aoa «6 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3=

 

 

VOL. 42—No. 38,

 

 

 

DEAR LITTLE HANDS.

Dear little hands, I love them so!

And now they are lying under the snow—

Under the snow so cold and white,

I cannot see them or touch them to-night.

They are quiet and still at last, ah, me!

How busy and restless they used to be!

But now they can never reach up through the snow,
Dear little hands, I loved them so!

Dear little hands, I miss them so!

All through the day, wherever I go—

All through the night, how lonely it seems,

For no little hands wake me out of my dreams.

I miss them all through the weary hours,

I miss them as others miss sunshine and flowers;
Day-time, or night-time, wherever I go,

Dear little hands, I miss them so!

Dear little hands, they have gone from me now;
Never again will they rest on my brow,

Never again smooth my sorrowful face,

Never clasp me in a childish embrace.

And now my forehead grows wrinkled with care,
Thinking of little hands once resting there;

But I know, in a happier, heavenlier clime,

Dear little hands, I will clasp you sometime.

Dear little hands, when the Master shall call,
Tl welcome the summons that comes to us all.
When my feet touch the waters so dark and so cold,
And I eatch my first glimpse of the City of Gold,
If I keep my eyes fixed on the heavenly gate,
Over the tide where the white-robed ones wait,
Shall I know you, I wonder, among the bright bands?
Will you beckon me over, oh, dear little hands?

Sit SN RS ae cl eee et

[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

ANOTHER MANS WIFE.

By BERTHA M. CLAY,
Author of ‘“‘A Fair Mystery,” ‘‘For Another’s Sin,”
“A Heart’s Bitterness,” etc., etc.

(“ANOTHER MAN’S WIFE” was commeneéed in No. 22.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XLIX.
“THIS STONE SHALL BEAT OUT HIS BRAINS!”

HY, bless my life! who ever
thought of seeing you here!”
Thus Fanny, rosy as a June
morning and sparkling as the
sea, running down the terrace
and through the arches chisel-
ed by the water in the green
sand rocks, until they looked
like relics of some ancient
and forgotten Gothic church.
Slipping into one of these
arches, Fanny faced that very
godly looking sailor, Ralph Marshall. ‘You here!”
eries Fanny, with sweet simplieity. ‘I made sure
you were off for England.”

Yet Fanny had put on that very pink chintz gown,
and the small apron with the ravishing little pockets,
all because she hada moral certainty of seeing the
big, blonde-whiskered son of Neptune on the beach.

“Thadno mind to go away till I saw more of you,
my lass,” said Raiph. Lope

us ship Won’t wait on my account.”
, for I’ve left her, having promise of
trim-built brig running to Bermuda.”
what a ways! And you'll be captain?’

‘you like me more on that account,

Weill, that means some, to begin with. I
i s I like you any,” said Fanny.

s hard news, my lass, for I’ve thought of you

!—walking the deck keeping watch.”

think of it, [heard you were dead. Your
ning on the bark Elizabeth was certified to.”
Vell, [ had neither kith nor kin to ery over me. I

had to settle some matters for my wife; and, as I
made mention formerly, she died, and I was lefta
lone man. I hope you felt a bit bad, hearin’ of my
death, missis ?”

“Not I,” said Fanny, with a laugh, “especially as I
heard it yesterday evening, having seen you here
safe and sound. Sir Francis Westholm-Sothron told
my lady he had been to get the death certified.”

‘ “Sir Francis!” said Ralph, fiercely. ‘‘A curse on

im!
chance of knocking him about the head with a belay-
ing pin.”

“Tf you got your chance, I think you’d be in the
way of hanging for your pains,” said Fanny.

“Tf ’'d come across him on the beach yesterday in-
stead of you, my lass, there’d have been a lively
scrimmage, I promise you. I owe Sir Francis a cruel
settling; and, peer or pauper, he’ll get it, mind.”

. “T shouldn’t mind, ’'m sure,” said Fanny, with a
Oss.

“And you are with the same mistress as before—
Lady Medford ?”’

“Yes, indeed ; I never lived with any other.”

“That speaks well of your faithfulness, my lass.
Would you be as faithful in love?”

“T don’t know,” says Fanny, poking her toe in the
sand. ‘Ask them I jilted.”

“T shouldn’t wish to be one of them, my lass. If
you don’t mean me well, don’t smile on me, for I am
@man as has had trouble enough. I saw your lady
last evening, walking about the piazza. She is avery
beautiful young lady, and sad-looking, and dressed
in black. No doubt she has lost a child?”

“She never had one. She is in mourning for her
husband. The marquis died nine months back.”

“The marquis dead! Well, I know what she feels;
I pity her. But, then, I was a true heart, and she
may not have been so fond: of her husband. It
struek me curious, you know—the two letters carried
secret to another man’s wife, and from a married
man !’

