom I went
away weeping. And now I remember the shipwreck, the
subsequent long voyage, and then the long years of cruel-
ty and oppression. Thank Heaven, Sir Ralph Trevylian is
not my fatier!’?

The mole then examined and kissed by Lovell, in his
warm, Irish way.

we Master Harry, mMany’s the day I kissed every bit
of ye. ‘

Harry Neville and the faithful servant of his mother's
house spent long hours talking of the past, some of it sad
and bitter enough, yet, alas! no phase in it all half so sad
as the terrible present, which shrouded the poor mother
in clouds and darkness like a pall.

In the early morning Regitaid Trevylian, as we must
still call him, went to bid good-by to Ethel, who still lay
on a sick bed, her wounds yet unhealed, and to tell her
he was going to London on business, but would return in
@ day or two. .

He left a note for the count, and driven by Lovell to the
depot, was soon on board the cars. ;

He had passed a sleepless night, and the comfortable
sofa seat of the railway carriage formed a pleasant bed,
inducing sound sleep.

e half awoke as the compartment he was in was
opened by the conductor at Broughton Station to admit a
assenger. The person entered and seated himself in
silence, and Harry, glad to indulge in longer sleep, did
not even open his eyes. He lay half asleep, induiging in
a sweet day dream of meeting his beautiful mother.
He knew all that Lovell could tell him about the coarse

 

 

map whom he must acknowledge as his father, but he
tried to banish all thoughts of him.

He was determined to see the man if he was in London,
and as a means of accomplishing this he had
himself of the coarse card Neville had Jeft in the cottage
at Naples, and which Lovell had preserved and shown to
his young master. :

In this half-dreamy state he heard the whistle, which
told the scattered passengers the cars were to resume
their motion.

The “Ali right”? of the conductor, as he jumped upon
the platform, sounded distinctly in his ears, then he felt
the sudden spring of the engine as it began to move, and
lastly felt the pleasant, swift motion of the cars as they
rolled on at express speed.

Scarcely were the cars off when he felt himself kicked
in the legs, and addressed in a voice he seemed to know
fall well, in the following terms:

“Keep your feet to your own side of the house or I'll
throw you and them together out through the window.”

Reginald opened his eyes: to see before him Sir Ralph
Trevylian! ;

He made no answer; his feet only occupied the part of
the seat allotted to himself. He knew that the insolent
action and words both were intended to provoke and
bring forth a like response, and he determined to avoid
the quarrel which it was evidently the desire of the other
to create.

He had need to exercise his patience. At a flag station
alady and gentleman cameinto the compartment, and
then Sir Raiph vented his fury by detailing his own kind-
ness to the man opposite, whom he designated Harry,
and said he had picked out of the gutter, fed, clothed, and
educated, only to be rewarded by the basest ingratitude.

He gave his name, detailing how this adopted son of
his had, during his absence on the Continent, given out
that he was dead, assumed his title and wasted his sub-
stance, running away and hiding himseif as soon as he
found that the man he had so ipjured was to come home
in a few days. ee

They were close upon one of the numerous stations on
the road to London, and calling to the conductor to open
the door Reginald said, in going out:

“Sir Ralph Trevylian, you know that what you have
been telling these people is a compiete tissue of falsehood,
and [warn you not to repeat the offense. If youdo,i
shall punish you in a way you’ll remember.”’

The young man spoke with hightened color and flashing
eyes, evidently under the influence of great excitement.

‘You low whelp, don’t presume to threaten me, or I’ll
have you sent to prison with hard labor.’

“Not before I send a bullet through your head, to teach
you to speak the truth,’ was the reply given, with an in-
creased flush of the cheek.

OHAPTER XXII.

Reginald ieft the cars and was almost immediately foil-
lowed by Sir Ralph, notwithstanding the entreaties of the
lady and gentleman, who begged him not to expose him-
self to what they considered the ungrateful malice of the
young man.

“That’s capital,’’ said Sir Ralph, speaking to himself, as
soon as he left the cars. “I Knew the cur would not an-
swer too soon. Ill not put myself in his way alone—he
would be more than a match for me—but when I have
another opportunity of giving him a castigation in words
before people, he’ll have another dish of his own ingrati-
tude. I must visit my friend Captain Harry Neville, Kea»
and put him up to claiming him as his dear son; an’ faith,
Vilback him up. I wonder how he proposes to support
Mistress Ethel Annesly.
throwing himself into the Thames, after his precious
mother. Ha, ha,’’ chuckled he, “it would be rare fun
after all, if Mistress Ethel wag glad to come to terms—to
become Lady Trevylian. Most men wouldn’t take her,
but I would. She’s the prettiest face I ever saw, and if
he was dead, and she in the jaws of poverty for awhile,
under the supervision of her father-in-law, Captain Harry
Neville, Esquire, she’d be precious glad to get back to a
gentleman and Trevylian Castle.”?

