ing, if you'll stay, will you? Do say you will! You
and I get along so nicely together. Ill send out and
buy a pox ef those choice cigars. It’s a joke to spend
the old fool’s money on my beaus, isn’t it?” And
laughing at the good idea, she flung herself down on
the sofa, took off the becoming blue pee which she
had thrown over her yellow crimps and curls, and
east a joyous glance about the room. ;
Who was that standing, stern and frowning, by the
door? ;
She gave a little scream, followed by a hysterie
~ laugh.
“Brooks! How came you here? I did’nt know you
were fond enough of mato visit her! You mustn’tmind
my silly gabble; I was only in fun,” looking a little
~ frightened for once. \ ,
“T don’t mind it. Iam getting used toit. Whena
~ gentleman makes the mistake of marrying a girl like
you, all lesser mistakes are trifies. Pray, have a good
time in your own way. I shall not demur at paying
for the cigars of your male friends.”

There was something in his scorn that awed her, |
as he went away; he had never seemed so superior

to her own set asin that moment; she did not re-
cover her ease all the evening, nor take much interest
in the story Mackay had to tell them; she went home
early, in a subdued mood.

Mr. Brooks was not in the house, nor did he return
that night. Was he really going to leave her? The
model wife did not like the prospect.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. ]

MAGGIE,
THE CHARITY CHILD.

By FRANCIS S. SMITH,

Author of “Bertha, the Sewing-Machine Girl,”
“Tattle Sunshine,” ‘“‘Daisy Burns,” ete., etc.

{“ MAGGIE, THE CHARITY CHILD’? was commenced in No.

22. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.[

ane

CHAPTER XVIII.
STRANGE MISAPPREHENSION.
“Mr. Farmer is not in, I believe,” said the English-
man, as he threw his gaze around the room.
“He is not, sir,” replied Hollister; ‘‘but he will be
in the course of a few minutes.”
‘In that case,” said the visitor, “I will wait for him.

Mr. Farmer is well, I suppose,” he continued, when

he had seated himself.

“Quite well, sir,” replied Hollister.

“Well, in order that [may not be thought imper-
tinentin asking whatever questions may suggest
themselves,” said Gilbert, “I will state at once he is
my brother. I have but just arrived in this country
from England, and as I have not seen him in four-
teen years, I naturally feel a little anxious concern-
ing him.

“Mr. Farmer mentioned you not ten minutes
since,” replied Hollister, with a look of undisguised
pleasure, ‘‘and I have heard him speak of you
often.”

‘“‘T am glad he has not forgotten me, at all events,”
said Gilbert, in-a half-petulant tone. “He has be-
come pretty well Americanized by this time, I sup-

ose?”
vf “Yes, sir,’ replied Hollister; ‘che talks, acts, and
looks like an American, and it would be hard to tell
him from a native born.”

“Then, without meaning any disparagement to
you, sir,” replied Gilbert, slightly knitting his brows,
“T am sorry to hearit. He must have found it hard
to have entirely forgotten his early prejudices.”

“He did, sir,” replied Hollister, who at first was
half inclined to take offense at the discourteous tone
in which his country was alluded to, but who, re-
membering that the man to whom he was talking
was fresh from home, and in a country where many
things must seem ouwlre to him, checked his displeas-
ure. “He has often told meit was long before he
eould entirely reconcile himself to some of our cus-
toms, but he conquered his dislikes eventually, and
managed to gain a position which any man might be
proud of, although it was only by severe fighting
that he succeeded.” *

“T suppose so,’ returned Gilbert, crustily; ‘of
course, he has sueceeded in gaining many of those
peculiar marks of distinction which are so highly
prized by Americans.”

“Yes, sir,’”’? replied Hollister; ‘che is a man of con-
siderable mark, and his countenance is not only fa-
miliar, but welcome in the most distinguished circles
of society.”

“Oh, that as a matter of course,” replied Gilbert,
in atone of sarcasm which surprised Hollister as
much as it displeased him. “I suppose his new fea-
tures have not altered him so much that I will not
know him?”

“T have known him for some years,” replied Hol-

lister, ‘and can see no alteration in him—not the |

slightest.” -

“He must look horrible when he’s trimmed!” re-
marked Gilbert, with a shudder, and then, after a
pause, he continued: “He must have quite an as-
aeons of pickled eyes, noses, lips, and ears, I sup-
pose?’

Hollister now began to think that his employer’s
brother must be slightly deranged, and pity took the
place of the displeasure which he was at one time in-
clined to feel. This supposition on his part was
strengthened when Gilbert remarked :

“T suppose you are too young to have gained many
honors. Neither of those eyes can be glass, and your
features are surely flesh and blood. Oscar used to
be a great snuff-taker, hut I suppose he can’t indulge
in the practice now without taking off his nose.”

“Mr. Farmer does not use snuff now,” replied Hol-
lister, willing to humor the supposed lunatic; “he
dropped the habit about three years ago, after a dis-
pute which hehad witha doctor concerning the delete-
rious properties of tobacco. Your brother was much
set in his own way of thinking, but after a hard tus-
sle the doctor succeeded in convincing him that he
had better let snuff alone, and he has never touched
any since.”

“The doctor convinced him, did he?” exclaimed Gil-
bert Farmer, with much asperity—for he imagined
that Hollister’s reference to a tussle could mean
nothing else than a fightin which his. brother had
been ‘deprived of his nose. ‘Allow me to observe,
young man, that you are treating a very serious sub-
ject with altogether too much levity. With you such
an exhibition of heartlessness may pass for pleas-
antry, but in me, sir, it excites only the liveliest dis-
gust and the most unmitigated contempt.”

