VOL. 42—No. 38.

 

6S mh

THE NEW

 

RK WEEKLY. =<

 

 

 

“Where the duse did you learn that?” asked Den-
ton, astonished.

“T recognized his picture.
tell us?’
“No. Ihave been in his employ.
dogged you.”

“Prove that to us, and we will give you a hundred
dollars.”

“Make it a hundred and fifty.”

“Done !”

Denton placed in the hands of Nicholas Bundy his
letters of instructions from Mr. Kenyon.

“They will help our case,” said Nicholas. ‘I think
we shall be able to bring our common enemy to
terms.”

Is that all you have to

As his agent, I

CHAPTER XL.
THE THUNDERBOLT FALLS.

Mr. Kenyon returned from the South bafiled in his
inquiries about his wife. Henceforth his life was
one unceasing anxiety. He had pretended that his
wife was dead, and she might at any time return
alive to the village. This would place him in a very
disagreeable position. He might, indeed, say that
she was insane, and that he had been compelled to
place herin an asylum. But everybody would ask,
“Why did you not say this before? _Why report that
your wife was dead?” And he would be unprepared
with an answer. ;

Indeed, he feared that the discovery of his conduct
would make him legally liable to an unpleasant
extent.

We already know that he had employed Denton to
dog the steps of Oliver and Bundy. All at once Den-
ton ceased to communicate with him. For five days
not a word had come to him from Chicago. He natu-
rally felt disturbed.

“What has gotinto Denton? Why doesn’t he write
to me? Can he have betrayed me?”

This was what he said to himself one morning as
he sat at his desk in the house which had once been
his wife’s.

“Tf IT could only sell this place, even at a sacrifice,
Iwould goto Europe, taking Roland with me,” he
‘muttered. ‘Even as it is, perhaps it will be as well.”

Mr. Kenyon looked at the morning paper, search- |

‘ing for the advertisement of the Cunard Line.

“A steamer sails on Saturday,” he read, ‘and it is
now Tuesday. I will goto the city to-morrow and
engage passage. In Europe I shall besafe. Then if
my wife turns up I need not fear her.”

At this point a servant—one recently engaged—
came to the door of his room and informed him that
a gentleman wished to see him. :

“Do you know who it is?’ he inquired.

“No, sir. I never saw him before.”

“Bring him up, then; or, stay—is he in the parlor?”

**Yes, sir.”

“T Will see him there.”

Mr. Kenyon came down stairs, quite unprepared
for the visitor who awaited him.

He started back when his glance fell on Oliver.

“Why do you come here?’ he demanded, with a
frown.

“That is a strange question to ask, Mr. Kenyon.
This is the house where I was born. It was built by
my father. It ought to be mine.”

“Indeed!” answered Kenyon, with a sneer.

“You know it as well as I do, sir.”

“T know that the place is mine, and that you are
an intruder.”

“Upon what do you rest your claim, Mr. Kenyon ?”
asked our hero.

“Upon your mother’s will, as you know very well.”

““T don’t believe that my mother would make a will
’ depriving me of my rightful inheritance.”
“T care very little what you believe. The will has
been admitted to probate, and isin force. I don’t
think it will do you any good to dispute it.”
“Where did my mother die, Mr. Kenyon?’ de-
manded Oliver, looking fixedly at his step-father.
“Can he have met his mother?’ thought Kenyon,
momentarily disturbed.
the negative. Of course they might meet some day,
but then he would be in Europe, and eutof harm’s
reach.
“You know very well where she died.”
“Do you object to tell me?’
“T object to answering foolish questions.” What is
your motive in reviving this melancholy subject ?”
“T wantto ask youto have my mother’s remains
brought to this town and laid beside the body of my
father in our family tomb.”
“He is still in the dark!” thought Mr. Kenyon.
“Tmpossible !’”? he answered.
“That's true enough,” thought Oliver.
“Have you any other business?’ asked his step-
father. s 3
“JT wish you to give me a fair portion of the prop-
erty which my mother left.”
Mr. Kenyon smiled disagreeably. He felt his
power. é
“Really, your request is very modest,” he
swered, ‘‘but it can’t be complied with.”

“Mr. Kenyon, do you think it right to deprive
of all shdre in my father’s property?”

“You have forfeited it by your misconduct,” said
his step-father, decisively.

Just then the door opened, and Roland entered.

“Has he come back?” he demanded, disagreeably.

“He has favored us with a call, Roland,” said Mr.
Kenyon. ‘He thought we might be glad to see him.”

*“T wonder he has the face te show himself in this
house,” said Roland.

“Why ?’ asked Oliver.

an-

me

“Oh, you know why well enough. You are a com- |

mon thief.”

“Roland Kenyon, you will see the time when you |
will regret that insult, and that very soon,” said |

Oliver, with honest indignation.
“Oh, shallI? I’m not afraid of you,” retorted Ro-
rae i

oe no threats here,’ said Mr. Kenyon,
angrily. ; ;

“He is safe for the present,” said Oliver.

“Thank you for nothing,’ said Roland. ‘‘Father,
how long are you going to let him stay in the
house ?”

“That is not for your father to say, Roland.” said
Oliver, coolly.

“What do you mean, you young reprobate?” de-
manded the step-fataer, angrily. ‘‘If you have come
here to make a disturbance, you have come to the
wrong place, and selected the wrong man. Will you
oblige me by leaving the house ?”