“Don’t go to flinging suspicions,’ said Fanny, in a
flame at once. ‘‘Never were two such true lovers as
she and Sir Jerome Sothron were. I know what they
felt for each other, and what a beautiful pair they
were; and when her folks torethem apart it was that
eruel and destroying as if one tore a flower in two
halves, and required either of them halves to live. I
went through it all with her. They married her to
the marquis, and Sir Jerome flung himself away on
ooo out of pure madness that he would not live
with.

“IT know. It was hard voyaging that, my lass. It is
few love stories that run fair on trade winds.”

“And whenever they met again it was as two
friends—dear, loving friends, aud no more; or two
children, or two lovers, such as in books, that die of
love, and are turned into angels. And who would be
so evil-minded as to fling suspicion, because he sent
her word of his affairs in such a strait as most never
agentleman of England got into, and he with no
family, and she his truest friend.”

“Far be it from me to fling suspicion,” said Ralph.
“T knew Sir Jerome for a good, true man, though rash
in his voyaging, and given to running over close to
the wind. And the lady, as I mentioned to you,
looked like an angel. Being forced, as you say, to
marry the marquis, no doubt she has not broken her
heart grieving for him.”

“She has grieved, asis right and proper, and as a
lady ought,” said Fanny, throwing up her head. ‘She
was a good wife to the marquis; better than he de-
served, in my mind, for I didn’t like him, I promise
you, and he threatening to have nie turned away.”

“The old pirate!’ cried Ralph Marshall.

“Not so bad as that,’ said Fanny. “He had his
kind of goodness, and she had her feelings for him,
and she mourns him as becoming; but I'll be glad of
the day when [I get that mourning off her, and she
goes back in society. It was a fair pleasure to dress
her for a ball; and as for her dresses, Captain Mar-
shall, they’d make you open your eyes; whole closets
full of the most beautiful dresses that ever was put
together.”

*T shouldn’t desire a prettier gown, nor one better
becoming, than the one you have on this minute,”
said Ralph, gallantly. —

Fanny thrust a neat little hand into each of her
apron pockets, and contemplated, with pleasure, the
oak her black slippers, under the hem of her pink

rock.

“Pll be bound,” said Ralph, “that your mistress
took on about the bark Elizabeth and them that went
down in her.”

“You may believe it. She nearly died. Ah, there
was when she was truly madea widow! forSir Jerome
was the choice of her heart. Ah, that was the true
love what she had for poor dear Sir Jerome! I
shouldn’t speak of her, or it, to you like this, only
you were brought into it by means of those letters.”

Then, too, though Fanny did not mention it, it was
a safe, delightful way to talk of love to this blue-
eyed Viking; to talk of the love of other people.

“To be sure I was brought in it,” said Ralph. ‘and
a deal more than you know. There was a side to
that story that you would never suspect, and I will
tell it to you some day, my lass.”

“Tell me now,” said Fanny, eagerly.

‘before God, guilty of blood!”

 

| return to a time gone by.
| sometimes a gush of remembered perfume, or the
' | return of astrain of music heard long ago, seems a
Helonged on the Elizabeth, but did not sail on her. |

I would give a year out of my life to have the |

 

 

 

“No, no, my lass; we will wait till we see more of
each other, for that part of the story brings me and
Sir Jerome and his cousin, Sir Francis, together in a
fearsome way you never suspect.”

“Oh, do tell me!” cried Fanny, clasping her hands
and looking into his face beseechingly.

But Ralph was keen enough to keep his secret as a
bait to further interviews with the charming Fanny.
He shook his head, saying, like an oracle:

“Wait!”

Fanny pouted.

“Tf Sir Francis was here yesterday he is here now,”
said Ralph. “If he is here he will be at a wine shop
or easino. Iknow his ways. And I’ll go find him
and pick a quarrel, and let him feel what weight is in
a British tar’s arm.”

“Oh, don’t! don’t!” cried Fanny.

“Ay, but I must,’ said Ralph. ‘It’s a debt I owe.”

“Don’t,” said Fanny, catching him by the arm.
“You might kill him, you are so fearful strong.”

“And what matter to you if he is killed ?”’

‘Oh, no matter of him; he’s not the man [ like to
see in Sir Jerome’s shoes, or sporting his fortune.”

“What, lass? Do you mean he inherited?”

“Yes, sure. Wasn’t he nextof kin.”

“And I am letting him, the villain, roll in all those
riches, and wear honor and allthat? When I could,
and yet I can’t, fling him out of all he’s got. Let me
alone, lass, if he enjoys the Sothron fortune, he has
to enjoy it with a broken back, or less his eyes.”

“Don’t!” entreated Fanny, “please don’t. You
bp’ get into prison, you might get hung! oh, Ralph,
don’t!” ‘

“T’d do anything in life to please you, my lass,”
said Ralph, loosing her clasp, and stooping to pick
up a good smooth pebble the size of a pomegranate,
“but this bit of rock has to hammer out Sir Francis
Sothron’s brains, if I swing as high as heaven for it.”