Hollister now began to wish heartily that the mer-
chant would return, for he knew not what phase
Gilbert’s madness might assume next. He kept om
humoring the vagaries of the supposed lunatic, how-
ever, tillat length his ears were gladdened by the
a sound of the merchant’s footsteps in the

a

“There’s your brother, sir!” he said, in atone of}
gratulation.

“Well, [ean’t say that I am over-rejoiced at the
news,” responded Gilbert, in a crabbed tone, ‘for the
fact is, I was a turning over in my mind the pro-
priety of getting out of this State as quickly as pos-
sible, without waiting to see Oscar.”

The merchant entered before Hollister could reply,
and as no introduction took place, he stood looking
at his visitor for some time with an air of awkward
embarrassment. At length he ventured to say:

*Have you any business with me, sir?”

“Well,” replied Gilbert, staring the while upon the
merchant with much the same expression of coun-
tenance asmight have characterized him had he
been looking at some curious animal in a menagerie,
‘his voice has not altered any, if he has lost his nose,
and that, I take it, is somewhat singular.”

The merchant recognized his brother theinstant the
latter spoke, and, rushing forward with outstretched
arms, he exclaimed : ag ;

“By all that’s wonderful, it is Gilbert!” ;

“One moment, Oscar!” exclaimed Gilbert, putting
forth both hands to keep the merchant off. ‘Before
I greet you as one brother should greet another after
so long a separation, I must be permitted to ask
you one question—do you own a jar of pickled fea-
tures ?” i

A style of speech so strange under the cireum-
stances, and so totally unexpected, took the mer-
chant completely by surprise, and for a moment he
regarded his brother with a look of complete amaze-
ment. Perceiving no change inthe earnest expres-
sion of the latters features, however, he turned to-
ward his clerk as though to seek in his face an ex-
plation of the singular interrogatory. Hollister, how-
ever, merely met his gaze with a melancholy expres-
sion of countenance, and then, with a deep sigh,
turned away his head. ‘ ;

Suddenly the idea struck Oscar Farmer that his
brother might be temporarily deranged, and, advanc-
ing close to him, he scrutinized his face closely, but
observing nothing whatever to warrant his disagree-
able suspicion, he ventured to say at last: ‘

“In the name of all that’s ridiculous, brother Gil-
bert, what is the matter with you? What do you
mean by pickled features?” ;

“T méan,” emphatically returned Gilbert, at the
same time fixing upon his brother a look of unquali-
fied rebuke, “I mean eyes torn quivering from their
sockets, and noses, lips, ears, and pieces of flesh bit-
ten from the fa¢es of human beings, and preserved
in spirits, and used as mantel ornaments. I mean
those trophies of the ‘free fight’ so highly prized by
the chivalrous elite of Kentucky.”

“Some waggish Yankee reprobate has caught and
‘sold’ him,” said the merchant, smilingly addressing

Hollister, and then turning to his brother, he con-

{

(tinued: “Come, come, brother Gil, shake hands, and
then sit down and let us know exactly what you
mean.”

“Subterfuge is of no use, Oscar,” said Gilbert, still
stubbornly refusing his hand; ‘tyour clerk here has
already informed me, and in a matter-of-fact style,
too, which leaves no doubt as to the views which
generally obtain in this locality, that you have been
the recipient, after hard fighting, of many of those
marks of distinction to which I have alluded. I sup-
pose you will not deny having at one time taken part
in an argument during which your opponent con-
vinced you the use of snuff was injurious ?”

“Brother Gil,” said the merchant, now fairly out of
patience, “we have been separated for fourteen
years, and now don’t make me angry with you be-
fore we have conversed five minutes. You know I
never could bear mystification. I always wish a sub-
ject to be laid fairly before me, so that I can tell
exactly what [am about; and now [insist that you
sit down forthwith, tell mein detail what trouble
you have on your mind, and then I shall know ex-
actly what to say and how to act.”

There was an earnestness both in the words and
look of the merchant which had its instant effect
upon the mind of his deeply prejudiced brother, who,
seating himself at once narrated the full particulars
concerning the “free fight” on board the steamer,
and the horrible narration from the lips of the

 

which Mr. Oscar Farmer and his contidetial clerk
listened with as much gravity as they could com-
mand, and when the story was finished, they gave
way to an uncontrollable outburst of cachinnation,
and peal after peal of boisterous laughter fairly shook
the room.

“After you have sufficiently amused yourself at
my expense,” said Gilbert Farmer, who was not
without his suspicions that Josh Soper had indeed
been hoaxing him. “I suppose you will have the
kindness to explain the cause of your merriment.”

“Well, well, well, Gil,” said the merchant, when he
eould so far control himself as to be able te speak,
“T didn’tthink ydu could be quite so green. I was
verdant enough, and deeply prejudiced enough, in
all conscience, when I first arrived here, but it would
have been a long time ere I could have swallowed all
which you have taken in at a gulp. You haye much
to learn, Gil, before you will be fit to travel alone
here. Why, man, there was not one word of truth in
all that the Yankee told you, and let me advise you,
now, to adopt this maxim as an undeviating rule—
never believe more than one-eighth of what stran-
gers here may tell you, if what they say has the
slightest shadow of improbability aboutit. You will
find some queer individuals in this country, Gil. A
stranger, unless he is particularly shrewd, is con-
stantly subject to imposture of some kind. The com-
munity swarms with waggishly inclined individuals,
practical jokers and swindlers of every grade, who
are always studying, to use their own peculiar phrase-
ology, ‘how they may initiate a flat.’ Have your wits
about you in future, Gil, and look out for them.”