Oliver sat near the window. He saw, though

neither of the others did, that acarriage stood at the
gate, and that Nicholas Bundy and a New Yorklaw-
yer were descending from it. The time had now
come for a change of tone.”

“Mr. Kenyon,” he said, “my answer is briefly
that this house is not yours. Ihave a better right
here than you.”

“This insolence is a little too much,” exclaimed his
step-father, pale with passion. ‘Leave this house
instantly, or [ will have you put out!”

Before there could be an answer the bell rang. Mr.
Kenyon put a restraint on himself.

“Go out at once,” hesaid. “I have other visitors
who require my attention.”

The door opened, and the lawyer and Mr. Bundy
were admitted. To Mr. Kenyon’s surprise both nod-
ded to Oliver. It was revealed to him that they were
his friends.

“Gentlemen,” he said, with less courtesy than he
would otherwise have shown, “I do not know you.
Tam occupied, and cannot spare you any time this
morning.”

“We cannot excuse you, Mr. Kenyon,” said Nich-
olas Bundy. ‘‘We come here as the friends of this
boy, your step-son. My companion is Mr, Brief, a
lawyer, and my name is Bundy—Nicholas Bundy.”

Mr. Kenyon winced at this name.

“T don’t understand you,” he said. ‘‘We have no
business together. I must request you to excuse
me.”

“Plain words are best,’ said the lawyer. “Mr.
Kenyon, I am authorized to demand your instant re-
linquishment of the property and estates of the late
Mr. Conrad.”

“In whose favor?” asked Mr. Kenyon, whose man-
ner betrayed agitation.

“In favor of Oliver Conrad and his mother.

“His mother is dead!” said Kenyon, nervously;
“and by her will the property is mine.”

“The will is a forgery !”’

“Take care what you say, sir.
prove it.”

“JT shall prove it by Mrs. Conrad herself.”

As he spoke, Mrs. Conrad, who had been in the car-
riage, entered the room. She never spoke to her hus-
band, but sat down quietly, while Roland stared at
her, open mouthed, as at one from the grave.

“Father,” he exclaimed, “didn’t you tell me she
“was dead ?”

“She never died, but was incarcerated by your
father in an insane asylum, while he forged a will be-
queathing him the property,” said the lawyer.
“Well, Mr. Kenyon, what have you to say ?”

“Gentlemen, the game is up!” said Kenyon, sul-
lenly. “I played for high stakes, and have lost.
That's all.”

“You have placed yourself in the power of the
wife you have wronged. You could be indicted for
forgery and conspiracy. Do you admit that?’

“T suppose [ must.”

“What have you to say why we should not so pro-
ceed ?”’

“Spare me, and I will go away and trouble you no
more.”

“First, you must render an account of the property
2 Seri Simamtec and make an absolute surrender
of it all.”

“Would you leave me a beggar?” asked Kenyon, in
a tone of anguish.

“If so, we should only treat you as you treated
your step-son. But my client is merciful. She is
willing to allow youand your son an annuity of five
hundred dollars each, on condition that you leave
this neighborhood, and do not return to it.”

‘ a is small, but I accept,” said Mr. Kenyon, sul-
lenly.
. “For your own good, I advise youto go to-day, be-
fore your treatment of your wife becomes known in
the village,” said Mr. Brief. ‘Call at my office in the
city, and business arrangements can be made there.”
- “Tam willing,” said Kenyon.
“Wait a minute, Kenyon,” said Nicholas Bundy,

”

But he inwardly decided in |

I require you to.

|
} “ve got a word of, advice.

Indiana.”’

“Why not?” asked Kenyon, mechanically.

“Because you look so much like a certain Rupert
Jones who once flourished and forged there that
there might be trouble. I used to know Rupert Jones
myself, and he did me an injury. You remember
that.
am satisfied now. Once you were up, and I was
down. Nowit’s the other way. I am rich, and when
I die that boy—pointing to Oliver—is my heir.”

Roland looked as if a thunderbolt had fallen. He
had never been aware of his father’s perfidy before.
He had himself acted meanly, but at that moment
Oliver pitied him.

“Roland,” said he, ‘I once thought I should enjoy
this moment, but I don’t. I wish you good luck.
Will you take my hand?”

Roland’s thin lips compressed.
hate prevailed.

“No,” he answered.
hate you!”

“T am sorry for it,” said Oliver. “I am glad you
won’t be unprovided for, and won’t suffer. If ever
you feel differently, come to me.”

Mr. Kenyon and Roland left the house together,
and took the first train forthe city. They called at
the office of Mr. Brief, and the final arrangements
were concluded. Oliver and his mother came back
to their own, and Nicholas Bundy came to live with
them. Oliver coneluded his preparation for college,
where in due time he graduated.

Three years later Mr. Kenyon died by a strange
coincidence in an insane asylum. Then Roland,
chastened by suffering and privation, for his father
had squandered their joint allowance on drink, and
many times he had fasted for twenty-four hours to-
gether, came back to his old home, and sought a
reconciliation with those he had once hated. He
was generously received, a mercantile position was
found for him, his old allowance was doubled, and
he grew to like Oliver as much as he had once de-
tested him.