He strode of in such a heat and fury that Fanny
began to ery with terror, and running back toward
the house met Lelia on the walk.

“Why, Fanny, what is the matter?”

“Oh, Sir Francis Sothron is at the Hotel Gardere,
and a great man like a giant is looking him up to
kill him!”

CHAPTER L.
“I FELT AS IF WE BREATHED ONCE MORE THE SAME
AIR.”

Lelia caught Fanny’s hand.

“Going to kill Sir Francis!”

“Yes, indeed. Oh! oh!”

“Well, he deserves it,” said Lelia, her gentle face
becoming hard and dark, in the uprising of bitter
memories. “But then,’ she added, as if to herself,
“when he is dead he can neither repent nor atone,
and if one does not try to prevent a murder, one is,

“Oh, Miss Lelia! The man that is going to kill him
isa giant, and so mad as never you saw, and he has
with him what will beat out Sir Francis’ brains.”

Lelia, the simple and sweet companion of Anna
Marvel and Lady Beryl, was nowin the light of a
young lady pupil at the Biarritz French Finishing
School. Asa parlor boarder she had her privileges
to go ahead without a teacher, being one. But she
could not go out alone, and a boy in the school livery
was attendant on her steps. Lelia took a card from
her case, wrote a few words on it, and giving it to
the boy, told him to fly to the’ Hotel Gardere, deliver
it to its address, and return for her to the villa.
Quickened by the reception of a franc, the boy ran
0

ff.

“Do not tell your lady of this, Fanny; she has.,had
worries and troubles enough. We want her to get
quite well and glad again. I see sheis looking much
stronger and happier, and yesterday she had white
flowers at her throat and belt.”

“And yesterday Sir Francis Sothron came from
England to see her, and stirred her up to crying.”

“What!” eried Lelia. “Sir Francis! Would he
dare, do you think he would dare to make love to
her, to try to marry her, Fanny?’ and a fierce look
flamed in Lelia’s brown eyes.

“T know she wouldn’t listen to him,” said Fanny.

They had reached the front steps of the villa.

“She is round in the arbor,” said Fanny.

Lelia went round the gravel walk, and saw Beryl
sitting in an arbor draped with passion flowers and
the airy foliage and fiery bloom of the cypress vine.
She was embroidering a rich piece of gold thread,
and as she held her frame alittle from her to note
the effect of her work, she leaned back her golden
head against the arbor’s masses of bloom, and in a
sweet voice sang a little fragment:

“The birds, the birds of mine own land,
I heard in Brittainy ;
And as they sung they seemed to me
‘Yhe very birds I heard with thee.
Thou at my side again might be!”
i or iady Beryl, you are happy to day!” cried
elia.

Beryl started and looked about at the garden, at
Lelia, with a sort of wonder. She made room for
Lelia at her side.

“Yes, I was happy; I had been able to forget—to
Do you know, Lelia, that

sort of chariot, in which the heart is carried away.
through space and time to some hour of dear de-
light? It was so with me. I heard the song of a
bird. that sometimes wanders over into Sussex, and
at the same time I breathed a mingled odor of
heather and tall white lilies; and at once the two
carried me back to the one sweet crowning hour
of my life, when first I knew I was loved and that
Iloved again! Oh, Lelia, I had forgotten all that
here. I was back in Sussex at my uncle’s seat, and I
heard whispers and saw adoring looks that have
held my life fast ever since.”

Beryl spoke with a certain passionate exaltation
that Lelia had never seeninher. She seemed car-
ried away by ardent memories. She was living ina
world evoked by song and perfume, and her sweet
face flushed, and her violet eyes glowed with that
intense love that for her could never die.

Lelia recognized the emotion; she saw that this |
was love; but whether an old love or a new she |
could not tell. She trembled with a great fear. She
softly took Beryl’s hand and kissed it.

“You are so young,” she whispered, ‘‘and so love-
ly, that love will come to youagain. Wooers will
come to your feet; once more you will be a bride.”

“No, Lelia,” said Beryl, gently, falling back into
sad quiet. ‘‘My dream is out, my love romance
burned to ashes, months ago.”

“Do not say so,” said Lelia. ‘But tell me one
thing—if any one loves you and asks your hand, will
you let me know? If Iam only your companion, you
ean say, ‘This man is my suitor.’”

“You are my friend,” said Beryl, patting her cheek ;
“T would tell you all; but I shall never have such a
story to tell you. The man I loved, as I think no one
ever loved before, because my love grew and grew
after I was cruelly parted from him, is dead; he died
a sudden, cruel death. No words can tell how I
loved him. When he lived I could not say to him
how dear I held him. But now, now that I am alone
in the world, I hold his memory to my heart, and I
say to it over and over again, ‘I love you, I love you,
I love you!”