Talking thus to himself, he passed the ticket office,
where, seeing his late adopted son, he turned aside, and
entered the hotel, where he ordered dinner, resolving not
to pursue his journey for the present.

In order to avoid further contact with Sir Ralph, Regin-
ald determined to wait for the next train, and inquiring
of the ticket clerk, was told that it would be on in about
an hour.

“Here’s @man,’”’ said the ticket clerk, addressing Sir
Reginald, ‘‘who wishes to dispose of a pair of curious pis-
tols he found when he was in the Crimea. IfI was a gen-
Ueman I would buy them, he only asks a guinea for them.”’

Sir Reginald took the pistols from the man and exam-
ined them. They were very beautifully inlaid with silver,
and. to his astonishment, ne found they were marked by
the cognizance of the Ramouski family.

“They are worth mere than @ guinea,” said he to the
man who wished to sell them.

“TI dare say they are, sir,’ was the reply, ‘‘but you see,
Igot them tor nothing, and I want the guinea, and I don’t.
want them, and l’ve been trying to sell them ‘for along
while, and could find no one to buy them.”’

“IT shall buy them, then,’ replied Sir Reginaid, ‘‘and
give you two guineas for them, they are worth more than
that. I do not want them myself, but I have a friend who
will be pleased to get them. Are they primed ?”’

“Yes, sir.??

“They are strange things to handle. Show me how you
use them.’?

“Look here, sir; you just hold it so, and press your
finger here.”’ :

“TI see, they are easy enough to work, certainly.”

. OB sir; very simple when you know how to use
them.

“There are your two guineas.’?

 

they bear in right of their husband, as nee countess.

“Thank you, sir.’?

I hope some.day to hear of him |

sont THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

   

 

about until the arrival of the next train.

The country was beantifully undulating, with abund-
ance of woods in clumps within a short distance of the
railway depot, a deep and rapid brook running down
from the hills, with the old coach-road lined on either
side by oaks and beeches, winding out and in until it was
lost among the wooded hills in the distance.

As Sir Reginald strolled along, almost envying the
peaceful dwellers among these beautiful hills and dales,
ae hig startled by several loud cries, uttered in a childish
yoice,. -

Hé turned in the direction from which the voice came,
and with horror beheld a rabid dog tearing the clothes off
a little girl, not over ten years of age, who was trying to
defend herself from his attacks by beating him off witha
milk pail she carried in her hand. :

His first impulse was to fire, but 2 moment’s reflection
told him that this might be fatal to the child as well as the
dog, in the close proximity in which they stood to each
other. Taking aim at the dog’s head, he hurled one of
his néwly-purchased pistols with such precision that in a
second the animal fell gasping to the ground.

The little girl, finding her dressreleased from the grasp
of the dog’s teeth, ran off with all speed, not stopping for
an instant, evidently thinking that the dog would be in
pursuit of her if she did not make the best of her time.

Reginald now made the best of his way to the scene of
action, that he might recover the pistol. The dog lay
gasping in death, but not dead, and lest he should revive
and @o more mischief, Reginald carried him to the brook,
which was quite near, and ‘threw him into a deep pool
formed by the water collecting between some large stones
and the large roots of a willow.

In lifting up the dog he tookhold of him by the hind
legs, not observing until Many hours afterward that the
blood from the wound in the dog’s head had soiled his
trowsers, ‘

He then returned to the half copsein which the dog had
been kilted, and made a search for the pistol. His search
was in vain—no pistol was to be seen in any direction.

Tired out with his fruitiess search, heat length came to
the conclusion that while he was gone with the dog to the
pool in the brook some passer-by had picked up the pistol.

He now looked at his watch, and finding it was still
early he determined to walk to the next station, and then
take the cars, going by the second-class and thus avoid
all chance of again encountering-Sir Ralph Trevylian.

The day was lovely; autumn was giving her store of
luscious fruits to the earth’s dwellers; and from the or-
chards on either side of the oldcoach-road hung branches
of plum and apricot trees, laden with their purple and
red fruit, contrasting with the scarlet apple and dark
green pear.