If Mrs. Conrad is ever married again it will be to
Mr, Bundy, who is her devoted admirer. Oliver has
decided to become a lawyer. If he carries out his
purpose, he will always be ready to champion the

Don't go to Kelso, in

He hesitated, but

“T won't take your hand. I

| cause of the poor and the oppressed.
to Carrie Dudley, and the wedding will take place
immediately after he is admitted to the bar. The
clouds are dispersed, and henceforth, we may hope,
his pathway will be lighted by sunshine to

(THE END.)

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

RUBY’S REWARD.

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

Author of “The Forsaken Bride,” ‘‘Brownie’s
Triumph,” ‘‘That Dowdy,” etc.

(‘“RUBY’S REWARD” was commenced in No. 20. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XLII.
MADAM HOWLAND’S STORY.

“Tmpossible !’”’ burst from Walter’s lips, while he
regarded his companion_as if he thought she had sud-
denly lost her senses.

“T wish it had been impossible for me to have been
so hard-hearted toward my own flesh and blood,” re-
turned Madam Howland, in trembling tones, as the
tears streamed over her pale face. “It is too sadly
true, however, and it would be but simple justice if
you should turn with loathing from me, now that I
have revealed myself to you. But listen, my boy,
and let me tell you my story before you judge me.
In my younger days I was a Baltimore beauty and
heiress. My father was a wealthy Southerner, own-
ing two or three plantations and many slaves, and I
inherited from him the pride of birth and station.

‘‘When I was eighteen years of age, I married Eg-
bert Richardson. He also was wealthy, and occu-
pied a high position in society; and; brought up as
we had been, I do not know as it is strange that we

should both consider poverty and labor as things to
be despised and shunned. We had been taught to
| gauge a person by his position and possessions,
rather than to respect him for his intrinsic -worth.
We had one son, whom we named Walter, and you
can, perhaps, imagine something of my astonishment
and emotion when, on the morning of my accident,
you told me that your name was Walter Richardson.
Something in your face had attracted me from the
first, and when you told me your name I knew what
it was—you strongly resembled your father.”

Walter remembered now that she had seemed a

 

 

good deal agitated at the time, but he had attributed |
it to her sufferings rather than to any mental dis- |
| ready to yield even now.

turbance.

“Our son,” madam continued, ‘‘was very bright and
promising, and we gave him every advantage, and
built our fondest hopes upon him. But before he
reached his eighteenth year, his father died. Per-
haps, if he had lived, [ could never have found it in
my heart to turn against Ifim as I did later; but be-
fore he was twenty, I had accepted Major Howland,
a distinguished gentleman, a graduate from West
Point, and a native of my own State. He was an
aristocrat in the strongest sense of the word, and
could tolerate nothing of ‘plebeianism,’ as he termed
everything that savored of labor or trade. He soon
became very fond of my handsome son, showered in-
numerable favors upon him, and spared no expense
or pains to make his education thorough and com-
| plete. You will perceive that it was a great blow to
our expectations when, after leaving college, Walter
insisted upon perfecting himself in some profession,
and declared his intention of going North for that
purpose. We would have much preferred him to
settle down as a ‘gentleman’ and assist his step-
father in the care of his large estate, which would
have been his at my husband’s death, not to mention
my own valuable property. But he was resolute,
and we finally consented, reasoning that it could do
him no harm to see something of the world; so we
settled a handsome income upon him, and he left us
for New York city, where his tastes led him to take
up mechanical engineering.

“All went well until he wrote us that he had met a
beautiful girl whom he had learned to love, and
asked us to be prepared to receive her as a daughter
at no distant day. This news was like a thunderbolt
tous both. We had never thought of such a con-
tingeney as his marrying a Northern girl—we had set
our hopes upon the daughter of a United States
Senator. She was not a beautiful girl, but her po-
sition was irreproachable, and the union would have
been a most desirable one. Major Howland imme-
diately instituted inquiries about Walter’s intended
bride, and found, to our grief and dismay, that he
had already committed himself to a poor girl, who
was a clerk in a store. The major was furiously
angry at this discovery, and declared if Walter mar-
ried her, he should never cross his threshold again.”

Walter’s lips opened, as if he would have spoken,
while his eyes blazed and his whole face expressed
the utmost scorn at this statement.

He checked himself, however,
sumed:

“You think that was very hard and unfeeling,” she
said, deprecatingly, ‘butremember that it was ow-
ing more to education than an unfeeling heart. I
tried to temporize with my husband—tried to pre-
vail upon him to go to New York and see this young
girl—she might not be so unworthy as he imagined.
But he would not, and forbade me to take any meas-
ures toward effecting a reconciliation, and I was
forced to obey. Walter was warned of the conse-
quences which would follow his marriage with one
whom we believed would disgrace the family, and
commanded to return immediately to us. In reply,
he wrote a noble and manly letter, pleading his cause
most eloquently, and inclosing a picture of his beau-
tiful betrothed, which made me almost yearn to own
her as a daughter. But the fair, sweet face had no
influence upon my husband, except to make him
more obstinate, and he finally said so maich that my
own pride was touched and®my heart hardened.
Walter had also expressed some opinions regarding
politics in his letter, that made Major Howland ex-
ceedingly angry. He had decidedly refused to come
home while the country was so agitated, saying that
if the worst came, his conscience would not allow
him to take up arms against the Union, and it would
thus be better for him to remain where he was, This
was the last bitter drop. He was formally discarded,
his income was stopped, and his name no longer
to be mentioned in our house. War ensued, throw-
ing the country. into a state of turmoil, and I never
heard from my son again. Major Howland put his
affairs in order, settled the bulk of his fortune upon
me, and saw me safely and comfortably provided for,
and then gave himself, and what he had reserved of
his property, to the cause of the South. I need not
go into details, but he spent himself and his all in the
struggle that ensued, and at the end of the war, came
home only to die. After that Iremoved to Philadel-
phia, where I resided for several years, and then
came to this suburban city, which has been my home
ever since.”