“Oh, Lady Beryl, could you so love and love?’

“Tso loved and I lost, in the cruelest way love ever
was lost, I think. To-day, when I heard that song
and breathed that mingled sweet and spicy fra-
grance, do you know I felt asif he were no longer
dead, but living, living, and near! I felt as if the
same golden sunshine shut us in as a globe of quiver-
ing light, as if the same music filled both our ears; as
if we both breathed the sweetness of those lilies; as
if I had only to hold out my arms into the emptiness
that has been so long about me, and they would
clasp him, my beloved and my own!”

Lelia had knelt before her friend, and clasping
both arms around her waist, and laying her tear-wet
face against her lap, sobbed:

“Oh, this is a far crueller fate than mine! I knew
no love like this. I thinkI could never know it. But
I believe you are to me the dearest love of my life.
Oh, my friend, my angel, why is it that a soul cannot
be removed back from the grave by the going down
of some living one to death? Oh, then [ would go to
that world that lies beyond this, for in this world T
hold so little by anything, and there I would stay,
and send your lover back in my place to crown your
life with joy! I would do all that for you, I love you
so. I would, and yet—I can do nothing.”

“You can, dear Lelia,” said Beryl, with a quivering
ip. “Your sympathy comforts me.”

he garden gate clanged, and Lelia, rising, resumed
her place beside Beryl.

The little page appeared.

“I forgot, mademoiselle, to give you the satchel I
earried for you. I wait for you before the gate on the
bench. The gentleman has already gone from
Biarritz.”

Lelia took the little embroidered velvet bag and the
Russia music-roll from the page.

“T brought my new piece to play for you that you
may see if I improve. And here is some new em-
broidery. I think itis done well. I used to have no
taste in such work. I was so careless, But now—is
there a little art in this ?”

“Tt is very beautiful,” said Beryl.

‘And here,” said Lelia, emptying the velvet bag on
the bench, “is such a charming new pattern, and a
new kind of working silk.”

But with the things on the bench fell out a tarnish-
ed velvet case.

“Lawrence's picture?” questioned Beryl, pointing
to it, with a smile.

Lelia tuned very pale.

“Why, how did that get in my bag!
Beryl, it is my late husband’s picture.
ceive how it came there.”

a mS 6 ja May I see it?” said Beryl, holding out her
and.

' Yes.” And Lelia laid the fateful case in her palm.

But Beryl had all the most exquisite sensibilities of

alady. She felt the reluctance which Lelia felt in

uttering that lingering ‘‘yes.”

“No,” she said. “I would rather not seeit. I should
not like him. Putitin the bag, so. Now, Lelia, de-
stroy it when you gohome. You will feel better. We
remember our woes enough at best, Come in and
play your new music for me.”

- “T wish you would play and sing, Lady Beryl,” said

No, Lady
I cannot con-

 

lay dead before mv eyes, not Sir Jerome’s wife at all,

'
Lelia. “Why not begin your natural ways. The black-

ness and silence have lasted long enough.”
Beryl’s hands strayed over the keys. She sang:
“Tam to blame! Why should I sing?

My lays ’twere better to forget ;

Each day to others joy may bring,
They can but give to me regret.

Love makes my heart so full of woe

That naught can please or soothe me now.

Iam to blame! I am to blame!”

CHAPTER LI.
“TIT WAS MY OWN WIFE, DELIA MARSHALL!”

“Fanny,” said Lady Beryl, ‘when I was walking
along the rocks this morning, I thought I saw you
talking with a tall man; and yesterday, it was the
same. I hope you will not allow yourself to become
entangled with any foreigner. Ihave had so much
trouble, that I feel old and wise enough to advise
you, Fanny.”

“And very ready I am, my lady, for any advice you
may give me. But this is no foreign scamp—it is an
Englishman—a sailor. It is Ralph Marshall, my

“Oh,” said Beryl, with a shadow sweeping over her
mobile face. “I hope he is a good man and means
you well, Fanny. It would be very hard for me to
lose you, but I cannot expect to. keep a pretty and
pleasing girl, such as you are, forever. Love is
your right.”

“My lady, there’s no man that lives can get me
away from you, so long as you keepme. I know
when I’m well off.” ;

“Then, Fanny, do not be cruel and trifle with the
man. Oh, Fanny, remember how I suffered from
having wounded and driven away one who loved me.
It is a fearful thing to drive a man to despair.”

“Oh, this man will not be hurt so easy, my lady,”
said the naughty Fanny, quilling a piece of lace into
a jabot with great skill. “He has had his experi-
ences. He has been married once.”

_ Then, as he has suffered, you should be doubly
careful not to cause him more grief. If you do not
mean any kindness to him, do not encourage him.”