Never had Reginald Trevylian felt so deeply the power
of nature to confer happiness. In this beautiful valley,
with its fruits and flowers, forest tree, hill and river, with
that clear blue sky above, it were happiness enough to
live. His long confinement to the dark dungeon in which
he had spent the spring and summer, had made him more
keenly alive to the beauties of nature, and contrasting his
present feeling with his lonely life down in the dark,
damp dungeon of Treyylian Qastle, he raised his sou) in
thankfulness to the great Father, not only for his deliver-
ance, but also for the time he had spent there.

But for his own confinement in that dungeon he would
still be in the daily commission.of the great crime which
had been the secret blight of his youth.

And now that he had known the misery of living with-
out sufficient light, or air, or motion, without the fellow-
ship of his kind, he thanked Heaven that Ralph Trevylian
was free to walk the earth, free to breathe the pure air of
Heaven. 3 :

At last the railway was gained. In a short time the
swift steam cars brought him to the great city he sought,
with its mass of moving humanity,’ their hopes and fears.

His heart beat fast as he stoed before the door of No. 14
Cecil street.

The next moment he was folded in the Countess Ramou-
ski’s arms, while for the first time he heard himself ad-
dressed in tones dictated by a mother’s-love:

“Myson? My son}?

She needed no confirmation now of the fact that Regi-
nald Trevylian was her son, her very son. Now that the
scales had fallen from her eyes it told itself in every mo-
tion of his head, every lineament of his face. The Neville
hand, the Neyille eye, spoke in stronger language than
any marks or spoken words ever used. ;

She questioned him of the past, how it was possible
that Ralph Trevylian could have put him in the dungeon
when he himself did not return until six days after the

of his own disappearance.

“Dear mother,’ was hisreply, ‘“‘do not question me on
this subject at present, one day I shall tell you alk Ihave
asad and sinful page in my own life te turn over before I
can explain how Ralph Trevylian had the power to make
mea prisoner. Twelve years before, when I was only a
boy, he tried to imprison me in that dungeon, that my
youth and manhood might be wasted in sighs and groans.
if the boy had possessed the moral courage of the man I
would have fied from his castie then. It was no home; I
hated both him and it. I willtell yon all again. Now we
must talk of what more immediateiy concerns us both—
the sailor, Neville, who claims you for his wife.”

Eugenie’s cheek grew pale as ashes, but she uttered no
word.

‘Is it not more lik paz Searest mother, that this
coarse man is an im that years conid have
changed a gentleman into ‘the common, low man, low in
all his proclivities, that this man shows himself to be. To
me it appears that in some way the man has acquired a
certain knowledge of the time my father and you spent
together, perhaps..from servants, and this, joined to a
striking likeness, emboidened him to present bimself to
you as your and with the view of extorting money.”

‘Alas! no,” replied Bagenie; ‘I have thought the mat-
ter over in‘allits phases. I knew him the moment I saw
him at'the garden rail, although an instant previous I had
believed him sleeping under the sea for more than twenty
years. Beside, how could he have gained his knowledge
of my home life—of slight circumstances which passed,
such as his having brought me his hat ful! of rose leaves,
his filling his pockets with wood vioiets? He alsoshowed
me the half of an old Spanish gold coin we broke between
usin my fifteenth year, a month before 1 fled with him
from Colambre Castle. He told me the words you used
when you put this ring on my finger.’ As she spoke,
she turned the sapphire to the light, making it blaze in
diverging rays. ‘i have two ill-spelled letters he wrote
to me.on board the Sphinx, which are filled with remi-
niscences of our early married days—little things no one
could have told him. Ah! no; Ihave no hope on earth
a bas the consolation I can draw from your own

ove. ‘

He put his arm round her ashe sat by her on the sofa,
and pressing his lips to her cheek, said softly: 2

“I will make a home for you, where, with Ethel and
myself, you will yet be happy, if better cannot be; but I
must first assure myself that this sailor man is what he
pretends to be.’ ,

A tap at the door, and the servant came in to say that
pi ag from the bookseller’s wished to see Mrs.

rald.

“Oh, Iam so sorry!’ exclaimed Eugenie, as she glanced.
at the clock on the mantel shelf. ‘*f promised to finish a
drawing by “half-past four, and in my joy at seeing you,
I forgot ali about it. Send the young man up here,’?
said she, addressing the servant.

The clerk made his appearance in a few seconds.

“I am very sorry that, owing to the arrival of my son,
I forgot all about the drawing. I have not a half-an-hour’s
work todoonit. Ifyou can wait until five, I will finish
it by that time.”?

“Yes, I can wait, and it will be in good time at five
o’clock. The gentleman whom it is for will not call for it
until six; but as you said it would be finished at half-past
four, 1 came for it.”