“Ah!” said Walter, looking up with a relieved ex-
pression, ‘‘that is the reason probably, why you
never received the news of my father’s death. My
mother must have addressed you at Baltimore.”

Madam Howland smiled.

“Thank you, my boy, for inferring that I did not
receive that news. You donot believe me quite so
bad as I have appeared. ButI never did get the let-
ter. If I had I could not have ignored it. I must
have gone toyou. And once I did goto New York to
search formy son, for my heart yearned for him after

and madam re-

 

I have wanted to be revenged for years, but I |

 

my husband’s death. I began to feel that I had been
cold and cruel, and I longed to be reconciled to my
only child. I was willing even to receive his bride,
in spite of her poverty and toil, for I knew that their
presence would be a comfort to mein my oldage. I
was rich. I could surround them with every luxury,
and I resolved that I would atone for my former
harshness and pride. But I could obtain no trace of
either my son or his wife, and I feared, remembering
the views that he had expressed regarding the Union,
that he might have joined the Union army and per-
ished inthe war. But it seems from your account
that he and your mother had died from overwork
and exposure, and you had become the care of a
stranger. I have led a lonely life since then, though
I have tried to do some good with the wealth which
I would have so gladly lavished upou My children.
It has been no atonement, for there can be none for
a mother who coldly discards the offspring that God
has given her, though, for my son’s sake, i have done
what I could for others. But the moment you
uttered your name in my presence I knew that you
were my son’s son.

Walter lifted grave, questioning eyes to his com-
panion’s face as she made this statement. She flush-
ed slightly as she met his glance.

‘‘You wonder,” she said, reading his thought, “‘why
I did not at once claim you as my grandson. I will
frankly confess that something of my old pride of
race revived, as the knowledge was forced upon me,
and I dreaded to commit myself until I had tried your
eharacter. I wanted to be sure that you were*worthy
of my love and of the name you bear. This is why I
have urged you to come here so much; why I ‘have
asked you questions, which, no doubt, you have
thought were very presuming from an entire stranger.
But, my dear boy, I find you atrue and noble man;
one whom I can honor and feel proud to own as my
grandson, if you allow me that privilege. I’ came

very near revealing myself on the day of your arrest, |

and it was only by a mighty effort that I restrained
myself. It was a great blow to me, even though you
bore it so bravely and appeared so innocent. When
Mr. Conant came to Chester, he called here and re-
lieved my mind, asserting that he could trust you un
derany circumstances, and then I confided everything

| to him, under a promise of secrecy, and commission-
He is engaged |

ed him to spare no expense for you, but see that you
had the very best counsel retained for your trial.
“And now, my dear boy,” the old lady said, in con-

clusion, as she laid her hand upon Walter’s arm and |
leaned forward to look more closely into his face, |

“can you forgive all the injury and injustice toward
your parents of which [ have been guilty? I have
suffered for it in the lonely years that I have spent

in my desolate home, and tenfold since I discovered |

that you are my grandson, and realized how much I

have missed in not having had you to comfort and |

cheer me during these long years. Will you try to

forget it all, Walter, and be to me in my old age what |

I know your father would have been—a kind and
loving son, a staff and comfort.”

Her voice had grown husky and trembling; there
were tears in her eyes and a wistful, appealing ex-
pression upon her aged face.

At first, during her recital, there had been a strug-
gle in Walter’s mind—a conflict between resentment
for the treatment which his father and mother had
received at the hands of one who ought to have
shown them only tender consideration, and sym-
pathy and pity for this lonely old lady who was suing
so humbly for his forgiveness and affection. Pride,
too, stood like ‘a giant in the way. It seemed almost
disloyal in him to be willing to drop thus into the
lap of luxury, to have benefits heaped upon him by
the hand that had witheld even the necessaries of
life from those whom he had so dearly loved.

If she had been poor and suffering he would have
yielded to her entreaties at once, and gladly given
her what care and comfort he could. But he recoiled
from taking any step which would seem as if he had
been influenced by her wealth or position.

Madam Howland could not fail to read something
of all this in his expressive face. -

“Walter, do you shut your heart against me,” she
“T know I have done wrong, and now let |

pleaded.
me atone, as far as I can, for the wretched past, by
loving and caring for you; by smoothing your path
and helping you on in the world, and, when Il am
done with it, all that I have will be yours.”