“And this is the character of the people concern-
ing whom you have so often written to me in such
glowing terms, is it?” sarcastically queried Gilbert,
who felt somewhat piqued at having allowed him-

witted buffoons, lying knaves, and unprincipled
swindlers! Well, I must say I can’t admire your
taste, brother Oscar !”

“Stop, there, Gilbert, and reflect a moment before
you go further!” exclaimed the merchant, with some
severity, “you are allowing your ill-temper to get

"ans as a people, Iam included in your abuse, for I
am now an American citizen. I came to this country
-amparatively poor, and I am now wealthy. At the
very: outset of my career here I found willing hands
and warm hearts to assist me, and I should be guilty
of the basest ingratitude were I to remain silent and
hear the friends who have aided me slandered, even
by my brother. If there is a plentiful supply of

across the Atlantic is both cheap and expeditious.
The eleemosynary and penal institutions of this
country show a very large percentage of foreigners,
Gil, and England furnishes her fullshare. It is nat-
ural that you should feel a little sore after having
been so easily humbugged by a ‘native,’ but that is
no reason why you should pour out the vials of your
wrath upon the whole country. Had you been less
deeply prejudiced the thing woutd never have hap-
pened, for you lack neither intelligence nor quick-
ness of apprehension. The fact is, you were willing
to believe any statement to the detriment of the
United States, however extravagant it mght be, and
so you did not stop to question yourself concerning
the probable truth or falsity of what you heard.
come, now, let us drop this matter just where it is,
and proceed to the discussion of some more pleasant
topic.
but especially should they be in harmony after a
lengthy separation. Tell, me, in the first place, what,

eountry ?”’

his brother’s observations, and although he
greatly inclined to prolong the controversy, his bet-
ter nature at length prevailed, and with as good a
grace as he could assume, he replied:

way to America to catch an heiress, eh? Rather an
up-hill business, that, and yet it is astonishing how
many there are following the same pursuit.”

“Teame only in a professional capacity, brother,”
returned Gilbert; “America is the last place I should
choose to seek a wife in.
heiress I am after will be brief if I find her. So brief
that [shall be on my way to England again in twenty-
four hours afterward.”

merchant.

“She is known in this country as Mrs. Hannah
Dockett,” replied Gilbert, ‘‘and I have been told that
she may be found in the vicinity of New York. At
least it is presumed she will inherit the property,
although it was bequeathed by will to her daughter,
who, report says, is dead. If what I have heard be
true, she does not deserve a fortune, for a more un-
amiable creature never drew breath. I learned acci-
dentally on board the steamer that among other acts
of brutality, she took charge of a little girl whom she
nearly killed by her eruelty, and afterward perse-
cuted bitterly for running away from her.”

If the brothers had been watching Charles Hollis-
ter, they would have perceived that he grew red and
white by turns,and trembled nervously as he lis-
tened to this portion of Gilbert Farmer’s discourse,
but they did not notice him,an@ as he remained
silent, they were ignorant of the fact that their con-
versation had produced any extraordinary effect
upon him.

“She must be a hard case, indeed,” responded the
merchant, but it is only another verification of the
proverb that the devil is good to his own sometimes.
But come, Gil, come with me to my hotel, and we’ll
make a day of it. I will introduce you to some few
Kentucky friends of mime, of beth sexes, who, I
think, will compare favorably with the better classes
in England er any other country. As for the ladies,
they are really bewitchimgly beautiful, and for the
life of me I ean’t tell whem I am looking at them what
has kept me a bachelor. By the way, Gil, yom are
still a bachelor, too—at least I judge so from your
silence with regard to matrimony. I suppose you
are ashamed to confess the fact, and I don’t wonder
atit. You ought to be ashamed of it, and so ought I.
Everybody ought to be ashamed of living single
when there is nothing in the way of their getting
married. Ihave just been lecturimg Charley here on
the subject, although he is a young man and has time
enough yet. But for you, Gil, the day of grace is
well-nigh past, and it behooves you to look around
sharp if you ever hope to redeem your character. If
you go five years longer without a wife you deserve
to be gibbeted. I deserve to be gibbeted now, and if
I could only be tried, condemned, and sentenced to
such punishment by a court of ladles, I would suffer
without a murmur. Come along, Gil, come and dine
with me, and this evening I will introduce youtoa
little dark-eyed Kentucky giri who will make your
heart ache. You won’t gouge his eye outif I present
him to Hattie Henderson, will you, Charley?) You
are not dangerously jealous, are you?’

“Oh, no, sir,” replied Hollister, with a smile, “‘you
have my free permission to introduce your brother
to all the ladies in Kentucky, if you feel so inclined.”

“Well, then, once more, come along, Gil, and, by
the way, Charley, what de you say to dining with
us?’

“T shall be very happy to do so, sir,” was the ready
reply.

Well, then, come along at once,” said the mer-
chant, leading the way toward the street.

The hour for dining found the trio seated at a sump-
tuous repast in a private room of the hotel at which
Mr. Farmer was stopping, and as the natural reserve

 

 

 

of the newly arrived Englishman wore off under the
genial influence of the society of his merry friends,
the conversation became general, and all traces of
the ill-feeling at first evinced by the stranger guest,
entirely disappeared.

During a lull in the conversation, which had been
kept up with great volubility by the loquacious mer-
chant, Hollister took oceasion to say to Mr. Gilbert
Farmer : :

“It is some years now since I saw New York last,
and as you propose visiting there shortly, I would
very much like to accompany youif Mr. Farmer can
spare me.” Andas he ceased to speak, he cast a look
of inquiry at the merchant. ;

“Why, your desire is a sudden one, Charley,” said
the latter, with some surprise. ‘I didn’t suppose
you would ever care about visiting New York again!”