Eugenie was busy arranging her drawing materials,
when.the landlady, having announced herself by a little
tap at the door, entered, in full walking costume of a
widow’s cap, bonnet, and crape shawl.

“I’m just going to take the half-hour before tea to run
into the Strand and buy your. lustre for you. You gave
me two pounds, and that'll buy a good one. Will you
have a double skirt, and are you to trim it with itself?’

“Thank you, Mrs. Wardle; itis very kind of you to go
out ou purpose, I merely wished a plain dress, without
double skirt or frill either.’ i

“Oh, then that won’t take much of your two pounds. I
suppose you'll have black waist lining ?””

“No, I prefer the lining being white; and pray, Mrs.
Wardie,. haye the materials sent to your own dress-
maker.”

 

you, ma’am, a niece of my own,”’ said the good-tempered
woman, as she bowed herself out with a smile.

Eugenie now applied herself to her easel, and notwith-
standing the interruption of giving Mrs. Wardle orders
about the new dress, the drawing was finished and de-
ee into the young man’s hands as the clock siruck

ve. >

Eugenie received a sealed envelope from the clerk, in
pee for the drawing, opening which she took out five
guineas.

“There,” said she, showing the money to her son. ‘‘My
landlady has been the means of procuring employment
for me in an art which has ever been one of my favorite
pursuits. I can make five guineas nearly every week.”

“Dear mother,” he replied, his face showing the pain it
gave him to see-his mother reduced ‘to Jabor for her own
support, “I trust the day is not far distant when we will

the worker.”?

Mrs. Wardle returned by alittle after five, displaying
what she called ‘areal bargain’’—a lustre worth three
shillings she had purchased for two and sixpence.

Their early tea over, the mother and son sat talking of
“a thousand things,” ;

The evening seemed only beginning’ when the clock
struck eight warned them both tiat the hour had arrived
they had agreed upon would be the best for paying a visit
to Jim Skeieton’s lodger,

Certain as he was that no one he knew could possibly
see and recognize him, yet it was with a feeling very
nearly allied to shame that Reginald Trevylian entered
Jim Skeleton’s beer shop.

It was evidently one of the lowest of its class, and the
bloated-looking, Jarge man who stood behind the dirty
bar, gave evidence by his whole appearance, from his
pimpled, swollen, red nose, down to his dirty hands and
loosely-hanging trowsers, above the waistband of which
a red worsted shirt protruded, that he was one of his own
best customers.

“Do you know a2 person of that name?” ingnired Regi-
nald, throwing down the dirty, coarse card he had re-
ceived from Lowell.

The man lifted the card and read the words: “Captain
Harry Neville, Esquire,” in a slow, hesitating manner, as
if unaccustomed to use his eyes in that way.

 

Sir Reginald left the ticket office, intending to stroll }

memorable night of the party at Warsaw Castle, the time },

“Im going to take a girl into the house to make it for |

alllive under the one roof, and that.J, not you, will be ]>

d

 

 

“That'll be the skipper, I reckon!” said he, looking up
with evident surprise in the stranger’s face, who, he now
noticed, was a gentleman, and not a customer, as he had
at first mistaken him for.

“The what ??

“The skipper; we allers calls him the skipper, cause
he’s in the seafarin’ line.” Looking in Sir Reginald’s
face he said: “You'll be his brother’s son belike; I’ve
heard him say as how he had a brother down in York-
shire, who was well to do, and lived like a gentleman.”

“Tam not his brother’s son,’ .was the reply given in
spite of himself, in rather an indignant tone. "

“Then faith, ifye’re not his brother’s son, ye bes his
own, for sich han hexact likeness to the old salt hisself 1
never seed.)

Reginald’s heart sickened as the man spoke. It seem-
ed that even already he was realizing the truth of his
mother’s words.

“Does the skipper, as you call him, live here?”

“Incourse he lives here when he’s ashore. Where ’ud
he live? He’s in yonder wi’ three 0’ his friends, all play-
in’ catch the ten, like good uns.’

As the man spoke he pointed with his thumb, which he
turned back toward a hall glass door, not far from the
bar, through which could be seen four men seated round
a table, playing cards, each provided with a tumbler of
liquor, from which he occasionally took a8 mouthful.

They all seemed to bein hearty good humor, now and
then as one made a lucky trick, the fortunate one beating
the floor and laughing uproariously to express the satis-
faction he felt.
ee looked toward this scene of low mirth with

ism Ye

‘Ye can go in if ye like,’ said the bar-keeper. ‘‘only the
skipper don’t care to be spoken to at his game, ’specially
gin he’s playin’ for shiners.”