Walter lifted his eyes—they were full of tears, for |
said, with flushed |

her tone had moved him—and
cheeks, yet in a tone that had a ring of pride in it:

“That is just what troubles me and makes me hesi-
tate. If you were poor it would be comparatively
easy, for then I should not appear to be seeking my
own preferment, or to be acting from selfish motives;
if you were poor I would gladly care for you, love
you and strive to make your future smooth and
peaceful,”

“Oh! my boy, Iam poor—so poor that my old heart
is starving for love andsympathy. Wealth will not
purchase such things, and my future will be dark in-
deed, now that I have found you, if you will not
come to me and be the staff of my old age. Don’t
let your pride keep you from me, Walter—I am afraid
you are tinctured with something of my own spirit,
but do not yield toit. Whatis my wealth to me ex-
cept as I can share it with you? I have no one else
to leave it to, and I shall feel sure that it will be
wisely dispensed by your hands. I long for you, I
have allowed myself to learn to love you very dearly
during the little while that I have known you, and
I cannot give you up. Myson, you will not break
your grandmother’s heart.”

He was deeply touched, and yet he was not quite

“T ecould not bear to be opposed in my chosen pro-
fession; Iam going to be an architect and builder,
and I cannot give up the opportunity to make a name
for myself,” he said, decidely.

“No one shall oppose you—that kind of pride died
out of my heart long ago, and I honor our self-made
men—you shall do whatever you like; I will not lay
even a straw in your ways,” returned Madamin How-
land, eagerly, her face lighting with something of
hope and joy as she saw that he was yielding.

“But—grandmother .

“Oh, my son, my son,” cried the old lady, tremu-
lously, and almost weeping at the sound of the name
she had so longed to hear; for to her it was the sign
of entire capitulation.

He smiled. for it had escaped him almost un-
awares. He had been repeating to himself, “She is
my father’s mother—she is my grandmother,” and
now he had said it, and it seemed to cement the bond
between them.

He laid her hand gently on her arm and spoke al-
most fondly.

“T was going to tell you something more; I do not
wish to conceal anything from you. I, too, like my
poor father, who gave you such grave offense, am
betrothed to a poor girl—a teacher in the public
schools.”

“Then marry her as soon as you like, if she is
worthy, and God bless you both!” madam returned,
heartily.

Then she leaned forward and pressed her trem-
bling lips to his forehead, asking, tenderly :

“Have I won my son?”

“Indeed, you have, grandmother—you have cap-
tured me most effectively,” Walter answered, trying
to speak lightly to hide his own emotion, while he re-
turned her caress with real affection.

“Thank Heaven!” she said, fervently. ‘I know I
can never make up the past to you, but I will do
what I can for your future.”

And from that day it was known that Walter
Richardson was the child of a son
Madam Howland had been separated by the war,
and that henceforth he was to be regarded as her
heir.

They did not deem it best to gointo details, and,
as this explanation of their new relations appeared
to be satisfactory to madam’s friends, it was not
needful to repeat the sad story of the past, while
the young man was at once received by them with a
cordiality that was very gratifying to his new-found
relative.

CHAPTER XLIII.
RUBY’S DISAPPEARANCE DISCOVERED.

Madam Howland insisted that Walter should ‘‘come
home” at once—there must be no more living in an
ordinary boarding-house—and, of course, the change
could not be otherwise than a pleasant one for him.

These words, ‘‘come home.” spoken in his grand-
mother’s tremulously tender tones, were almost the
sweetest that had greeted his ears since the going
out of his fair young mother’s life had left him home-
less and an orphan, while the fond woman spared no
pains to make life attractive and delightful to him.

She was recovering but slowly from her injuries,
and she informed Walter that he would have to be
hands for her until she was able to use her own.

It was both touching and amusing to see how she
loved to have him wait upon her, and the many little
devices which she employed to make him do so and
keep him near her, while he was always ready and
eager to bestow every care and attention upon her.

She manifested a great deal of interest in his work,
carefully looking over all his plans, and driving out
every pleasant day to see how his building wag pro-
gressing, while their evenings were passed in talking
over the past, in reading or playing chess or back-
gammon.

But as time passed, and Walter received no tidings
of or from Ruby, he began to feel both anxious and
disturbed. Twice every week he had written to her,
believing her to be at Redville, but no answer had
come to his letters. ’

At last he wrote to Mr. Conant inquiring if he
knew anything regarding Miss Gordon’s movements,
and that gentleman replied that both Mrs. and Miss
Gordon had gone to Harrisburg, called thither by
the sudden and fatal illness of the elder lady’s sister.

This news relieved his mind somewhat, although it
did not satisfy him. He thought it very strange that
Ruby had not written to tell him of the change in
her plans and give him her address. Still, she might
have done so, and her letter miscarried, and he kept
hoping that each day would bring him some message
from her.

But none came, and his anxiety increased, though
he tried to reassure himself with the reflection that
he would soon see her, for she would be obliged to be
present at his trial, which was now drawing very
near.

from whol |

The day at last arrived, and, as he entered the
court-room in company with Mr. Conant and his
counsel, he glanced anxiously around for his loved
one.

Mrs. Gordon was sitting by herself near a window,
and dressed in fresh mourning; but Ruby was not
visible.

Edmund Carpenter was seated at a table in earnest
conversation with the counsel for the prosecution.
He had lodked up, and nodded pleasantly to Mrs.
Gordon as she entered the room, and then resumed
what he was saying to the lawyer.

Presently the door opened again, and Mr. Ruggles
entered, and Walter’s face grew ghastly white as he
saw that he also was alone.

“Mr. Conant, will you kindly ask Mrs. Gordon
where Miss Gordon is?” he asked his friend, and un-
able to endure the suspense another moment.

don herself espied Mr. Ruggles, and started up to
greet him, asking eagerly why Ruby had not come
with him.