“T have wished to do so for some time past, sir,”

replied Hollister, “bnt as you never seemed able to
spare me, I said nothing aboutit. Now, however, as
your brother is about going there, I should like to ac-
company him, if my absence can be at all dispensed
with. We will be company for each other, and, be-
sides, as I am pretty well acquainted in the city, I
may be of considerable use to him.”
“Well, well,” answered the old merchant, ‘I sup-
pose I can get along without you, for a little while,
and if brother Gilbert has no objection, I haye none.
What say you, Gil?”

 

 

Yankee, to whichhe had listened subsequently, to all |

the betterof your breeding. When youattack Ameri- |

swindlers and ruffians here, it is only because travel |

But |
Brothers should not disagree at any time, |
besides a desire to see me, brought you to this |

Gilbert Farmer could not help seeing the justice a i
felt |

“Well, Oscar, I came here to look after an heiress.” |
“Hat hat” laughed the merchant, you came all the |

My business with the |

“What is the name of the fortunate lady, and |
where do you propose looking tor her?’ asked the |

W YORK WEEKLY. 8

“So far from having any objections to offer,” re-
plied Gilbert, ‘I like the idea vastly, and shall be
much obliged to Mr. Hollister for his company.”

This matter having been satisfactorily settled, the
conversation turned upon general topics again, and,
after dinner was over, the brothers and Hollister
took a drive out, and spent a few hours in examining
the city and suburbs. In the evening, according to
the agreement made in the earlier part of the day,
they all paid a visit to the city residence of Mr. Sam-
uel Henderson, a planter of wealth and distinction,
who received them right cordially, and entertained
them in true Kentucky style.

“We are about to lose Charley, said the merchant,
addressing the planter’s daughter as that young lady
sat familiarly conversing with Hollister and Gilbert
Farmer, ‘‘and what will you do then for some one to
flirt with and to get vexed at?”

Harriet (or Hattie as she was familiarly termed),
Henderson was a beautifully formed young lady of
seventeen, with brilliant dark eyes, regular features,
and a very expressive countenance.

Taking into consideration the fact that she was the
only daughter of a very wealthy man, and that she
had been petted and humored from infancy, she was
avery amiable young lady, though, to say the truth,
somewhat vain and capricious.

Of course she had suitors in abundance, but none
ot them, however personally well favored or wealthy
they might be, found favor in her eyes. To Charles
Hollister, who was known to be poor, she gave most
of her company, and although he was not exactly re-
garded as a suitor, she took more freedom with him
than with any other of her gentlemen acquaintances.
He rode out with her, he turned the music for her
while she sang, he danced the most frequently with
her of any one, and yet, to all appearances, both she
and he were perfectly heart-whole. To tell the
truth, they were not very well suited to each other,
for while Charles was a clear-headed, sober-minded
youth, Hattie was somewhat giddy and frivolous.

“He has just been telling me,” she replied, “that
he proposed going to New York, and I have just
been finding fault with him for wishing to get rid of
my society. Idon’t see what right he has to think
of going away without tirst asking my permission. I
think he had better leave New York to take care of
itself.”

She said itlaughingly, and in a tone of apparent
unconcern, but could she have done so with perfect
propriety she would have said it with a pouting lip
and in a tone of great dissatisfaction.

“Well, I do not intend to stay long,” interposed
Hollister; “I shall be back in the course of a few
weeks at most, and if you are a good girl, Hattie, I
may bring with me a New York beau for you.”

“Thank you for nothing,” answered Hattie, with a
contemptuous curl of her full red lip, “‘when I wanta
beau I sha’n’t have to send to New York for one.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” responded Hellister, in

possession of some Adonis from abroad yet, although
you do pertinaciously withhold it from those nearer
home. Stranger things have happened.”

Hattie did not reply ; and Hollister, who couldread
her mind in her face with almost as much certainty
of pique lay behind her silence. To say the truth,
ably well; and, although no actual word of love had
ever passed between them, each cherished a more
than friendly feeling for the other, and each was
aware that the other understood it.

When the gentlemen arose to take their leave, Hol-
lister, approaching Hattie, said:

“Shall [ eall to see you before I take my departure
for New York, Miss Henderson ?”’

“Do as you please,” replied the young lady, appar-
ently with great unconcern. “Of course I have no
choice in the matter. You are perfectly free tocome
and go when you like.”

This was a response which left no room for a re-
| joinder, and five minutes afterward Hollister had se-
eured his horse from the stable where he kept him on
livery, and was on his way to the residence of Mr.
Henry Seymour, with whom he had lived from the
first day of acquaintance with that gentleman, while
Hattie Henderson was in her own room, weeping
tears of vexation as she disrobed herself preparatory
to retiring.

 

CHAPTER XIX.
, A DESPERATE ENCOUNTER.
Fayette county, Kentucky, as everybody who is
familiar with that locality must know, is the garden
ot the State.