‘Pll not disturb him just now, but if. you’ll allow me,
V]]l just go and look through the glass window. I’m not
sure if it is the man whom I want that you speak of as
the skipper.’

“Set yer mind easy on that score,” replied the man,
with a ludicrous twinkle of his eye, as if he knew the
gentleman was ashamed of his coarse relation whom he
had come to seek. ‘Don’t let that flea bite ye, the skip-
per an’ you came out o’ one nest, or My name’s no Jim
Skelton.” : ; :

“J won’t disturb them by looking through the door.”’

“No fear 0’ that; they’ll never notice ye if ye was the
Prince 0’ Wales, let alone his own nephy; they’re well
used to the customers lookin’ at them.’

Reginald walked up to the glass window and stood
there for some minutes, his heart beating aimost audi-
bly. He did not need to be told which of the men he
sought; the face he had come to see was full before him—
now looking at the cards he held in his hand, again rais-
ing his head with a pleased look of good-humored tri-
umph at his opponent, every lineament otf his face tell-
ing plainly to the young man’s eye that he had found
his father.

It was impossible there could be any mistake, his own
face was there before him, as surely as eyer he had seen
it in the glass!

True, it was an older face, sun-burned and weather-
beaten, but no less truly the prototype of his own, just
such as his own might be twenty years hence, should
his life be spent in a similar manner.

The longer he remained looking at the man, the more
varied the expression of his face, the more certain he be-
came that the coarse man who stamped and laughed, and
rubbed his large, brown, toil-stained hands to express
his mirth, was his father.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

 

The Boy Ranger;
— OR, —
THE WOLF IN THE FOLD.
By James K. Lennox.

“The Boy Ranger” was commenced last week. Ask your News
Agent for No. 7, and you will get the firs¢ chapters. |

CHAPTER IV.—(Continued.) -

Oscar Desmond could scarcely believe the evidence of
his own eyes, and before he had taken a second thought
he read aloud the mysterious warning.

Abel Thorne moved uneasily, but none save Bertha’s
quick eye noted it, and as she did so, a faint smile flitted
over her face.

“This is a mystery to me,’’ said Oscar; ‘what do you
understand it to mean, my dear Thorne?’

He passed the paper to Abel, who examined it closely,
and then handed it back. It was then that Desmond
noticed that Abel’s hand trembled slightly.

“Its strange, very strange, Oscar,’’ said Thorne.

Oscar Desmond put the paper in his pocket, and went
out of the cabin and listened. But he could hear nothing.
All was silent as it was dark. What did it mean? Who
had sent that mysterious message?. And to whom did it
refer ?

These were the questions Oscar propounded to himself.
He could not think that the warning referred to his friend
Abel Thorne as the ‘‘wolf,’’ nor could he form the slightest
conception of whatit meant. Even if it did refer to Abel
Thorne, why should he beware of him—one of the dearest
companions of his boyhood.

He re-entered the house, and discussed the mystery
with Thorne long after Bertha and Maggie had retired, to

 

At length they dropped the subject and retired also.

The night passed and morning again dawned.

Our friends were astir early, and after breakfast Abel
Thorne announced his intention of taking his immediate
departure westward, despite Desmond’s entreaties, to
spend a few days at the Lone Oaks.

As Thorne’s course lay in a westerly direction, Oscar
Desmond conciuded to accompany him as far as the Platte
river, where he had some wolf-traps set. Thorne express-
ea great pleasure at the proposition to accompany him so

‘ar.

Oscar having made known his intention to Bertha and
Magele, ato took his departure with Thorne.

“My dear Oscar,’’ said Abel, after they had discussed
various topics as they gatloped over the plain, “I do not
wonder at you being the happiest man living after seeing
your pleasant home and your angelic little wife.”

“Thank you for the compliment, my dear Abel,’ replied
Oscar, his eyes sparkling with pleasure, “I wonld insist
on your making yourself'equally happy, and building a
snug little cabin alongside of mine in the Lone Oaks if it
was not for one thing.’’ :

‘‘And pray what is that, Oscar ?’?

“Maggie Milbank is already engaged to a young ranger
named Roland Stanley, who, I am sure, she loves.”?

Thorne smiled at his friend’s remark, and replied:

“T must admit, Oscar, that Maggie is as pretty a little
rosebud as heart could wish for; but the fact of it is, my
dear Oscar Desmond, I would not be at liberty to marry
her, even were both of us willing.’

“Why not, Thorne ??

“T have a wife already.’