The man turned and looked at her in amazement.

“Well, marm, that strikes me as a rather queer
question,” he answered, giving her a searching look.
“How could she come with me when she has been
with you in Harrisburg all these weeks ?”

dazed look. ‘‘What do you mean?”

Mr. Ruggles’ face lost much of its natural ruddy
glow at this inquiry, for he
ment was genuine.

“TI—I hope, marm, that it’s all right, but ZI haven’t
seen Miss Ruby since about two hours after you left
Forestvale to go to your sister. Then she wanted to
go to Redville, and urged me to take her home with
me that afternoon, in spite of the rain; but she sent
me word later that she’d decided it was best to join
youin Harrisburg; so, of course, I had to go back
without her, which, I’m free to say, was a great dis-
appointment to both mother and me.”

 

led face toward Edmund Carpenter, instinctively
| feeling that he might be able to explain this mystery.

She had supposed Ruby safe at_ Redville during all
this time, although she had wondered at not hearing
|from her. She had written once, but the letter had
|; never been sent, having been overlooked in the
| worry and excitement of her sister’s illness, and she
| had found plenty in that home of sorrow to fill
| both heart and hands, to the exclusion of all else;
for the invalid had been a fearful sufferer, lingering
| upon the borders of the grave for weeks, and only
| ee released by death a few days before the
| trial.

been a particularly pleasant prospect, for remorse
had been busy in her heart, condemning her for the
part which she had taken against her.

Edmund Carpenter saw her turn toward him after

what was in her mind; but he appeared to be per-
fectly at ease, and wore an unconcerned air which
baffied her completely.

“And J have not seen Ruby since I bade her. good-
by in Mr. Carpenter’s house on the morning when
I was so suddenly summoned to my sister,’’ she
said, in a trembling tone, as she turned again to Mr.
Ruggles.

“Then Heaven help us all!—something dreadful
must have happened tod her,” returned Mr. Ruggles,
greatly agitated.

Just then Edmund Carpenter arose, and approach-
ing them, shook hands with his uncle and Mrs. Gor-
donina cordial manner; then asked, in a natural,
offhand way:

Was she not able to come with you ?”

| Mrs. Gordon’s heart sank, for she argued at once
| that he could know nothing regarding her young sis-
| ter’s strange disappearance.

His question had entirely deceived her; but Mr.
Ruggles regarded the young man keenly, while Mr.
Conant, who had stood silently by during the above
conversation, was very sure that the wily plotter
knew much more more than any one else of this mys-
terious matter.

He appeared greatly surprised, however, when the
facts were stated to him, and related in turn that
he had parted from Ruby soon after Mr. Ruggles
had left, as hé had urgent business in town; and
that he had been somewhat surprised to learn from
his coachman, upon bis return, that she had changed
po mind at the last moment and gone to Harris-

urg.

“Who took the message to Mrs. Ruggles?” asked
Mrs. Gordon. ¥

“Thomas.”

‘‘What was her reason for changing her mind ?”’

“That it. seemed too bad te desert you when you
were in trouble, and she thought she might be of
some help and comfort if she should go to you.”

This was like Ruby and sounded reasonable, and yet
Mrs. Gordon was not satisfied. She knew how deter-
mined Edmund had been to win Ruby, while, remem-
bering his strange manner and his eager questions
regarding the broken desk, it suddenly flashed upon
her that that might have had something to do with
this inexplicable affair.

“And you have not seen her since ?” she
garding him earnestly.

“No, I have not seen her since that day,” the man
answered, and truthfully, for Ruby’s precautions
against intruders had been successful, and the mo-
ment she heard his step outside her door she had
taken refuge in her chamber and locked herself in.

Walter had drawn near during the conversation; he
was so anxious he could not wait patiently, and his
face was absolutely colorless as he listened, while in
his heart he was confident that Edmund Carpenter
had been guilty of foul play in Ruby’s disappearance,

“T believe you know the truth,” he cried, turning
upon him with blazing eyes; ‘‘but if any evil has be-
fallen Miss Gordon you shall answer for it.”

“To whom,” sneered the young man, with a ma
licious smile, “I do not doubt you would be glad to
constitute yourself Miss Gordon’s champion in the
future, as you have tried to do in the past; but there
is a possibllity, you know, that you may not have
the opportunity.”

Walter quivered in every nerve at this cruel thrust,
but he felt that it would be unwise to retort, and
turning abruptly away, he said, in a low, despairing
tone, to Mr. Conant:

“What shall we do? This suspense is maddening,
and I fully believe that this rascal is at the bottom of
it all.”

Mr. Conant linked his arm within the young man’s,
and led him away to a seat. He knew it would not
do to have any confusion in the court-room, for a
-ase was being tried that had been put over from the
day before, and already the group that had gathered
around Mrs. Gordon had attracted attention.

“T am pretty sure of that myself,” said Mr. Conant,
“but it will not do to make a scene here. We will,
however, see what can be done as soon as this affair
is settled.”

Mr. Conant’s face was very grave as he concluded.
He did not appear very hopeful regarding his young
friend’s case. Ifit was a plot to ruin him, as both
Walter and his counsel seemed to think, he feared
that proof sufficient to convict him might be brought
against him; he did not believe that a man like EKd-
mund Carpenter would go to work blindly, and he
thought he must have felt pretty sure of his position
in order to have caused his arrest.