“But the man is tantalizing me with a secret, my
lady. He has asecret that ’m bound to know. He
has promised to tell me, and he keeps putting me off
till next day, untill am wild. And thenit is pleas-
ant to have a nice tall man to buy one fruit, and he
has been giving me some mighty pretty shells and a |
string of bangles.”

“Fanny, I warn you, do not take his presents, un-
less you mean to return his love.”

“Oh, [like him. Might I put a bit of cream or lay-
ender ribbon in this jabot for you, my lady? Do be
pleased to lighten up your mourning. I could have
danced for joy, last week, when I saw the cap off
your beautiful head—it is just as bright and curly as
when I first brushed it for you—me in my first long
frock, and you standing hugging the doll-baby you
would not lay down.”

Fanny was fond of these reminiscences.

“Yes, I like the man very much, my lady. If, after
he has told me his secret, I like him more yet, would
you mind my being engaged to him a year or two?”

“T should, if you jilted him in the end,” said Beryl,
looking up from the book on her lap.

“Possibly, if he sailed seas all the time, I might
content him by marrying him, so he would have
some one to spend his wages on, and bring things to,
and I could be your maid all the same, my lady.”

‘Fanny, [ shall never hinder you of any real honest
love. I know too well what it is to part two fond
hearts.”

“You will not be displeased if I walk.on the sands
a bit with him, my lady ?”’

“No,” said Beryl, kindly.

“Well, I’m bound he shall tell me his secret,’’ said
Fanny, to herself, as she finished the jabot and laid
out her lady’s dress for dinner.

All the time she was dressing her lady, who had
invited four or five English friends to dine with her,
Fanny was considering by what acts she could be-
guile from Ralph Marshall this secret which con-
cerned Sir Jerome Sothron and her lady. Fanny was
a girl exceedingly given to curiosity.

When Lady Beryl had gone to her pretty little
drawing-room to receive her guests, Fanny, with a
final peep in the glass, which assured her that she
was quite fascinating enough to wile secrets from
Ralph, as a bird-charmer is to begrile birds from a
bush, ran down to the beach. Sue found Marshall
sitting under the fantastic arches, and flicking little
pebbles into the water.

Ralph had provided himself with a knot of cherry
ribbon, a box of bonbons, and a little silver pencil.
All these he laid at Fanny’s shrine.

“T don’t think I’d better take them,” said Fanny,
with apparent indifference. ‘“‘When a man don’t give
me what I want, he has small call to bring me what
I don’t want.”

“T wish I thought it was Ralph Marshall himself
you wanted, my lass, and you should have himina
minute. What would you think of me as a husband,
Fanny ?”’

nf ot much good; you’d not be enough confiden-
tial.’

‘Why, yes I would,” said Ralph.

“To my mind, a man that don’t tell his wife his se-
erets isn’t worth having.”

“Oh, if you come to that, my lass

“Tf you loved me you’d tell me all your recrets, and
you know there’s one about Sir Francis and Sir
Jerome, that you’re keeping back.”

Ralph looked at the waves, in a brown study.

“And,” said Fanny, “I only came here to-day to tell
you not to expect me again. It may make trouble for
me meeting you here, when it is all to come to noth-
ing, because you don’t truly love me, nor talk confi-
dential to me.”

“Come now, my lass, if you make it a point, I’ll tell
you all I know; for I’m not going to throw away hap-
piness, keeping other folks’ secrets.”

Whereupon, Fanny sat down, leaned a little against
Ralph, and favored him with a smile and her strict
attention.

“The first thing I have to tell you, my lass, is that
Sir Jerome’s wife, Celia Morris, had a sister Delia;
and they two, being twins, was so like, almost no one
eould tell ’em apart. It took real love to know one
from the other. Sir Francis Westholn Sothron, vis-
iting at the abbey, took a notion to Delia—Celia be-
ing then living with an aunt in Lambeth; and finally,
under promise of marriage, he got her to go off with
him; and, as usually falls out in such cases, then he
would not marry.”

“Oh, the brute!” said Fanny. “I wish I had not
said a word against your breaking his head !”

“T shall do it yet,” said Ralph, firmly; it’s my mis-
sion !’

“And Delia?’ said Fanny.

“Well, she went into despair finally—so far she left
Sir Francis, for she was a girl ashamed of doing
wrong, and desiring to do right, and in her sorrow
she was about to throw herself off London Bridge.
Now that was just after Sir Jerome had married her
sister, and it happened he was crossing the bridge,
and seeing what the young woman was at, he caught
her in time. Then, turning her to the light, he thought
it was his own wife, and, shocked, he says, ‘Celia! is
it you?” When he found it was Delia, he felt very
pitiful to her, and he took her to a decent woman that
kept a lodging, and he got fifty pounds for her some-
where, for then he was poor. In a day or two after,
he wasrich. He told Delia to go see her sister, and
he gave her money to live quiet.