“Youa wile, Abel Thorne? Hal! ha! ha! you villain!
talk about my deceiving you; but where in the world did
you find a wife???

“Look ahead yonder, Oscar,’’ replied Thorne, evasively,
‘isn’t that a band of Indians riding southward along that
high ridge?”

“I believe it is, and it’s the first party I’ve seen in this
vicinity for a long time.’

. The horsemen in question were about two miles away,
and numbered some half-a-dozen; but they were so far
away that our two friends could not tell whether they
were whites or Indians. However, their presence excited
their attention so deeply that the subject which they had
been discussing was forgotten for the time being, and the
two rode rapidly forward at Desmond’s suggestion, in
hopes of gaining upon the party and ascertaining who
they were. But half-an-hour’s sharp riding convinced
them that they, were gaining but little, if any, on the
party. 7

At length they came to a small stream known as Buffalo
creek, a tributary of the Platte. Upon its banks they
drew rein. Here their journey together must end.
Thorne’s course now lay westward and Desmond’s north.

“I-am sorry, Oscar, to have to part with you, but I
reckon I must. However, when I return East again, I
will call at the Lone Oaks and remain a fortnight.”

“Do so by all means, Abel; but look here, old fellow,
you haven’t told me where you left your wife,” _

“No, Oscar, and I had hoped you would not broach the
subject again, for it is painful to me; but in justice to
yourself—since you have insisted upon it—i suppese I will
have to tell you the painful truth. JZ left my wife this
morning. at the Lone Oaks!)

“What! what! exclaimed Desmond; ‘‘you left your
wife at the Lone Oaks ?’?

“Yes, Oscar, left my wife at the Lone Oaks, but let us
say no more about it; it is too painful. A fearful mistake
has been made, Desmond, and to attempt to remedy it
now would be to make matters still worse; so farewell,
Oscar, farewell.’ .

With a wave of his hand, Abel Thorne turned his ani-
mal’s head down the creek and rode away.

For a moment Oscar Desmond sat like one in a trance,
gazing after the retreating form of his friend, unable to
speak, unable to move. Finally, however, he, mechani-
cally turned his horse’s head northward and rode away.

He had gone but a few paces when he suddenly rallied
from the spell that ‘Thorne’s words lad thrown around
him, and turning his head he glanced back at his friend.

A-sensation of terror seized him as he did so, for he
beheld the gleaming rifle of Abel Thorne—who had turned
in his saddle—leveled full upon him! And simultaneously
with this discovery the rifle cracked, and with arms
wildly clutching at the air for support, Oscar Desmond
reeled to and froin his saddle, then with a cry of mortal
pain he rolled heavily to the earth—shot down by the
hand of Abel Thorne!

Frightened by the report of the rifle the now riderless
horse of the hunter dashed away over the plain, while
Abel Thorne, both traitor and assassin, put spurs to his
animal and sped:away southward as though he were
fleeing from the wrath of God. :

CHAPTER V. ,
THE BROKEN HOME.

“Oh, Maggie!’ cried Bertha Desmond the moment she
saw her husband and Abel Thorne recede from view. “I
do wish Oscar had not gone away!”

‘Why, Bertha, you are unusually excited,’’ repiied
Maggie, startled by her cousin’s words. ‘Does Oscar not
Jeave us alone every day ?”?

 

“Yes, Maggie; but something ielis me he is in danger
ow.

“In danger? From whom, Bertha—the Indians?”
“No; Abel Thorne!??

Bextha started as she uttered the name, and there was &
strange light in her eyes,

“I cannot but believe, Maggie,” she continued, “that
the secret warning sent us last night referred to Abel
Thorne as the wolf in the fold.”

“Oh, Bertha,” cried Maggie, “you astonish me, and I
am afraid you do Abel Thorne injustice. I cannot believe
that such a noble-looking man can be otlier' than what he
appears to be.?? :
“Maggie, you are young and inexperienced in human
nature. Your heart is warm and confiding. You can
have no idea of the amount of wickedness and duplicity
there is in the world.”

Maggie was somewhat. surprised by her cousin’s re-
Marks. There was an under-current in them which she
could not understand.

“It is true, Bertha,’ she said; ‘I noticed you were
uneasy from the moment Mr. Thorne entered the cabin,
but I do not see why you have any more reason to suspect
him of being ‘the wolf’ than any other person who has
called at our cabin. Moreover, is he not Oscar’s life-time
friend?”

‘Yes; but I care not for that. Heisa villain. I was in
Oscar comes back.’?