As the hours went by, and they still had to wait
for the other case, Mrs. Gordon’s anxiety increased,
and more than once she begged Mr. Ruggles to go
out and do something to find her, but he could not
be persuaded to leave the court-room, troubled as
his own heart was on account of the young girl, until
he knew how Walter’s trial was to be conducted.

But it was so late in the afternoon before his case
was called, that it was thought best to put it over
until the next day, and thus the anxious witnesses
were released until the following morning at ten.

Quaker Testimony,

Mrs. A. M. Dauphin, of 1939 Ridge Ave., Philadel-
phia, has done a great deal to make known to ladies

 

|
|

asked, re-

 

 

there the great value of Mrs. Pinkham’s Vegetable
Compound as a cure for their troubles and diseases.
She writes as follows: “A young lady of this city,
while bathing some years ago, was thrown violently
against the life-line, and the injuries received result-
ed in an ovarian tumor, which grew and enlarged
Her physician finally ad-
She did
so, and in a short time the tumor was dissolved, and

until death seemed certain.
vised her to try Mrs. Pinkham’s Compound.

she is now in perfect heaith. I also know of many
cases where the medicine has been of great value in
preventing miscarriage and alleviating the pains and
dangers of child-birth. Philadelphia ladies appre-
ciate the worth of this medicine and its great value.”

Sent by mail in Pill and Lozenge form on receipt
of price, $1. MRS. PINKHAM, Lynn, Mass.
liquid form, all at Druggists.

Also in

Mr. Ruggles had concluded, and he knew well enough |

‘Where is Miss Ruby ?—she ought to be here to-day.’

Then Mr. Ruggles, Mr. Conant, and Walter met to
discuss ways and means to tind Ruby, and, after a
brief consultation, separated, each to pursue the
course laid out for him.

Mrs. Gordon passed a most wretched night. She
was thoroughly frightened about her young sister,
and began to realize something-of the enormity of
her own conduct toward her, in having lent herself
toa plot to ruin her happiness and a young man’s
honor.

Ruby’s goodness, her unvarying sweetness and

i gentleness came up before her in contrast to her

own harshness, her selfishness and intrigue, and she

bitterly repented of the wrong she had done her.

She resolved that she would make anend of her
own duplicity at once, and confess the plot that had
been laid to ruin Walter.

She had seen Madam Howland that day, and

The gentleman arose to comply just as Mrs. Gor- : learned of the change in his prospects; she had seen

how the noble woman loved him and depended upon
him; how kind and devoted he was to her, and she
was determined that the young man’s fair fame

' Should not be sullied—the truth should be told, and

“Been with me!’ repeated Mrs. Gordon, with a

saw that her astonish- ,

Mrs. Gordon involuntarily turned her white, start- |

Mrs. Gordon had confidently expected to meet |
Ruby upon her return to Philadelphia, and it had |

he should be honorably acquitted; she would do that
much to atone for the past, whether Ruby was ever
restored to her or not.

During the weeks that had elapsed since Ruby’s
abduction Edmund Carpenter had been very busy.

He had been getting his affairs into a condition to
enable him to flee from the country at a moment's
warning.

He had put all his real estate into the hands of a
broker, and it had been sold at a price that exceeded
his expectations. He had given notice at the various
banks where he had money deposited that he should
wish to draw upon them atacertain date, and he
had also disposed of all shares and stocks which he
had owned. Thus his property had all, or nearly all,
been turned into money; he had even negotiated for
a passage abroad, and had resolved to sail the week
following Walter’s trial.

He had not a doubt but that he would ruin his
enemy; he meant to wait to witness his downfall;
then he would release Ruby, or cause her to be re-
leased, upon the day that he sailed, and she might
do her very worst with the will that she had found;
but Walter Richardson would never get one penny of
his father’s money; while he would spend some
years in traveling and pleasure, and finally settle
comfortably in some foreign land when he tired of
sight-seeing. f

It had all been very nicely planned, and, thus far,
very satisfactorily executed; and the young man
was in a most excellent mood with himself as he saw
his victim so apparently helpless before him, al-
though he had been somewhat disappointed at the
delay in the trial, and he was confident that the mor-
row would bring the shameful downfall he had so

| long anticpated.

 

He had not been out of the court-room an hour,
however, before he became aware that he was being
shadowed by a detective, and knew that Mr. Ruggles
and Mr. Conant had begun their work of trying to
ascertain Ruby's whereabouts.

But this only amused him ; it simply added romance
to the affair.

It was not necessary for him to go near the young
girl; she would be well cared for if he did not enter
the house where she was confined for a week or even
a month; and, knowing this, he took a sort of fiend-
ish delight in doubling and turning upon his pursuer,
and led that much-tried official a dance which he
never forgot, and all to no purpose.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
>

THE LARGEST FARM IN THE WORLD.

The largest producing farm in the world is situ-
ated in the extreme south-west corner of Louisiana,
runs one hundred miles north and south, and many

milés eastand west. Thetractof land embraced in the
farm is a million and a half acres in extent, and was
purchased from the State and from the government
in 1883. This immense tract of land was at once di-
vided into convenient pastures, ranches on stations
being established every six miles. The fencing alone
cost about $50,000.