 

exceedingly salubrious, and the temperature of so
| regular and mild a nature that winter can scarcely
| be said to have a home there. The residence of Mr.
Henry Seymour was beautifully situated in the cen-
ter of an exquisitely laid out plot of ground within a
short distance of Lexington. The house was nearly
hidden from the view of the traveler on the road by
| the lofty trees which surrounded it, but the magnifi-
cently arranged flower-beds which skirted the broad
serpentine gravel path leading to it, gave abundant
proof of the taste of the owner of the mansion. The
brilliant cardinal flower, with its scarlet hue; the
tulip-bearing magnolia, with its fragrant odor, and a
thousand other plants, rich both in coloring and per-
fume, charmed the senses of the passers-by, and
| made the placa a very Eden in beauty.

| While Charles Hollister, after taking leave of the
| Hendersons, was en bis way homeward as fast as his
-horsé could carry him, Mr. Seymour was in his li-
| brary busily engaged in drawing up a legal docu-
|}ment. The night had pretty well advanced before
he was apparently aware of the fact, for as the little
clock upon his mantel-piece told the hour of eleven,
he ceased from his labor, laid down his pen, and ex-
claimed :

“T declare, it is near midnight, and I am not through
yet. I fear E shall have to finish it at another time,
tor I feel my eyelids growing heavy and niy thoughts
retuse to flow freely. Old age is a sad reminder of
mortality! There was atime when I could hardly
be made to feel such a thing as fatigue, but I have
got bravely over it now.” He paused for a moment,
during which time he seemed in deep thought, and
then as sleep began to exert its power over him, he
muttered, as he nodded between his sentences: ‘*Poor
Charley! he is a good lad, and I dare say Andrew is
quite as happy t© knowit as I am. Have I tested
him sufficiently? I think I have, andI have Ralf a
mind to tell him at once who and what he is. There
isno false pride about him—no arrogance—mo sel-
fishness—no dishonor—no bad traits—no * and he
fell ¢ead asleep, leaving the sentence unfinished.

He had not remained more than five minutes Ina
somnolent state, when the door of his library was
cautiously opened, and a head slowly protruded
itself into the roem and looked cautiously about.
Then a body followed the head, amd the person of the
villainous Col. Morgan stood fully revealed.

Advancing noiselessly, close to the sleeping gen-
tleman, the scoundyvel took from his pocket a vial,
and carefully uncozking it, he satarated the end of
his handkerchief, held it for a short time under the
nostrils of Mr. Sexymour, and then re-corking the
vial, he replaced it in his pocket, and, after waiting
for # moment or two, he chuckled as he said:

‘For rendering a man perfectly safe without tap-
ping his jugular, there is nothing like chloroform.
Now let’s see what the old gentleman has been about.
May I never hold a full hand agaim!’ he continued,
as he ran his eye over the document upon which the
old gentleman had been at work, “if he isn’t drawing
up @ ‘last will and testament,” and I’ll bet large odds
he has been ungrateful enough toleave me out of the
list of fayored ones. Curse the lack. If she had only
acted as I wanted her to, I should have been allright.
However, there’s no use crying over spilled milk,
amd as all hope in that direction is gone, let me see if
I cannot find my way to the old gentleman’s ready
cash.”

He opened one of the drawers of Mr. Seymour's
secretary as he spoke, and took therefrom a bunch
ef keys. With these he approached a small iron box
which oceupied one corner of the room, opened it,
and began overhauling its contents.

The wind was blowing rather freshly without, and
30 great was the noise made by the rustling of the
elosely interlaced branches of the trees which sur-
rounded the house, that the rebber did not hear the
approach of an advancing horseman on the road, nor
was he aware, a moment later, that footsteps were
treading the gravel path leading to the house. So
intent was he on securing the treasure of which he
was in search, that he could hear nothing and could
think of nothing but the villianous work in which he
was engaged.

He had sueceeded in securing a large roll of bills,
and thrusting them into his pocket, and was about
to rise from his kneeling position, when he was sud-
denly seized forcibly from behind by Charles Hollis-
ter and thrown violently on his back upon the floor.

“Help! help!” exclaimed the youth, as he threw
himself upon the prostrate form of the robber, and
seized him firmly by the throat. ‘Mr. Seymour!
Awake! You are beset by robbers!”

Moved to desperation, the gambler, who was an
immensely powerful man, by a violent effort broke
the youth’s hold, and grasping him firmly around
the body he held him closely with a bear-like hug,
and hissed in his ear as he did so:

“Fool-hardy boy, your shoutingis useless, and you

may as well save your breath. There is not a living
creature around the house who will respond to your
-all for assistance, for all—men, women, children,
negroes and dogs—are as safely under the infiuence
of stupefaction as he who sits yonder. Allow me to
leave unmolested with what I have and you shall not
be harmed, but attempt to stop me, andI will cut
your throat as I would a dog.” : ;

“You may make a slight miscalculation,” exclaimed
Charles Hollister, ‘‘two can play at the game of vio-
lence; and in such a cause as this I would cheerfully
lose my life. Youshall not leave this place while I
have the power to detain you. Upon this I am de-
termined.”

“As you please!” growled the gambler, furiously,
“T would willingly have spared you, but you invite
your own destruction!”

And then commenced a terrible struggle for life or
death. The gambler, although not so active as
Charles Hollister, was by far the stronger man of
the two, and for some moments he held him in his

 

The soil is loose, deep-black mold, pro- |
ducing the most luxurious vegetation ; the climate is |

atone of raillery; ‘‘you may find your heart in the |

: -
herculean embrace with a force which well-nigh

cracked his ribs, and then suddenly changing his
tactics hethrew the youth violently from him, sprang
to his feet, drew his bowie-knife, and again rushed
to the attack. Hollister dextrously evaded a ter-
rible blow which the gambler aimed at his head with
the knife, and perceiving at once that he would have
no possible chance so long as the arms of his adver-
sary were free to strike, he again closed with him
before the latter could renew the attack, and catch-
ing a lock upon him, he, by throwing all his strength
into the effort, managed once more to bring the rob-
ber heavily to the floor, though not before he had re-
ceived a slight cut on the shoulder from the bowie-

knife, the vital fluid from which soon came trickling |

down his arms into his hand and upon his fingers.