“At that time I saw Delia, and I went wild in love
of her at sight, and I wanted to marry her. And Sir
Jerome, he told her, ‘Marry an honest man if he
loves you so as to overlook all.’ And her sister, she
begged and begged her to marry me, and finally she
did. But I tell you truth, my lass, the love was all
on my side; and though she behaved as well as a
woman could, she did not care a penny for me, and
she had cared, and did care, for Sir Francis. And ’ll
pay him out for it.

“Now that is as affairs stood when I come home
from a voyage, and, looking for my wife, met, in the
middle of the night, Sir Jerome flying from the
police under suspicion of having murdered his wife.
I, knowing him so well, knew that he never had done
that same, and so I helped him off in the bark Eliza-
beth going on to Rotterdam with half her lading.
Knowing Delia would be heart-broke for her sister, I
remained ashore to look to her. Well, I thought
Delia would be glad if I had seen Celia’s body, and
knew how and where she would be buried; and so I
went up to the house I knew so well, and up to the
room where the body lay. .

‘Ah, my lass, that was a hard sight! A low lounge
inthe middle of the room, and a linen sheet on it,
hanging to the floor, over something all slender,
straight, and still! And they lifted away the sheet,
and, my lass, there she lay, as pretty a piece of
marble as ever was cut out; scarce eighteen year old,
murdered by a cruel hand. But, my lass, the secret
is—it was not Mrs. Jerome Sothron at all! No, it was
not Celia. Where Celia is I don’t know. But,in a
blue-flowered gown that Celia had given her, there

”

but my own wife, Delia Marshall !”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
or

SELF-CONTROL,

It is a very meager conception of self-control that
would limit it to the simple restraint of outward ex-
pression. Yet this is frequently the only idea which

the word calls up. The passionate man who puts
back the angry word that rises to his lips, the inquisi-
tive man who refrains from asking impertinent ques-
tions, the loquacious man who imposes a painful si-
lence on himself, the vain man who conceals his self-
admiration, the excited man who hides his perturbed
emotions under a calm exterior, are cited as illustra-
tions of self-control, and no deeper or wider mean-
ing is attached toit. Yet, in truth, these and similar
efforts of repression, while belonging to self-control,
partaking of its nature and hinting of its presence,
no more comprehend it than the faint perfume of a
blossom comprehends the entire plant which bore it;
for they have to do only with the phenomena which
self presents to the world, whereas self-control has
to deal with the real self, its manifold faculties, com-
plex characteristics, delicate variations.

 

LOVE’S EXCHA)
BY J. B.S;

You praise my beauty, grace, and art,
Oh, love ;.but you are much to blame;
In every line you leave a smart
That makes me bow my head in shame,

Whate’er the world may choose to say,
I look not for such words from you;

I’d throw them from my heart away,
If you could even prove them true.

World’s praise is but a passing mood,
That shitts about with the occasion ;
It serves as oft for envy’s food
As that of honest admiration.

In your regard, I set n0 store

On what, by way of form or feature,
I hold in common, less or more,

With every other human creature.

If Love be blind, as it is said,
What can he know of outward graces?
I care not for the love that’s led
A facile slave of pretty faces.
I would not have my love depend
On beauty, were I ten times fairer.
If beauty knew no change or end,
Life asks for something deeper, rarer—
Something that sets the world aside,
Beyond the touch of time or season.
If only love for love abide,
I do not want another reason.
—_————— oa
(THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. |

OLIVER THE OUTCAST.

By HORATIO ALGER, /r.,

Author of “The Western Boy,” ‘Mr. Craven’s
Step-Son,” ‘“‘Frank and Fearless,”’
“The Train Boy,” etc., etc.

(“OLIVER THE OUTCAST’ was commenced in No. 29.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XXXVITI.
THE MEETING AT LINCOLN PARK.

For weeks Oliver and his mother had lived in the
same city, yet never met. Each believed the other
to be dead; each had mourned for the other. No
subtle instinct led either to doubt the truth of the
sad report which, for base ends, Mr. Kenyon had
caused to be circulated.

But for her unhappy domestic troubles, Mrs. Con-

rad (for she had assumed the name of her first hus- |

band) was happily situated. Mrs. Graham was bound
to her by the devoted care which she had taken of
the little Florette. Indeed, the bereaved woman
had come to love the little girl almost as if she
were her own, and had voluntarily assumed the con-
stant care of her, though regarded as a guest in the
house.

Mr. Graham was very wealthy, and his house,
situated on the Boulevard, was as attractive as ele-
gance and taste, unhampered by a regard for ex-
pense, could make it. A spacious, well-appointed

chamber was assigned to Mrs. Conrad, and she lived
in a style superior to that to which she had been ac-
customed. Surely it was a fortunate haven into
which her storm-tossed bark had drifted. If happi-
ness could be secured by comfort or luxury, then she
would have been happy. But neither comfort nor
luxury can satisfy the heart, and it was the heart
which, in her case, had suffered a severe wound.