The land was found best adapted for rice, sugar,
maize, and cotton. The cultivation for these crops
is done by steam-power. A tract of about half a
mile wide is taken, and on each side a portable en-
gine is placed, these driving a cable attached to four
plows. In this way thirty acres a day are said to be
plowed with the labor of three menonly. Harrow-
ing, planting, and other cultivation are done in the
same way; and the manager declares that there is
not.a single draught-horse on the entire place. There
are, of course, horses for the herders of cattle, of
which there are sixteen thousand head on the farm,

The Southern Pacific Railroad runs for thirty-six
miles through the farm; and three steamboats are
operating on the rivers of the estate, upon which
there are three hundred miles of navigable waters.
The farm contains also an ice-house, a bank, a ship-
yard, and a rice-mill.

Ea ii ia eee Seas

A LIVING POP-GUN.

In the Eastern seas, from Ceylon to Japan, there
abounds alittle fish, belonging to the genus Chetodon,
which secures its prey by means of an instrument
like the blow-pipe used by boys for projecting peas.
The nose of this fish is a sort of beak, through which
it has the power of propelling a drop of water with
force enough to bring down a fly. Its aim is very ac-
curate, and it rarely misses its object. The unsus-
pecting victim sits on a weed or tuft of grass near
the water; the fish approaches cautiously, stealthily
projects its tube, takes a sure aim, and lets fly, when
down drops the insect, to be swallowed by its captor.

 

 

Know All Men;

To .wit: Teachers, preachers, public
speakers, actors, singers, lawyers, ‘‘and
the rest of mankind,’ that Ayer’s
Cherry Pectoral is considered the best
preparation ever discovered to heal and
strengthen the vocal organs, weakened
or injured by over-strain.

Principal Samuel Bement, of the Bart-
lett School, Lowell, Mass., writes: ‘‘I
have used Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral, for
several years, in cases of severe colds
and throat affections, and have always
found it a speedy and effectual remedy
for these ailments.” 5

“TI should be unable to perform my
clerical duties, without the use of Ayer’s
Cherry Pectoral,” writes Rev. A. C.
Kirk, of Hillsville, Pa.

Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral,

Prepared by Dr. J.C. Ayer & Co., Lowell, Mass.
Sold by all Druggists. Price $1; six bottles, $5.

MAGIC FRECKLE CURE

‘Promptly eradicates Freckles, Tan, Sun-
burn, Moth Patches, and alldiscolorations
withoutinjury, &impartsto the skin puri-
berogs ty & velvety softness. Sent by mailtoany 4?TE®
part of the world for25c, The W. MILLARD Co,,Buffalo,N.Y.
Book rich new

~~ CARDS FRE sample and our

=

u

 

 

 

big terms to agents free.

Send 4c. formail. 1'2 lovely Basket Hid-

den Name 10c. 25 en xilt edge, 10c. Club 7_packs,

50c. ;

WANTED for DR. SCOTT'S beautiful

ELECTRIC CORSETS, BRUSHES,

BELT, etc. Sample free. No risk, quick

sales. Territory given, satisfaction guaranteed. Address
DR. SCOTT, 843 Broadway, N. Y.

AT FOLKS using ‘“‘Anti Corpulene

Pills” lose 15 Ibs. a month,

Cause no sickness, contain no poison, and Never Fail,
WILCOX SPECIFIC CO., Philadelphia, Pa.

$5 to 8S aday. Samples worth $1.50, FREE. Lines

SAFETY REIN HOLDER Co., Holly, Mich.

25 Q ing articles in the world. One sample, Free.
Address Jay Bronson, Detroit, Mich.

CANCER and Tumors cured. New method. No

Weber, 123 John St., Cincinnati, Ohio,

ADIES! Write for terms. $3 sample Corset free.

HOLLEY CARD CO., Meriden, Conn,
Particulars (sealed) 4 cents.
not under the horses’ feet. Write BREWSTER’S
A MONTH. Agents Wanted. 90 best sell-
knife. Book free. Drs. McLeish &
LEWIS SCHIELE & CO., 390 Broadway, N. Y.

 

 

 

Poxphine Habit Cured in 10
to 20 days. No pay till cured.
Dr. J. Stephens, Lebanon, Ohio.

 

 

 

~/>\C BY MAIL

instructive and profitable profession known.

LESSONS FREE

SEND SIx

LARY

& BEST IN THE

 

sMURRAY'S -LIGH TT NING...
Thorough knowledge in eight weeks, home study.
: i years and admitte
No complications—A child ten years old can easily masterit.
forty, to the number of thousands, sent enthusiastic endorse-
Some of our pupils make $3,000 yearly.
to one in exery, town, as
ENTS

and expenses to distribute circulars
and send us names of possible pupils.
and a rare chance for you. Write now. Largest, most popular school in the west.

M. N, W. COLLEGE, 149 LaSalle St., Chicago, Ill.

SYSTEM.
In use ten
best standard shorthand system extant.

BOYS AND GIRLS aged ten to

ments. Most

an inducement to show to others. FULL S$
POSTAGE PLOYMENT GUARAN-

£ ie

TEED SALA within four to eight weeks. 100 words a minute after four weeks’ st

study-
monthly to establish Branch
schools. A. marvelous system
Mention this paper.

OR $100

°