‘Bertha, you speak very positively about Abel Thorne.
But we may expect Oscar soon, and I hope his coming
may dispel all your fears.’

“Tf he eyer does return alive, Maggie, I am afraid it
. Will be to reproach me with deceit——”

“Oh, Bertha, do you know what you are saying ?””
“Yes; but hark! I hear the tramp of a horse!’?

They listened. Bertha was right.

“It is Osear returning,’ cried Maggie. ;

The two females were seated under a tree in front of the
cabin, and when their ears were greeted by the sound of
hoofs, they sprang quickly to their feet.

Just then a rideriess horse dashed past them.

A shriek burst from Bertha’s lips, for she saw it was the
animal that Oscar had ridden away.

“Oh, Maggie, it is Oscar’s horse, but where is he ?’*

‘Not far away, perhaps,’’ replied Maggie, cheerfully,
“scolding at the idea of having to walk home.”?

“No, cousin. I fear my suspicions have proved too
true—that harm has come to Oscar—that Abel Thorne has
dealt foully with him.”

Maggie had grown uneasy too, but she permitted mo
word or look to betray her fears to the distressed young
wife. On the contrary, she tried to cheer her up.

“Tam sure, Bertha,” she said, «Wildfire has got away
from Oscar accidentally. Let us catch him’ and. seeil
there Are any marks of violence about him.”?

They hastened to the stable, where they found the horse
with nostrils dilated and flanks dripping with foam.. His.
eyes glowed with fright, and the hot breath poured from
his mouth and nostrils in miniature clouds.

Maggie approached him and took hold of the rein.

An involuntary cry burst from her lips.

“Great Heaven, Bertha, there is blood wpon the saddle!’

shar uttered alow moan and sank unconscious to the
earth.

“Oh, I have killed her!’ cried Maggie, dropping on her
knees by her cousin’s side. “Bertha, Bertha, rouse up,
and I will go in search of Oscar.”

But Bertha was as unconscious as the dead. The maiden
hastily brought water and bathed her brow and chafed
her hands. Slowly the power of consciousness came back,
and when she was at length fully restored, Maggie con-
ducted her to.the cabin and did everything in her power
to console her. But she could not disabuse her mind of
the impression that her husband was dead—that Abel
Thorne had siain him.

“] will take my pony, Bertha,’ Maggie finally said,
“and go in search of Oscar. He may be only wounded, if
hurt at all,? 1 @2OW Kon.

“No, no, Maggie, he will need no help. He is dead.
Abel Thorne has slain him to break my heart,’ Bertha
persisted, wringing her hands in despair. ‘Yes, he is the
wolf, Maggie, but oh, great Heaven! it is too late now,
our home is broken!’ . ;

“Bertha, you startle me,’ replied Maggie; ‘why should
Abel Thorne desire to break your heart?” -

“No matter, Maggie, why; but P would rather have lost
ail our father’s buried gold than tliat we had ever come
here to hunt for it; for, Maggie, Abel Tliorne knows all
about that gold. I know he does. But go, sweet cousin,
and jook upon the -prairie for the poor mangled body of
Oscar, and may Heaven speed you.”? ; af

Maggie donned her hat, and took from a little box on
the dressing-table a pair of small, silver-mounted pistols,
which she placed in. her dress pocket... Then she kissed
Bertha and ran out of the cabin. ; ’

In a few minutes more she was galloping away over the
prairie toward the north, the direction from whence the
riderless horse of Oscar Desmond had come. |

 

CHAPTER VI.
SOMETHING ON THE PLAIN.

“There have been half-a-dozen of the red coyotes, and
the way their ponies’ hoofs havecut into the earth they’ve
been riding as though Satan were after them.’

The speaker was Reckless Roll, the Boy Ranger, and his
words were addressed to Old Bugle, to whom he owed his.
life; for it was the old hunter who had rescued him from
the log in which he had been rolled into the river by the
robbers and Indians. — S tephag

It will doubtless be remembered that Old Bugle was
concealed in the foliage of the very tree under which Ru-
bal Rhineheart and Homil Deusen laid their plans for the
meeting on Otter Lake. Of course the old hunter had wit-
nessed the fate of his friend, and heard all that was said;
and the moment the enemy left he hurried down the river
until he overtook the drifting log in which his young com-
panion had been placed. He. managed to reach the log
and tow itto the beach, then, after a long time, he suc-
ceeded in getting the end open and drawing out his young
friend’s body. > f 514