Maddened at the sight of blood, and rendered des-
perate as the idea presented itself that he was not
only battling for his own life, but for the property,
and perhaps the life of his benefactor, Charles Hol-
lister threw his whole weight upon the sword-
arm of the gambler, wrenching and twisting it vio-
lently as he did so, and then seizing the hand which
held the knife in his mouth, he buried his teeth deep
into the flesh, and held on with the tenacity of a bull-
dog, till the gambler, with a ery of pain, relinquished
his hold.

Quick as lightning, Hollister clutched the formid-
able weapon and wielded it aloft. The gambler’s
neck was slightly twisted, and he lay in such a po-
sition that the carotid artery was exposed to the de-
scending blow. Another moment, and his head would
have been nearly severedfrom his body, but just then

Mr. Seymour, who had been fast regaining his con- |
sciousness, darted forward, and grasping the youth’s |

arm with both hands, exclaimed:

“Hold, Charles—hold, I command you!
not what you do!”

“Mercy to such a wretch is injustice to society,”
vociferated the infuriated youth, whose eyes glis-
tened fearfully as he still glared upon the prostrate
villain. ‘Let him die!’ and again he essayed to
strike his foe.

‘Tf you strike after what I have. said,’ exclaimed
Mr, Seymour, earnestly, ‘“‘you do so at the risk of in-
curring my displeasure forever, Charles. Let the
desperate scoundrel arise and depart unharmed.”

“You shall be obeyed, sir,” replied Hollister, as he

You know

allowed the gambler to regain his feet, ‘‘but I confess |

that I never listened to a command from you more
unwillingly.”

“Now sir,” ejaculated Mr. Seymour, looking wrath-
fully at the baffled robber, ‘‘leave this house while
you may. Should my household be aroused and you |
be recognized before you are clear of these walls, I |
will not be responsible for your safety. This is the
crowning act of all the injuries which you have
heaped upon me andmine. Letit be your last offense.

 

|

: ] | as he could read a book, was satisfied that a feeling |
self to be so easily duped—‘‘a community of halt- |
the two young people understood each other remark- |

| flee the country; my passage to America was en-

 

‘arising from the excited and distraught condition of

Go, and sin no more. Stay! Take the dross for which
you have periled your soul with you!’ And he picked
up from the floor the roll of bank-notes which the
robber had dropped in the struggle, and threw them
toward him.

“The smallest favors thankfully received,” face-
tiously exclaimed the hardened villain, as, with un-
blushing effrontery, he placed the money in his
pocket. ‘‘As for this young gentleman,” nodding
toward Charles, ‘I shall, perhaps, one day be even |
with him! Good-night!”’ And with a scowl of deep
malignity he left the apartment, and a moment after-
ward his footstep was heard on the path without.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK FORM. |

The belle 01 the Palace,

By LENA T. WEAVER.

(“THE BELLE OF THE PALACE” was commenced in No.
11. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. }

CHAPTER XLVI.—(CONTINUED.)
“Thad vowed to myself, in the court-room,” Chester

| take.
| know.

VOL. 42—No. 30,

:

| willed it. I did not wish to know anything more of
| the place where I had suffered so much—where my
great trouble and despair had come to me. TI left no
address behind me, and when I quitted the shores of
England I was as much dead to all my friends and
kindred there as I should have been had TIT been
buried in the sleepy old church yard beside her.”

Chester paused, and Rosine, with tears in her eyes,
Jenito# against his shoulder, and stroked his thin

air.

“My poor father? how much you must have suf-
fered. How dreadful it all was. Surely no one could
blame you for what you did to Victorine Weldon, but
—but I wish you had not done it—I wish you had
not.”

“My dear Rosine, [have still alittle more to tell you.
For many long, long years I believed myself a mur-
derer. I heard over and over again the terrible curse
of that woman as she went down to her doom—the
still, murky night, with the faint smell of smoke in
the air, and the gray sky stooping down like a pall,
used to rise up before me, and for years Iwas a
haunted man. But never did I for a moment repent
of my sin—if sin it was. When I thought of it I was
always glad that the infamous girl had met a just
reward. I tried to feel repentance—I tried to say to
God in my prayers that I was sorry, but it was a lie,
and Inever uttered it. And now, my daughter, comes
the strangest part of my story. You may, perhaps,
have guessed that the Rupert Vail who has made us
so much trouble with the poor girl we have known
|as Mary White, is the same Rupert Vail who de-
) stroyed your mother !”

“Yes,” said Rosine, “I had guessed it.”

“T recognized him at once when I saw him last
winter in St. Paul. And he knew mein spite of the
change which years have made in me. And, Rosine,
if ever I meet him again face to face—be it in hall, or
ehurch, or forest solitude—one of us will die!”

“Father, remember that mother’s spirit told you to
dono murder. The God who has suffered him to go
on, Will surely punish him for all his wickedness.”

“T do not know, Rosine. Divine retribution is too
slow. Imay be wicked—I suppose I am—but I have
| little faith in it.”
| “Father, your grief has made you doubt. You do
|} not meanit. And you will yet come to believe fully
| in the God my mother trusted—in the God we should
all trust.”

‘‘Perhaps so,” said the old man, wearily; “but it is
all dark tome now. If I could only go and find Eva,
and never be separated from her again, I should be
content. But a few words more and my story is
done. Rosine, I thought Victcrine Weldon had died
by my hand, but since then—last winter even—I saw
her in the flesh, unless it be possible that there can
exist two women precisely alike in form, and face,
and feature. -— *

“You saw her! Where—when ?’ demanded Rosine,
eagerly.

“When we were at the carnivalin St. Paul. Do
you not remember, my dear, the beautiful woman
who screamed, and fainted almost, at sight of you?”

