HE NEW YORK WEEKLY. > VOL. 42—No. 37, DEATHLESS. BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. There lies in the center of each man’s heart A longing and love for the good and pure, And if but an atom, or larger part, I tell you this shall endure, endure, After the body has gone to decay— Yea, after the world has passed away. The longer I live and the more I see Of the struggle of souls toward heights above, The stronger this truth comes home to me, That the universe rests on the shoulders of Love— A Love so limitless, deep, and broad That men have renamed it and called it God. And nothing that ever was born or evolved, Nothing created by light or force, But deep in its system there lies dissolved A shining drop from the great Love Source— A shining drop that shall live for aye, Tho’ kingdoms may perish and stars may die. {THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. | ANOTHER MANS WIFE. By BERTHA M. CLAY. Author of “‘A Fair Mystery,” “‘For Another's Sin,” “A Heart’s Bitterness,” etc., etc. [“ANOTHER MAN’S WIFE” was commenced in No. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]} 99 X CHAPTER XLVI. “WAIT FOR ME HERE A TWELVEMONTH AND A DAY.” ELIA! Delia!” cried Sir Fran- eis, pressing forward, ‘are you here? I have looked for you everywhere!’ “How dare you call me De- lia! I am not Delia!” “You are! But stay—you are not. You are, andyou are not. You are her double. What is this ?”’ ‘Yes, I am her double,” said the young woman, draw- about her, and covering her face ail closely; ‘and ghostly creatures ing her cloak again with herv such as doubles cannot hone the light of day. mand of you my sister! How came you here, Francis | Westholm? How dare erime, which Heaven will lay to your charge to all eternity ! pli Ace, W hen you disgraced it by using your v isit here to lure away to ruin a girl as sweet, as good She turned away, bowed her head, covered her face | place toits mistress that day when It was a warm May afternoon. heavy mourning as to be | of bombazine, walked Beryl. had so far lightened her wearing black nuns’ vailing instead and as she came up through the gardens she broke off a spray of white Persian lilac, and was about to put itin her hat; but she remembered that these were marriage flowers, and marriage flowers she should never wear again, so she flung them away, She had been with Lawrence to the gate, and wished him a kind good-by, as he rode away on his handsome bay along the bridle-path leading about the mere. Within the lodge all was bustle, for Madame superintending the packing of her endless wardrobe, returning next day toward her beloved Vienna. Beryl had reached the door-way, and stood looking back over the perfect beauty of the spring afternoon, when she saw a carriage coming up the drive. She waited to welcome any friends who might be calling on her, when forth from the carriage looked Anna Marvel and Lelia. Beryl welcomed them both, and then Lelia ran up stairs carrying Mrs. Marvel’s wraps, and Anna and Beryl stood holding each other’s hands in the sun- shine. “T brought her back,” said Mrs. Marvel. ‘Why should the dear child not be happy ? asad, sad story; but it is ended. band is dead. Why should she not love Lawrence ?”’ CHAPTER XLVII. “THERE, FOOLISH GIRL! I SAID HOW IT WOULD BE.” “That confess ron are all out,’ cried Lord back in his chair at breakfast, Telegraph. ‘The papers are wild over it. everywhere with endless additions, and your Beryl, is connected with it. There, I said how it would be.” He tossed the paper toward her, angrily. Lord Alfred, his wife ,and daughter were Mrs. Marvel and Lelia to see a friend before the day grew hot. “Well, my adored, why should not her name pear? What harm in seeing your name In print? Mine has been in two marriage notices. It has not hurt me.” “Tt will be ajolly good hindrance to her into a real high life marriage, such as she might look to, having this gossip,” said Lord Alfred, moodily “There is nothing to be said,” suggested Beryl. “People do not confine themselves to what is too fast; they expatiate into the manner of fancies, once set them going. If we were not to leave at eleven o’clock, I should say, come with us.” “T shall take Lady Heath’s advice, I think, and in a few weeks go to the Continent, and wander through the small pleasant towns. Probably I should like it.” Asa very young girl she had been in France and Italy with her father and grandmother, and the memory was not pleasant; there had been a mingling of ostentation and meanness that had been a moral gall to her delicate taste. Undeniably Windmere Lodge seemed a pleasanter she was alone Alfred Heath, leaning and refolding his name, alone. | there with Mrs. Marvel and Lelia. I de- | you come to the scene of your | I thought you were forever forbidden this | | The nightingales were singing in the hneatiadls! the whip-poor-will lifted its quavering | | by the The scent of the lilies and syringas was in all | with both hands, and her sobs filled the lonely si- | lence of the gray old church. “IT am here.” said the baronet, “because fate brought me back where my people banished me. One by one, they all died who heired, or should heir, before me. My cousin Jerome was drowned, and I am Sir Francis Westholm Sothron.’ That evening, when Leliagcame to her dressing- room, Beryl took her hand. “Dear Lelia, may I tell Lawrence to come back ?”’ setting | ; | frank question. I She | } | fashionable guests from Paris and London. | cottages of residents were rented to the visitors, and } ithe owners camped in tents on the hills edges of the sunny moors. Casinos, and theaters, and shops were brilliant and busy; all along shore singers, troubadours, wandering jugglers, The | ? | and the | the | nmusicians, Punch and Judy, showed off; every cove | | was fullof bathing | ple in gay bathing costumes floated like beds of bright Heath was | living flowers. Among all these dashing, chattering, laughing, machines, and every still nook | | of water was fille dwith flat open boats, wherein peo- | | brilliant people passed, calm, silent for the most | | part, but peaceful and slender creature in mourning, serene, a unanimously young | granted to be | | the most beautiful woman in Biarritz—Lady Bery] | | Medford. | always Hers has been | Her unloving hus- | To live in greater quiet, she had rented from its English owner a very lovely little villa near the sea, where the path of ascent to the moors began. at the doors on moor or beach, now Biscayan fishers, now watching the numerous little ones, or scattering toys attended by the valet North maid Fanny; sometimes, on Saturday, with Lelia by her side, Lady Beryl spent her time, knowing the play of the among them, | most peaceful and independent hours of her life thus | Stone rocks, | the hollows of the stone, gay as beds of asters. ion and story about Sir Jerome Soth- | It is going | you foolish girl! | far. One of Beryl’s favorite walks was along the lime- where sea-urchins of was there one day, amusing herself. wandering and down, while North and his newspaper in a cor- ner, and Fanny under a great umbrella sat knitting lace, when a rapid step drew near, and some one said: ‘Lady Medford!” She turned hastily. Sothron. Certainly she was not pleased to see Sir Francis. It was Sir Francis Westholm | Biarritz looked less pleasant for his being there. had breakfastedearly to walk | ap- | He came near in friendly fashion. “T have been to your home, Lady Medford, have followed you here; in fact, I have followed you here all the way from London.’ ‘‘Indeed !” | he and fall listlessly from his clasp. “T wish to say something to you, to ask youa very to the Continent | believe, Lady Medford, frankness itself, and honor, freely. Will you?” “If IT possibly can,” said Beryl, shadow of a rock, while Sir by. open; she idly rolled it to and fro. ‘Lady Medford,” said Sir Francis, ‘I all the earnestness of my heart, “Shave you any rea- son to suppose my cousin, Jerome Sothron, living ?” Beryl gave a low cry, her face, blanched, she le aned you are and s Francis faced her | back against the roc k, the umbrella rolled out of her | know it? i Lelia bowed her pretty face on her friend's should- | er, but it was a very resolute “No” which came from | the rosy lips. ‘And why not? “T have again. Dearest Lady Beryl, I want to tell you my story.’’ It was a balmy night, ” asked Beryl. on the very verge mere cry. the air. In Beryl’s pretty room there sat two per- | onerated from any responsibility | might come back. a double task to do first, before I see him | dour ere 2 | you believed its w ide publication would meet his eye | and bring him home. June. | tho n | | leaning back in the blue brocade cushions of a great | | chair, ‘and Lelia at her feet, hand, her brown eyes cast down, as she told her | Story “Then fate is wicked and unjust, to bring you back | in honor where you went out in dishonor! Then fate is deaf, not to hear the curses I heaped on your head !” ; “IT vow I loved Delia!” said Sir Francis. “Loved ! away? Loved, as a girl loves a rose she tears to pieces, or a child the toy he destroys! Francis West- holm, worst of men, I demand of you my sister!” | tell you—my husband’s What love is that that ruins and casts | “Tf you mean Delia—and you are not Delia—and as | Delia never could be so angry, you may not be she— It do not know where Delia is. I wish I did; think in my soul, [ will never love any other woman half as well!” “Love! and you would not marry her!” “But consider—I was poor and in debt; not.” “You promised.”’ “A man promises much when he is in love.” “But aman, fit to be called a man, keeps his prom- If you had loved ber, you would have married I could ises. for I} | too harsh | ladies all | how to | knew just the r her and worked, worked daily with your hands, to | maintain her.” “Upon my soul,” said Sir Francis, shrugging his shoulders, ‘it sounds well, but there was not one taing I knew how to do—not even to dig. If I had known that in three years I’d be Sir Francis of Sothronwold, you may believe I would have married her, fast enowgh, and lived on the Jews till I got my fortune. But one never can tell how these things will go. If she had only staid with me, married her as soon I would! But she left me. Was it my fault?’ “Yes, it was. Sheleft you because you would not keep your promise and marry her. She was not a bad girl. right.” “Well, she left me, and married another man.” “Because he would marry her and work for her. He was poor, but he was a man of his word. then you would not leave he or alone, but followed her up and tried to get her back.” “And [thought she was coming back. ised. Lexpected her. She never came.” “She did go to you. _ story. What have you done with her?’ I don’t believe a word of your | uy ! | gratify | half of the time what he was talking | trol; Pd have | as I got my good news, by Jove | You deceived her; but she meant to do} | that refinement, And | She prom- | never told you—I think I had better not name. our marriage, and ashamed of me. He felt thatit lowered his good old line, and now he is dead, and “oy have I will not tell you who they were. his marriage before even the left me before the ink was dry.” “Then he was a hard-hearted monster,” said Beryl, “and he was ridiculously fastidious. You, Lelia, are good, and sweet, and pretty enough for any man.” “You are good to say so,” said Lelia, humbly ; you do not know how I am changed, hope, since my marriage. You cannot guess what Anna Maryel has done for me. an impression of Aim. grace, accomplishments, talk, who had read many books, and who ‘ight way to dress. Now,my manners much I err now in little points— decidedly bad. I was apt to grammar; I did not know about; never read anything but novels, I mean poor, cheap novels, such as ignorant girls read; I could not play a note; I knew no French; [ could not dance only rude country dances. And then I when [ was pleased I laughed loud, very loud. But, indeed, I laughed little after my marriage, I was so grieved and disappointed. When I felt badly I burst into tears without any self-control; when [ was angry—and I got angry easily, Lady Ber scolded and said rude, wild things, I know I And some way I was my husband was near me. He who was used to —you know how were bad; oh, yes make mistakes in my che clasping her friend’s | He was ashamed of | He repented of | register was signed—he | ~ . . | 2S “ my AT TV | sons—Beryl in her white, down trimmed wrapper, | the Sothron property. hand, and trundled down the beach. Neither Sir Francis nor Bery! thought of it. “Jerome living!” gasped Beryl. living ? that he is dead !” “You know that?’ cried Sir Francis, as in tense relief, but Beryl never noticed the tone, natural to the heir of a cousin’s great property. ‘Why should I not know it? Have you not inherited ?” “Yes; butit has been said to me, that the charge laid against Jerome would make it more convenient for him to seem dead. And now that he is amply ex- of that murder, he Indeed, it has been hinted that secured that evidence, and that T think Jerome in- very you, as his friend, “Oh, who could say such things 2?” “It is much to me, is the faintest shade of truth in these suspicions. Never | gay places of resort, but constantly out of | talking to a group of | and the rosy | all colors lie in | She | up | Marry and | said Beryl, in cold surprise, letting her | and will reply to me | sat down in the | : close | Beryl’s silk sun umbrella was in her hand, and ask you, with | | creditors. Oh, how can you ask me that, when I know | Does not all the world | Jerome lives, I am using revenues not mine, and may | be called to sharp account for my dence or thought that way, tell me.” “T have none,” said Beryl. “Sir Jerome the bark Elizabeth, which sailed for Holland. lost with all on board. I had, after a It was he died, a letter administration of | If you have any lightest evi- | 7 c , ye | longer a rich relative to bleed, had desirability of continuing his intimacy with | If the widow had been left wealthy, he would } | have had no scruples about throwing over the sister ; went on | | them. written on board the Elizabeth, and sent me through | the man who took him on that vessel. his name; if I heard it, in my sorrow, it was quite forgotten. But I had the letter, and the bark went } : x. 3 ae Sp | you, Lady Beryl, may perhaps often meet his family, | 40W2 With all on board. I do not know | C : | and her father’s widow. “With all on board ?—yes, I know that,” said Sir | Francis, ‘not one was saved. Elizabeth, and while I secured that, I | thought of what I had heard, and that Jerome might | never have gone on bh ut | improve a [| knew well | I had had no self-con- | | others, and she hinted yi—I | did. | always my very worst when | “T had married him from ambition and vanity, and | | the wish to be a great lady, for [ did not realize then education, and generous feel- I fancied, too, his face, and ings are whgt make ladies. his voice, his elegaiit ways. I wanted to be duced to the world as his wife, not thinking would shame him. Oh, indeed, it hurt me that he was sick and ashamed of me! how I | Lady Beryl, could [live through such an experience “I swear to youl have never seen her face since one morning [ met her in Hyde Park, and she agreed | to meet me at Temple Gardens at eight that even- | ing. I waited for her till ten. She nev er ¢ a week later I was Sir Francis Sothron.’ same; and | “Then thank Heaven I did Keep ings from the} erime of returning to you. But where is she?” “T protest to you,” said Sir Francis, “that if she were here, and her husband were dead, marry her at this altar, Sothron of the There was never any one like Delia. you areshe. If not, you rise before me as her lovely wraith, and you revive all my love for her. Your voice, your figure, your fac e—this gleaming mass of your hair” tall back of the carved abhey pew—‘ beside them all other beauty fades away. Tell me, I would | and she should be Lady | Abbey in the face of all the world. | I half believe | | | his wife, to me that very day; and from that she was | told me fo | must | And when at last | | ment I should hav e grown to be worse —and he looked at the head bowed on the | all are here, and | | drove meto despair, she took me to her home— are you Deliat?—have you come to reproach me, to | try me? I vow I love you, Delia. Give hand. I will never marry live. If your husband is dead, you, and you only, shall be my wife.” The gray-clad figure shuddered from head to foot. Once and again she strove to speak. der hand in a gray silk glove grasped tightly that of Sir Francis. “How long will you keep that vow?” “Forever !’”’ She turned and led him along beside the chancel until they came to a tomb of one of the earliest Sothrons—a full-length effigy in stone under a black marble canopy. “Lay your hand on this, your ancestor’s tomb, Sir Francis, and make solemn oath that for a year and a day you will marry no woman but Delia, and if ina year and a day she comes to you, free to marry, you will make her your wet dded wife.” “T solemnly swear,” faltered Sir F “Wait then for a year and a day. is dead.” rancis. She dropped his hand and fled, fleet-footed, to a | little door beside the vestry. “Come back! come back, Delia!” he cried. doom me to wait so long?” But the door opened, Jetting in the May sunshine, and the song of birds, and breath of blossoms bloom- ing on the grassy graves, and letting out into the world of spring-time life, that gray-clad form—and then the door elanged to, and lett Sir Francis Soth- ron alone in the ancient church beside the cold stone of his ancestor’s tomb. He went back to the house. As he passed along the great carriage drive, a whirr of wheels, the rhythm of eight small hoots, a ripple of laughter. He looked up from his moody dream, and there was Laura Ranleigh’s kaleidoscope phaeton, and Laura and her friend of the hour. Laura was repairing her errors of the fele day. “Oh, Sir Francis, we want a fleur de lise to paint, and there are such lovely ones down by the spring beyond the first meadow. You see, [ know all about your place. May we have some? Will you go there to get some with us ?” “Certainly, you will return here to lunch with me,’’said Sir Prenoih: giving them his hand to alight. He went down to the low moist ground, where the “blue lilies’ grew, and Laura said all the pretty things she could think of, and rolled her eyes, and was witty and dashing. But it was a place ill-chosen for her. had seen the lovely Delia, fair as Proserpine gather- ing flowers. Over such a sheaf of ‘blue lilies” he had first bent to kiss the red lips of the cottage maid. Here, with their feet among these blooms, they had stood when she had, also, consented to fly, trusting to the promise which he most basely broke. All that was not utterly ruined in his nature rose up in re- volt at this memory of treachery, and he renewed in his soul a vow to wait for the lost Delia a twelve- month and a day, and never to marry any other wo- man than Delia. * * ‘ ‘Why Here first he * * * * Through the pretty gardens of the dower house For her husband | me your | another woman while [| ha | wife. Then the slen- | He was liberal to me; and with means to my untrained taste, I only more. I chose such gaudy furnishing, such tawdry clothes, such trifling baubles to wear.” “Lelia, I simple and refined.” “From copying Anna, from having learned to age from association the things that once ILloved. Oh, was all I tell you; and in my desertion and i hea wild, wicked, again. may be—only one day I was so ill with my he Doctor Marvel was sent for. trol, and was hysterical, I poured out all my story to him. He was so touched that-he brought that angel, taught me to hope; she for some day my husband as my teacher. not tell, and hate to think of, my friend. She educate myself; claim me. She w affairs that I need true charity—for [ had only alittle over a hundred pounds. You know what she has beentome. She has looked forward to fitting me for my place as his Dear Lady Beryl, only the day I left your house I learned that, instead, I was his widow. ‘I do not shame to tell youthat. [have never seen any man who seemed to me so good and lovable as Law- rence. I believe he loves me, but my mind is made up. I will shame noma again by being less than he needs and deserves ina wife. The marquis told me that Lawrence was likely to become a useful lead- ing man—to go some day to Parliament. Now, I will not be his clog and his disgrace. “You can never be that, dear Lelia. Whatever you may have been, you are now a most lovely woman. “Not what I should be—that he may never blush for ne Lady Beryl. [am going to tax your kind- niss; I ask a great thing of you, freely. I want you to put me in some school in France, w here I may stay fora year. After that, only after that, I will see Lawrence. If his love lasts until then, why——” And Lelia hid her blushing face. “Tf this is really your wish, Lelia, gladly, indeed, will I do what youask. But is it kind to Lawrence?” “T married in foolish haste, the first time,” said Lelia; “now I will be prudent. And there is another task that I must complete. I had for it a twelve- month and aday. I wish to find a sister who went to live in France. I shall find her by advertising in some cities where I think she would be.” In the morning Beryl talked with Mrs. found her in favor of Lelia’s fone. “Then the sooner they are entered on the better,” said Beryl. ‘When I was in Biarritz with the mar- quis, soon after our marriage, I heard of a very good finishing school there. Ihave always w anted to go back to Biarritz. I have some sweet, sad memories of the place,” and Beryl looked far, far away, and thought of Jerome, and how she — met him there on the wide, high moors above the Biscayan sea. A tew weeks of preparation followed, and then Beryl closed Windmere Lodge and went to the Con- tinent for an indefinite period. “No wonder,” commented Laura Ranleigh to Sir Francis Sothron, whose society she was trying to en- gross at a country house, “no wonder poor Beryl goes. Sheisin such deep mourning she cannot go into society; a year ago she was one of the le¢ ding countesses; and now, whatis a dowager? On a jointure, too, that was certainly not munificent. A pretty young thing enough, but too sad; her title, her fortune, her leading position all gone, condemned to a certain seclusion. She might as well be a nun, or perform suttee, and be done withit. But as neither course is open to her, she goes to hide in some small Continental town. I think it serves her right for marrying where she did not love.” CHAPTER XLYVIII. “T RAN INTO THE MAN’S ARMS.” The little town of Biarritz was in all the height of its August gayety. The long streets were filled with fine equipages that most of the year rolled and glit- tered on the Bois de Boulogne. “All the summer cot- tages andthe hotels were crowded with lively and Marvel, and a | | would feel as I do for him. intro- | to find | Never, never, | I must not give you | from the Elizabeth the that vessel, had hint he did not; trankly, for I must know. “T have answered you frankly. night his and you, perhaps, and I came here to ask you Jerome wrote me she sailed. you know he was found; clothing was identi- tied.”’ She stopped, and bent her bing. “Pardon me; I feel that I know ; you will forgive me, siake,”’ t “{ understand. But who suggested these thoughts? Who could inter that Jerome had fled and pretendéd death, and I was cognizant of it, and face to her knees am cruel; I did not | making a way for his return ?”’ “It was hinted, not clearly charged, but no secret, as far as I could see. It was your friend Mrs. Ran- leigh. Lately we were at the Friars together, with municate with you here,” Bery] flashed at him. “Tf he lived, he would come out plainly, and so would I.” I have lately secured | | the certificate of the death of Ralph Marshall, first | mate of the | real MY GIRLS AND BOYS. | BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER Since first I hailed the rosy dawn That gave to me my eldest born, Life has been one bright summer morn Of sweetest joys ; And this I owe to thee, My girls and Doys. For you have been so dear to me, And I have been so dear to thee, And Heaven’s fair gifts so strangely free That few alloys Have dimmed our hearts pure gold, My girls and boys. I’ve helped my darlings on their way, And they have plucked for me each day The sweetest flowers. So come what may, My sweetest joys I owe to thee in love, My girls and boys. S$ $$$ $____—_——_— [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] OP a HOME. By Mrs. M. V. VICTOR, Author of ‘‘ A Father’s Sin,” ** Back to Life,” ** The Forger’s Sister,” etc. [MARRYING FOR A HOME” was commenced in Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ] No, 26. CHAPTER XXYV. A MODEL WIDOW. Six weeks had gone by since the Augustus Brooks had broken up, leaving and what was left of its furniture Mrs. Brooks had gone to her mother’s, where she had demanded a great deal of waiting | upon, and had solaced her widowhood by knitting an atghan, making eyes at Mackay, and writing letters to John Halliday, the house | old Brooks not having deeded his property to her in- stead of letting it go for his honest debts. Things were not all sunshine at ‘‘ma’s.’ now always under the influence of drink, which some- times made him ugly. put on too many airs, and wanted too much for her money. Effie was troubled and cross because Mac- kay was acting strangely; he no longer referred to their coming marriage, and was gradually neglecting | her. The fair widow,in her secret heart, believed | that this was the result of her own hand being again Lady Medford, to know if there | If | in the market, and she made herself very sweet to the recreant lover, although she now looked for higher game than this young man. In truth, Mackay, now that the leeches had no about the as it was, he wanted neither of them. Not even a formal call had passed between Grace The discovery of that last piece of treachery had finally decided Grace to have nothing whatever to do with the woman who was capable of it. She had left the house without speak- ing of her discovery. Lillie had missed the letter; owner knew anything of it, because she had made no accusations. Still hoping to win the lucky | miner, she had addressed him four or five charac- And then | teristic epistles, complaining of her loneliness, her | | poverty, and referring tenderly to their early ro- mance. These epistles grew even warmer after she had heard, through Sam—who had wandered out in | i that direction—that John was coining money; that SOb- | his ‘finds’ were regular bonanzas; that he “born under a lucky star.” The fact that she ceived no answers to her missives did not entirely was | discourage her; she had the excitement of looking knowing allI have at | cruel | ; toilet as her black low hair, painted her smooth cheeks, and teased ma | well, that Jerome might com- | | “Yon will not be angry with me?” said Sir Francis. | . | wait upon her. “NO; did—known how he was, how lonely, he has gone; andif you had known him as [ generous, kind, how often Oh, Jerome! Jerome!’ “Dear Lady Medford,” said Sir of grief.’ Beryl recovered herself after a tlme. “Tf you want to know the name of the sailor who | brought the letter, perhaps my maid will remember. disgusted him | | it. I do not believe it!—you, whose taste is so | ad that | : : : aa , : ‘As I had no selt- wort | the interview with Sir Francis, adding, I will ask her to-night.” “Pray do not trouble yourself. I do not need Here is the statement of the de ath of mate Ralph | Marshall, lost at the same time.” Bery1] looked at it vaguely. That evening, when Fanny was brushing her lady’s hair, she said: “You look to have a headache, dear mistress.” “Yes,” said Beryl. andin a few words told her ‘He showed me the certificate of the death of the mate, Ralph | Marshall, lost with Sir Jerome on the Elizabeth.” Fanny dropped the hair brush. “Tf Sir Jerome was no more dead than Ralph Mar- shall, my lady, Sir Francis would soon be out of the Abbey, for Ralph ean is as alive and well as any man that ever sailed sea “What do you mean, F ery’ “Why, I mean that I met him to-day on the beach, when i went for your umbrella, my lady. I found it right in his hands. I fairly ran into the man’s arms, as I skipped down the rock, and we sat and talked some time down there.” “What! one saved from the Elizabeth!—one! Then a “No, my dear lady,’ said Fanny, gently, ‘no one was saved. He ese ‘aped by not going on board. He had need to hide ashore, and at the last hour he put another man in his place for the voyage. It was Ralph Marshall, my lady, brought me the two notes from Sir Jerome Sothron to you. Youtforgot because of all the troubles you had then.” *And you met him to-day, Fanny ?’ “Yes,” said Fanny, leaning against the toilet table, and rolling her lav endar cap string about her finger. “Yes, my lady, I saw him, and a very handsome sailor he is, and told me the memory of my kind words, when I saw him in trouble, had never left him, andhe hadremembered me gratefully ever since, and he had laid up a shawl for me in China, hoping to see me some day, and to-morrow he would bring it, he being here quite by accident.” (LO BE CONTINUED.) ro UNSEASONABLE VISITS. q?? There visiting are some people who seem to think that is the most important duty of life ing, that most precious working-time for women, just to chat about something of not the, slightest importance to the person visited. “Oh, we are not going to detain you; we won’t stop a moment,” they say. While the hostesslistens andreplies courteously to the conversation of her guests, her ear catches ominous sounds in the kitchen; she hastens out to see and remedy the mischief, and is quickly back again with the visitors, who remark on the loveliness of the day, and what a pity itis for any one to stay in the house such weather. The hostess makes some | polite reply agreeing to the statement made, thinks of her duties in the other room waiting for her, how she would have had them completed but for her neeeety visitors, who, though having re- mained fully an hour, always going, yet seeming not any nes ae to it than when first seated. another hour spent in the same way, time the nervous housekeeper has made many jour- neys to and from the kitchen, the guests leave, re- marking that they couldn’t possibly remain any longer, and the wearied woman goes back to her neglected work. Why such poner if they must visit, should choose the busiest part of the day to -all upon women whom they know to have all they an do, toil as hard as they may, to get their work well done, in preference to those having more leis- a at their disposal, like the riddle of the Sphinx, is hard to answer. He looked in his breast-pocket for some papers. | ; : , ter’s dictatorial w ays ; of | | room. They | come in at any hour of the day, usually in the morn- | After | during which | gay, sympathetic, | unhappy—ob, you | Francis, after a | yained silence e, ‘‘torgive mestor stirring these depths | — ; > | to the glass to see if the cheeks were pink enough, and expecting, and one day she had her reward. A brief letter or note from John annonnced his intention of starting in a very few days for the East, Now, indeed, the cupy her mind. Every day she made as elaborate a attire permitted ; crimped her yel- to tell her if black didn't make her complexion show off to better advantage. Dazzling visions of becom- ing a “bonanza queen,” like California millionaires, and wearing a She put on the airs of a fine lady, and 1 guished under the hardship of having only *tma” to After € ) there was a ring at the bell, and the widow, saw John Halliday standing there. ; d “Oh, ina, Effie, he’s come!” she exclaimed, rushing | and the fluffy fringe of yellow hair pulled low enough | alone for the first time, don’t you, out, please, for { think over the eyebrows. ‘Go while into the kitchen. ma? Effie, you let | ges in; but don’t come in yourself.’ | { | | | but | Effie was’ very low-spirited and cross at her sis- | jus all. | time we parted the first girl wrote a letter telling | what she had been doing and everything | self which would be likely but she was glad to have so as to let Mackay alone; so caller, opened the Lillie “catch a beau’ she aves ed. orders, admitted the parlor door, and disappeared. “Oh, John! dear John!” young Halliday, old friend Lillie.” Catching her breath to simulate a sob, she rushed | forward prepared to fling herself into his arms; but | this time, being in expectation of such a demonstra- | tion, he was too quick for her. “How do you do, Mrs. Brooks? coldly, his arms folded, so that she 1 dash she had made at him. yyy he responded, Brooks, which you intercepted and opened.” Cruel, cruel John! It was a severe revenge, had been determined. Lillie stared into his mocking eyes, tre where she stood, while the warm color died out of | it so ghastly, that it was easy to see | She | but she could not her face, leaving i where the carmine saucer had done its work. opened her lips once or twice, bring forth a syllable. “May I trouble you,” continued John, with cold | politeness, “for that letter?” | ‘Who says I did such.a thing?” she ) mered. ‘Who dares accuse me of such a thing? “The earrier states that he placed it in your hands | on the steps of your house, and as Miss Brooks never it.’ This was a harsh surprise— } \ to the woman who had hoped to win this man as a lover. down and oo wound and unwound her fingers, began to cry “Did you “come here just to hurt my feelings, | John ?’ “T came for the letter, Mrs. Brooks. “You must know what made me do it, John. If I had not eared so much for you, would [ have done such a thing? me, that was once almost your wife, and that—that —love s you still,” sobbing effective ly. “As your husband was alive when that letter came, I cannot see what right you had to be caring for me, madam ? engaged to dine with Mrs. Courtenay must be going.” Mrs. Courtenay, Grace’s aunt! Of course that meant he was engaged to dine with Grace. All her arts and wiles had failed completely. John Halliday and his wealth were lost to her forever. Lillie wiped her eyes with a vicious dash of her black-bordered handkerchief, out of their blue depths leaped an angry flash. Sne showed her temper to him, as her own family and the ‘‘old fool” were ac- customed to seeing it. ‘You've come here to triumph over me and insult | me when I’nin trouble. You're no gentleman, sir! I despise you as much as I do the hypocritical saint you're going to marry. I’d give you your sickening love letter in welcome, but it’s burned long ’T won't take you lon&Ato write another just as full of taffy as that was. of paper ?”’ “Thank you. Since you have destroyed another’s property, I will not trouble you longer.” He lifted his hat and left the room. When the door closed behind him, and she realized that her castle in the air had tumbled—that she hs “ nothing to look forward to—that she was not to be ¢ bonanza queen—that her hated rival had wen the day, she flung herself down on the lounge and wept a few real tears. “Whatis it, daughter? Why did John go so soon? What are you crying for, my dear?’ asked the mother, anxiously, coming back into the parlor soon atter she heard the front door close. at six, and | piece as ever went abo ut | Wrongs | but she will soon have other resources. | as delicate and pure as they, | lonely, care-worn life, to be loved, | tenderly | only John, and to him she clung with the more abso- | lute family of the late | in the hands of | | which interspersed with complaints of | | that entirely Pa was | Hav | while your brothers are at school and college. Ma complained that madam | far | | upon others beside herself. altered his mind } | ence a prolonged torture. but had no idea its | Te- | | house ; and thus the L ‘ ; 3 ui lis very skillfi u in displaying he re harms and his wish to call upon her soon after his arrival. | fair mourner had something to oc- | the wives of some Of the | : silver dress | | tringed with diamonds, wreathed her rosy lips with | } Smniles. lan- | a week of keen anticipation, one afternoon | peeping | | through the blinds of the window nearest the steps, | young ladiés who were a little | we'd better meet | | could never be kept gasped the fair widow, as | handsome and manly-looking, with | sparkling eyes and glowing color, advanced into the | “Tm awfully glad you’ye come back to your | | sent it back to the first. | her own letter, -ecoiled after the | “TJ called solely on busi- | ness—to ask for the letter addressed to Miss Grace | to y | await its arriv from which gentle Grace had tried to persuade him, but he | ; < , | reading what all the girls have 2nsfixed | finally stam- | rec 4 ived it, the ‘inference is te air that you Suppre Sse od } . for a prosperous chureh so iety. a bitte r disappointment | . - . A hot blush succeeded her pallor, she looked | | and to test the matter I | that we proceed to organize. a Presbyterian church.’ You ought not to speak so coldly to | 7 br y .) or Will you bring me what I ask for, as Tam | cept one lame man, and he was feeling on the floor ago. | Shall I give you apen and a sheet | 1 | honest work that we do. | live, not to The handsome | from a table virago sat up, and, catching a book near by, flung it at her’ mother’s head, | who briskly dodged it. “Don’t again! you ever mention that wretch’s name to me [told you Grace Brooks was an artful, sly with a sanctimonious face She’s caught him, an’ that’s enough. I’m sick of the whole crew. Don’t you or Effie ever dare to speak of this, or ’ll take your heads off. If it hadn’t been for your managing, ma, I’d have had John long ago; so don’t you twit me of it. And I guess l’l] manage my own matters after this. And now you goand make me a cup of strong:coffee, for my head aches fit to split.” Ought we to pity her? John did not. On the contrary, he smiled quiz- zically to himself, as he rode down to the bridge and crossed the river in the cars. He could not forgive, all at once, a piece of malice which a mere accident had alone prevented from destroying the happiness of two lives In the le ngthening March twilight it was still quite rosy with sunset whena handsome young fellow, with a most contented expression of countenance, ‘an up the steps of afine brown-stone house in the upper part of New York, was admitted by a@ Serv ant, and received at the drawing-room door by a slim, pale girl, in deep mourning, whose lovely face grew blooming in a moment, when he stooped and kissed her, and, slipping his arm about her slender waist, drew her to sit on the same sofa with him. “Well, my dz arling, I fulfilled my mission. are avenged,” he said, laughingly. John, how could you have the heart to crush Your “Oh, | @ woman so ¥t “Crush! Crush that woman! You might as well talk of crushing India-rubber, dear Grace. Perhaps she will miss the income of ow mines, my prec iOUS ; Be sure sheis Let us bid her good-by roses [ bought for you care of. herself. Here are some able to take for all time. | Oh my way up; they are very sweet. fair, flushed cheeks, agai re their cool, per- fumed petals, whilea happy smile played around her lips. It was so delicious, after a year of forlorn, petted, considered Excepting her two dear brothers, she had Grace took them and laid her f faith. Her aunt was very kind to her; but her aunt had children of her own and an exacting hus- band. “Oh, John, how can I ever let that wild place 2?” “Go with me, darling. “T cannot do that, John. father to my brothers.” “Then [ will tell you what I will do. I will return once more to the mines, and there arrange my busi- ness so that I will not have to give it my personal supervision. In three months, lam quite certain, I shall be able to come back here to stay. The house mother and Flossie oce upy is here y large so you and TI will look about and select one pleases us, and you shall have the choosing of the furniture. When itis quite ready you will enter it as my own sweet wife; and we will have our mother and sister, if you like, for company There will be rooms, all their own, ready for their yvaca- tions ; and you will never be without some one to pet and spoil with indulgence. Do you