To his great surprise he found the youth not. only alive
but unharmed, excepting a few slight bruises from being
dashed about in the log whenit was rolled into the river.
He was drenched to the skin, and had escaped drowning
by one simple fact. which had escaped the outiaws’ atten
tion. As before stated, the log was. solid at one end, and
when it floated on the water the light, or hollow end,, was
so pienen upward that no water could enter, .

hile the Boy Ranger was engaged in wringing the
water from his clothes, Old Bugle narrated to: him all he
had heard of the proposed meeting on Otter Lake. He at
once resolved to be presént at that meeting and recover
the important paper if possible. To this Old Bugle remon-
strated, but the daring boy was obstinate, and as night
drew on they set out toward Otter Lake on foot, the
youth’s horse having fallen into the Pawnees’ hands,

Believing he could personate Pantherfoot better than
either Rhinehart or Deusen, the youth and his companion
concealed themselves by the lake at a point where they
knew the chief would embark.

The fog favored them in every respect, and when Pan-
therfoot at last came, a well-directed blow laid him un-
conscious on the earth. Then the youth took his great
scarlet blanket and wrapped himself up in it and set out
for the middle of the lake.

The result of the youth’s daring adventure has adready
been chronicled. ,

Three days later he and Old Bugle were on their way to
the Lone Oaks and had just struck the trail ofa party 0
mounted Indians, whose rapid riding led to the remarks
made by our hero at the beginning of the present chapter.

Their course lay southward through a large grove that
skirted Buffalo Creek, and painfully anxious to know the
destination of the savages, they Moveu va, |) corre
They did not expect to overtake the Mouuled Waites,
but as the trail would soon debouch into an open plain,
they hoped to get sight of them, for this would. enable
them to determine whether they were going toward the
Lone Oaks, or whether they were a party under Rhinehart
going down to the river to search for the buried treasure,

arte following the trail for some time Old Bugle finally
asked: ite
“You're sartain, are you, lad, that the Injins hey taken
up the hatchet in arnest ??? By) i A
“Yes, there’s not a doubt but that blood will run free
for the next year tocome. I don’t want te have trouble
myself with the redskins, but if they force me into it Vl
stack my traps and go to lifting scalps.’?

“Ah, me, but it’ll be bad for them at tlie Lone Oaks,’*
replied Old Bugle. ‘#1 do wonder why* Oscar - Desmond
persists in remainin’ thar with ’em. little angels? I’m
sake trappin’ and huatin’ ain’t, nothin’ to brag onin these
parts, : :

“Oscar Desmond has a greater object.in view than sim-
ply hunting and trapping. These are only.excuses to con-
ceal his real business here in these parts,??

““Indeedy ?”? ' : ; “cr

“Yes; his wife and Maggie Milbank are the children of
those two unfortunate Californians-who. were compelled
to bury their gold somewhere along the Platte. Oscar
Desmond is the person who employed me.to. assist. him in
searching for that treasure, and should. Rhinehart find out
his object in living here, he would take; immediate steps
to put him oat of the way.’

“Wal, this is news to me, lad; sol reckon if you find
the gold you’ll git Maggie’s share o’ it along with her heart
and hand.” . : ‘ th

“Look there, Bugle,’? said Reckless Roll, evasively;
“there is something that’s a bad sign.

“What’s that?’ questioued the old hunter, looking in
the direction indicated. : ‘

“Those buzzards sailing around in the air yonder,” re-
plied the ranger. ‘

“They’re right about over the trail,we're follerin’.’?

“Yes; and like as not we'll find the bloody evidence of
some Injin deviltry out there, A; buzzard knows when
an Injin is on the war-path just as wellas the red does.
himself; and if there are any bones to pick, buzzards will
be there to do it.”? 5
Keeping their eyes upon the circling, birds, the hunters
ealrie OL, and soon emerged from the groye into the
Upon the crest of a high bluif they, halted, and with
ager eyes swept the great plain before them. To the

southward it rolled away in undulating. grandeur to the
Platte River. East of them, some ten miles away, the
Lone Oaks could be seen, a mere speck, an islet, agit

were, On that great sea of verdure. To the left of them

eee Creek wound its, way across the plain to the

The party of savages that our two friends had been fol~
lowing were no where visible upon the prairie before
them, and having assured themsélves that the redsking

had gone on down the creek, the trailers turned their at-

tention to the buzzards. :

The filthy birds were quite numerous, and not over a

mile away. They were sailing in a circle high above the

plain, their naked, coral necks outstretched, their greedy

eyes evidently attracted by something on the earth below.

But whatever that something was, it was concealed from

our friends’ view by the tall prairie grass.

 

 

misery while he was here, and now I shail be uneasy till .

 

 

ae me