“Indeed Ido. It was so strange. And she called
me Eva. But, father, you must have made a mis-
It could not be this Victorine Weldon, you

It is impossible. I inquired her name, and
was told that she was Miss Lucia Ashleigh, one of
the noted belles of St. Paul, and the only daughter of
Mr. Ashleigh, the great banker. You have been de-
ceived by a strong resemblance.”

“Tam certain that I have not been deceived. This
woman is older and more beautiful than she was at
the time I tried to kill her; she has matured wonder-
fully, and yet she has kept her youth. But I would
stake my soul on the fact that Victorine Weldon and
the woman who was so overcome by the sight of
your face that night at the carnival are one and the
same. Rosine, you are as like your mother as ever a
daughter could be like a mother, and it was this won-
derful likeness to one whom she knew was dead that
overcame the woman you call Lucia Ashleigh.”

“T must still think you are mistaken. Why, only
see how impossible it is that what you faney can be
true. I heard a great deal about Miss Ashleigh and
her triumphs. And she has always lived in St. Paul,
and is only twenty-two or three years old, and this
Victorine, if she were living, would be—let me see—
she would be over thirty years of age, would she
not?”

oe ¥ GB:

 

!

Ss

 

But hers was a face that years would not
mark. And,improbable though it may seem, I tell
you, Rosine that Iam not mistaken; and time will
show thatIam not. AsIhave already told you, I

 

continued, “that if the law failed to avenge my wife’s
death, I would take the law into my own hands. And
I swore by all that I held sacred, the day these guilty

souls were allowed to go free, that twenty-four hours |
should not roll over their heads and find them alive |
to curse the earth! Rosine, I bought the pistol which |}
was to send its leaden messengers of death to those |
two guilty hearts; I loaded it with care; I found out
beyond the shadow of a mistake, just where I could
find Vail and his guilty companion that night at mid-

night, and having completed all preparations, I lay |
down for a brief interval of slumber before I should |
redden my hands in their blood. I had decided to

gaged, and I was booked under an assumed name.
Did I feel any dread of the terrible deed I proposed
te do? Not the slightest. I regarded it as my vhored
duty to avenge the death of my wife, and not for a
moment did I think of what I was going to do as a
erlme.

“T fellasleep, and Evacame tome. I say I wasasleep,
for I suppose I must have been, but it did not seem so
to me at the time. Everything was so real, and I saw
the sunlight streaming through the little window,
and the distant hills, flashed with its radiance just as
I had seen it all so many times before, when I was
happy, and she was alive to bless me. She came to
me, and took my hand in hers, so icy cold. The cold
thrill freze me through and through. Her beautiful |
dark eyes, full of alight that this world had never |
given them, looked at me pityingly, sadly, and her |
voice, sweet, but coming from the depths of immen- |
sity, spoke to me: j

‘Theodore, thou shalt do no murder! Vengeance |
is mine, amd I will repay, saith the Lord!’ |

“The words rang in my ears like the peal of a silver |
bell, and the form whichI thought to clasp in my
arms melted away from me like mist, and in the cold
gray of the morning light streaming in at the open
window, I found myself sitting im the chair where I
suppose I must have fallen asleep. I tried to shake |
off the speli that mysterious visiom had cast over me;
I tried to convince myself that it was only a dream

 

my brain, but the more I thought of it the more I felt |
that it was mo dream—that my dead wife had indeed
come to me to stay my hand and ¢oempel me to forego
the vengeamce I had promised myself.

“T fought a great battle with myself, but I could
not disregard the voice which had spoken to me out
of the grave. I came to. the ene resolve which
promised me any peace or content. I would put the
ocean between me and the murderers of my wife. If
I remained im England, and Vail crossed my track, as
he was liable to do at any hour m the day, his life
would not be worth a penny; I felt and knew that
no power, either from this world or from the other,
could hold back my hand.

“IT made my preparations silently and swiftly.
Mrs. Morse would gladly have had me remain with
them, for they were old, and lonely, and broken in
health and spirits; but no amount of persuasion
could induee me. If I obeyed Eva’s command—and
how dared I disobey it?—my own safety lay in plac-
ing myself beyond the reach of temptation. The
night before I started for Cornwall to claim you,
Rosine, I went out through the forest, and found my
way to the dismal old well where your mother had
met her death. It was a murky night; the moon was
clouded, and no stars were vistble.

“T sat down ona stone by the side of the dark
chasm, and brooded over my misery. As I sat there
I heard the rustling of garments across the short,
dry grass, and a moment later the tall form of a
woman came to the brink of the well and bent over.
My instinct told me that it was Victorine Weldon,
and all the fierce, strong passion of revenge, which I
had tried so hard to suppress, rose up within me, and
held me under controi. My blood leaped through my
veins like liquid fire, my heart beat like a trip-ham-
mer against my breast; I sprang to my feet and
grasped the girl in a grip of steel, and hissed through
my teeth:

***Vile and heartless murderess, I have you at last!
And the happiest hour of my life is this in which I
send you to perdition, and to the loathsome depths
where you sent my loved and gentle Eva!’

“The girl was no coward, she fought me like a man,
and I never thought, as I bent her back and forced
her over that awful brink, that she wasa woman, and
that I wastaking an unmanly advantage of her. Inch
by inch, she contested the ground, fighting for her life,
and I bear on my wrist to day, the scar where her
strong white teeth tore the flesh from the bone in
that fearful struggle. She never screamed or
called for help, as a weaker woman would have
done, but she struggled to the last, and whenI did
succeed in flinging her down, she cursed me witha
curse which, sometimes, even now, wakens me at
night, and brings the whole scene back with vivid
distinctness !