One day, as Mrs. Graham and Mrs. Conrad sat to-
gether, the little Florette in the arms of the latter,

 

Mr. Graham said:

“Tam afraid you let that child burden you, Mrs. |
Conrad. She never gives you a moment to your- |
self.”

Mrs. Conrad smiled sadly. |

“T don’t wish to have a moment to myself. When |
Tam alone, and with nothing to occupy me, I give
myself up to sad thoughts of the happiness I once
enjoyed.”

“T understand,” said Mrs, Graham, gently, for she
was familiar with Mrs. Conrad's story. ‘I can under-.
stand what it must be to lose a cherished son.”

“Tf he had only been spared to me, I believe I could
bear without a murmur the loss of fortune, and live
contentedly in the deepest poverty.”

“No doubt; but would that be necessary? Cer-
tainly your husband has no claim to the fortune
which he withholds from you.”

“T suppose not.”’

“Tf you should make the effort, you could doubtless
get it back.”

“Probably I could.”

“You had better let me ask Mr. Graham to select a
reliable lawyer whom you could consult with refer-
ence to it.”

Mrs. Cozrad shook her head.

“Let him have it,” she said; “I care nothing for
money. As long as you, my dear friend, are content
to give mea home, [am happier here than I could
be with him.”

‘““My dear Mrs. Conrad, it would indeed grieve me
if anything should take you from us, even if to your
own advantage. You see how selfish Tam. But I
ean’t bear to think that that brutal husband of yours
is enjoying your money, and thus reaping the benefit
of his bad deeds.”

“Sometimes I feel so,’? Mrs. Conrad admitted. “Ii
Oliver were alive I should feel more like asserting
my rights, but now all ambition has left me. If I
should institute proceedings I should be compelled
to return to New York, where everything would re-
mind me of my sad loss.
advice is no doubt meant for the beast, but I prefer
to leave Mr. Kenyonin ignorance of my whereabouts,
and to keep away from his vicinity. You don’t want
me to go away, Florette, do you?”

“Don’t doe away,’ pleaded the little girl, putting
her arms round Mrs. Conrad’s néck.

“You little darling!’ said Mrs. Conrad, returning
the embrace. ‘I have something to live for while
you love me.”

“T love you so much,” said the child.

“T don’t know but what I shall become jealous,”
said Mrs. Graham, playfully.

“Go and tell your mamma that you love her best,”
said Mrs. Conrad.

She felt that a mother’s claim was first beyond all
others. Nothing would have induced her to come
between Florette and the affection which she owed
to her mother.

Little Florette ran to her mother and climbed in
her lap.

“TI love you best, mamma,” she said, “but I love
my other mamma too.”

“And quite right, my dear child,” said Mrs. Gra-
ham, with a bright smile. “It was but in jest, Mrs.
Conrad. No mother who deserves her’child’s love
need fearrivalry. Florette’s heart is large enough
and warm enough to love us both.”

Mrs. Conrad rejoiced in the liberty to. love Florette,
and to be loved by her, and if ever she forgot her
special cause of sorrow, it was when she had the
little girl in her arms.

“T have a favor to ask of you, Mrs. Conrad,” said
Mrs. Graham, a little later.

“Tt is granted already.”

“This afternoon I want to pay some calls.
you be willing to go out with Florette ?”

“Most certainly. I shall be glad to do so.”

“Tam sorry I cannot place the carriage at your
disposal, but I should like to use it myself.”

“Oh, we can manage without it. Can’t we Flor-
ette.”

“Let us yide in the horse-cars,” said the little girl.
“T like to yide in the cars better than in mamma’s
carriage.”

“Tt shall be as you like, Florette, said Mrs. Con-
rad. :

Florette clapped her little hands. Accustomed to
ride in the carriage, it was a change and variety to
her to ride in the more democratic conveyance—the
people’s carriage.

Mrs. Conrad, intent on amusing her little charge,
decided to take her to Lincoln Park in the northern
division of the city. Thisis a beautiful pleasure-
ground, comprising over two hundred acres, with
fine trees, miniature lakes and streams,. and is a
favorite resort for children and their guardians, es-
pecially on Saturday afternoons when there are open-
air concerts. It was a bright, sunny day, and even
Mrs. Conrad felt her spirits enlivened, as she de-
scended from the.cars, and entering the park, mingled
with the gay throngs who were giving themselves up
to enjoyment.

Little Florette wanted to go to the lake, and her
companion yielded to her request.

It was early autumn. The trees had lost none of
their full, rich foliage, and the lawns were covered
with soft verdure. Little Florette laughed and
clapped her hands with childish hilarity. Mrs. Con-
rad sat down on the grass, while Florette ran hither
and thither as caprice dictated.