like the picture, my darling?” Her sweet face was hidden in the roses, but she ce rtainly did not answer no. hus it is that Grace, though deeply mourning her father; feels a sure promise of joy growing slowly in you go back there to I must be mother and enough; | her heart, and has enough to think of, to hope for, | and to do, while John is far away, arranging his bus- iness so as to make a home for her. This coming autumn, God willing, there happy bride, whose loving kindness vill be a will overflow As for the young beauty who Married for a Home, and who drove a good maninto ruin and the grave with that whip of thorns which only a domestie¢ vira- go can wield, the contrast between her present cir- cumstances and the life of indolence and plenty she enjoyed only a short time before, makes her exist- Her father’s vicious and shameful habits are exasperating to her; for now, without the means to satisfy his craving for stimu- lants, he has twice or thrice resorted petty pilfer- ings which brought him in the clutch of the law. And Sam, her brother, is also a hopeless vagrant, almost as dissolute as his father, and has returned to add to the family expenditures by forcing his sisters to work for and support him. Their possessions are gradually disappearing, and it will not be long before the Dennisons will have parted with all the spoils fers red from Mr. Brooks’ mansion in the days of Lillie’s prosperity. The saddest blow of all, excepting alone the loss of John Halliday, is the fact that Lillie’s dainty fingers are now compelled to work. She reluctantly Effie in making cheap clothing for a Bowery clothing family larder is supplied with the cheapest of food, for their combined earnings are rather meager. Still Lillie continuesto ‘tke to ASSISts eep up appeara WNCds,; aa the best almost as repul- she is on the keen oO advantage. Her mother’s home sive as a prison to her; therefore lookout for a second victim. Beware of her, well-to-do widower, whom she would fain flatter to your fall! She has art enough to please your vanity ; but she will cruelly wound it afterward should you tangle your feet in her web. You will be “dearie” before the ceremony; after it, you will be ‘‘an old fool.’’ ts (THE END. HOW NINE GIRLS CORRESPOND. devised class of graduated from a prominent New York seminary a few years ago. One of them, now residing in San Francisco, thus explains it: “There were nine of us in the and we were all promiseing to write to each other continually, but in our hearts we knew that sucha corre sponde nce up. Finally, one of the girls suggested a circulating letter, and the idea pleased At the expiration of one month from the An ingenious scheme was by a class, about her- to interest the others. This letter was sent to the second girl, who, after reading it, wrote her own letter and sent the two to the third. The third, fourth, fifth, and all the others in turn added their letters until the ninth on the list Then the circuit was com- plete, and we had the circulating letter fairly under way. : “Now, of course, the envelope always contains nine letters, and each girl, when it comes to her, takes out writes a new one telling what she has been doing in the meantime, and starts it on its travels again. You can have no idea how interesting it is to receive the letter and how anxiously we all al when our turn comes. “We have kept it up for nearly four years, each time the letter comes around the pleasure of to say seems to in- One of the girls is in Washington, another in Chicago, another in Southern California, another in Paris, and one, when I last heard of her, was in Egypt. Some of them are married.” and crease. spt hc leas teh aad cla ede HOW A CHURCH EXTENSION FAILED. A Sioux Falls minister recently went out to another Dakota town to help organize a church. On his re- turn his wife said to him: “T trust you were successful and laid the foundation ” “Well, I’m afraid I can’t say ‘that I was.’ “Why, I don’t see what could have prevented ?”’ “T’ll tell you; I got those together who appeared | to be interested, and we talked the matter over some little time.” ‘Well, why don’t you go on?” “Why, they didn’t appear to be very enthusiastic, said, ‘Gentlemen, I move Just then a prominent busmess man arose and said: ‘I move to amend the gentleman’s motion so that in- stead of a Presbyterian church we organize a board ot trade and get up a boom.’ ‘Those infavor of the amendment,’ said I, ‘w ill please rise.’ You ought to have seen them getup! Every man stood up ex- for his crutch. Some got upon the chairs, and one man tried to crawl on top of the stove. When I came away they were talking about moving the cem- etery to make room for a street car line.” OE till tpl ieielgabi acti, MAKE YOUR HoME Happy.—Let home stand first before all other things. No matter how high your ambition may transcend its duties, no matter how far your talents or your influence nay reach beyond its doors, before everything else build up a true home. Be not its slave; beits minister. Let it not be enough that it is swept and garnished, that its food is delicious; but feed the love in it, feed the truth in it, feed thought and aspiration, feed all charity and gentleness in it. Then from its walls shall come forth the true woman and the true man, who shall together rule and bless the land. > Do Your Duty.—Life consists not in the abun- dance of things that we possess, but in the good and Let us vow thate we will lade our souls with the thick clay of sarthly riches—not to daub our lives with the un- tempered mortar of human praise—not to waste our labors on those gains of the wilderness which can neither satisfy “the soul’s hunger nor quench its thirst, but what is best and greatest—to do our duty to all ‘the world.