“Tt heard the splash as her body struck the green
and stagnant waters below—just so had they splashed
when the life of my life was cast down into them to
die—if, indeed, she was not already dead when they
flung her down. I gloated over the thought that just
as my poor Eva had perished, so had one of her de-
stroyers perished, and I stood over the dark hole and
peered down, hoping to ,hear a dying ery, but every-
thing was still as death. I waited an hour, it seemed
to me, but I heard no sound, and I said to myself she
was dead. Andsome day they would drag her out of
there, with the mud and mire on her garments, and
the water dripping from her hair, just as it had
dripped from Evya’s.

“T started early the next day for Cornwall, and
three days afterward, with you beside me, I was out
on the broad Atlantic on a steamer bound for Amer-
ica. I never knew if Victorine Weldon had been
found—I never knew whether she was living or dead.

have engaged a house in St. Paul. Inafew days we
shall go there to live. I have several objects in
view in making this change. f{ want you to have
society advantages, and I want to unravel this mys-
tery; for there is a mystery, and I shall never rest
until I have fathomed it. And now, my dear, you
know the whole sad story of your mother, and [nope
that you will not allow it to cloud your young life. I
have kept it from you because I would not have your
life’s morning darkened by anything I could avert;
but you have forced the secret from me, and [ have
been relieved by the telling. Your sympathy is
sweet, and hereafter, when you see your poor old
tather in the sulks, you will: know what it is that
troubles him, and you will understand how to com-
fort him.”

Rosine flung her arms around his neck and kissed
him, a species of comfort which ought surely to have
been satisfactory to any man.

CHAPTER XLYVII.
WHO RENTED THE FANSHANE HOUSE.

In spite of all the efforts put forth, no light was
sast over the,darkness and mystery of Florence May’s
strange death.

The more Edward Ashleigh pondered over it, the
more certain he became that the lovely girl had not
eome to her sudden end without foul play. But then
the question arose: Who could have harmed her? Soe
far as he knew—so far as any of her most intimate
friends knew—she had not an enemy in the world;
and the more the thought of the tragedy was re-
volved over in his mind, the fuller ef doubts he be-
vame.

The physicians were at fault—at least, if they had
any suspisions, they kept them to themselves. The
plea of heart disease, which has covered so many

| sudden and mysterious deaths, carried little weight

with Edward, since Florence's health, he knew, had
been perfect. :

What, then, had caused her death?

Over and over again—in the still watches of the
night, in the broad flush of noonday—he asked the
question, and his brain grew dizzy and his heart
grew sick.

Whenever he attempted to speak on the subject to
Lucia, from whom he surely felt that he had a right
to expect sympathy, she manifested little interest,
and invariably changed the conversation as soon as
possible.

The brother and sister sat, one evening, over the
fire in the blue drawing-room, Lucia toying with the
uncut pages of anew magazine, and Edward brood-
ing, as usual, over the question which never seemed
to leave him.

“Lucia,” he eried, suddenly, ‘what caused Flor-
ence’s death?”

She started from her seat and gazed at him wildly
for a moment, and then sank back again with an air
of annoyance.

“Why do you ask me? I have no means of even
guessing.”
~ “But you have your opinion? Of course you have.
And now that I think of it, I do not remember that I
have ever heard you express any decided opinion.”

“T do not know. Perhaps I never have expressed
any opinion. But TI have always supposed she died,
as the physicians said, of heart disease.”

“But she had never shown any symptoms of that
malady.”

“Maybe not. But that is no reason why she might
not die of it. Do you not know that our leading
physiologists tell us that by far the greater number
of people who die of this disease are those who have
never exhibited any signs of ill-heaith—who, indeed,
have never themselves suspected that there was
aught wrong with them?’

“T think I have heard so. But Florence was so
young! AndT loved her so! We should have had so
many happy years together. And now I haye missed
it all.”

“My dear Edward! Did you, then, indeed, love her
so very much?’ asked Lucia, wistfully. “Did you
eare for her so much that no other love could ever
console you? Can there not, sometime, be for you
another Florence ?”’

She had drawn near to him; her white, soft hand
rested on his; her eyes, dark, passionate, and dreamy,
were fixed on his face.

A thrill went through him at her touch, her look,
and he said, quickly:

“Tt is too early to speak of anything like that. It
seems to me now asif there could never be another
in my heart. And I have vowed never to listen to
the voice, or be happy in the smile of any woman,
until I have brought her murderer to justice !”

‘Her murderer!” cried Lucia. “Good heavens!
Do you then think she was murdered ?”

“What can I think? Something whispers it in my
ears wherever I go. Waking or sleeping, the thought
intrudes, and sometimes it seems asif I should go
mad with brooding over it.”

He rose and paced the floor hurriedly back and
forth, and Lucia, who had at first sunk back into her
ehair, rose and drew him down beside her on the
divan.

“Edward, restrain yourself! You are giving too
much thought to this. Try and put it away from
your mind. Florence is dead, and nothing can recall
her to life. You have others who love you, and you
grieve them inexpressibly. Do you not see how hard
it is for me to see you thus indifferent to everythin
and to everybody? And once you were so cheerfu
and so vivacious !”

“T know thatIam but an indifferent companion
for you, Lucia, dear; I know that I am dull and dis-
traught, but you have plentyjof friends and admirers
to make up for my loss. And itis passing strange to
me that you do not give your heart away to some of
them. You are the most beautiful woman in the
city; beautiful, fascinating, and loving, you should
make some home happy Vg

“You seem very anxious to be rid of me! I

“My dearest Lucia, itis because I love you so well

”

 

No word reached me from the old country. I had so