“Don’t go far away, Florette,” said Mrs. Conrad.

No, my dear friend, your |

Will

 

“No, I won't,” said the child.

But a chilé’s promises are soon forgotten. She
ran to the lake, and while standing on the brink
managed to tumble in. It was not deep, yet for a
little child there was danger. Florette screamed,
and Mrs. Conrad hearing her cry, sprang to her feet
in dismay.

But Florette found a helper.

Oliver had strayed out to Lincoln Park like the
rest in search of enjoyment, and was standing close
at hand when the little girl fell into the lake. ‘

It was the work ofan instant to plunge in and ~
rescue the little girl. Then he looked about to find
out to whom he should yield her up.

His eyes fell upon Mrs. Conrad, hastening to her
young charge. As yetshe had not noticed Oliver.
She only saw Florette.

Oliver's heart gave a great bound. Could it be his
mother—his mother whom he believed dead—or was
it only a wonderful resemblance?

“MOTHER!” he exclaimed, almost involuntarily.

At that word Mrs. Conrad turned her eyes upon
him. She, too, was amazed, and something of awe
crept over her as she looked upon one whom she
thought a tenant of the tomb.

“Oliver!” she said, wistfully, and in an instant he
was folded in her arms.

“Then it is you, mother, and you are not dead!”
exclaimed Oliver, joyfully, kissing her.

“Did you think me dead, then? Mr. Kenyon wrote
me that you were dead.”

“Mr. Kenyon is a scoundrel, mother; but I can for-
48e him—I can forgive everybody, since you are
alive.”

“God is indeed good to me. I will never murmur
Peer ejaculated Mrs. Conrad, with heartfelt grati-
tude.

“But, mother, I don’t understand. How came you
here—in Chicago ?”’ ‘

“Come home with me, Oliver, and you shall hear.
My little Florette’s clothes are wet, and I must take
her home immediately.”

A cab was hired, for delay might be dangerous.
On the way Mrs. Conrad and Oliver exchanged con-
fidences. Oliver’s anger was deeply stirred by the
story of his mother's incarceration in a mad-house.

“IT take back what I said. I won’t forgive Mr. Ken-
yon after that,” he said. “He shall bitterly repent
what he has done.”

LR

CHAPT XXXTX.
THE COMMON ENEMY.

Mrs. Graham heartily sympathized in the joy of the
mother and son, who, parted by death as each sup-
posed, had come together so strangely.

“You look ten years younger, Mrs. Conrad,” she
declared. ‘I never saw such a transformation.”

“Tt is joy that has done it, my dear friend. I was
oF aie without hope or object in life. Now I have
poth,.

“Your husband has your fortune yet.”

“T care not for that. Oliver is more to me than
money.”

“Thank you, mother,’ said Oliver, ‘but we must
be practical too. I have learned that money is a
good thing to have. Mr. Kenyon has been led to
wrong us, and make us unhappy by his greed for
money. We will punish him by depriving him of it.’

“T quite agree with you, Oliver,’ said Mr. Graham,
who was present.. ‘‘Your step-father should be pun-
ished in the way ke will feel it the most.”

“What course would you advise me to pursue, Mr.
Graham ?”’ asked Oliver.

“T am not prepared with an immediate answer. We
will speak of it to-morrow.”

Learning how much kindness Oliver had received
from Nicholas Bundy, Mrs. Conrad invited him to
bring his friend with him in the evening, and the in-
vitation was cordially seconded by Mr. Graham.

Nicholas was overjoyed to hear of the good for-
tune of Oliver, but hesitated at first to accept the in-
vitation.

“lm a rough backwoodsman, Oliver.” he said.
“In my early life I was not so much a stranger to so<
ciety, but now I sha'‘n’t know how to behave.”

“You underrate yourself, Mr. Bundy,” said Oliver.
“T can promise you you won’t feel awkwark in my
mother’s society, and Mr. Graham is very much like
her?

Nicholas looked doubtful.

“You judge me by yourself, my boy,” he answered.
“Boys adapt themselves to ladies’ society easy, but
I’m an old crooked stick that don’t lay straight with
the rest of the pile.”

“T don’t care what you are, Mr. Bundy,” said Oli-
ver, with playful imperiousness, ‘“‘my mother wants
to see you, and come you must.”

Nicholas Bundy laughed.

“Well, Oliver,” he said, “things seem turned round,
and you have become my guardian. Well, if it must
be, it must, but I’m afraid you’ll be ashamed of me.’

“TfIlam, Mr. Bundy, set me down as a conceited
puppy,” said Oliver, warmly. ‘‘Haven’t you been my
kind and constant friend ?”’

Nicholas looked pleased at Oliver’s warm-hearted
persistence.

“T’ll go, Oliver,” he said. ‘‘Come to think of it, I
should like to see your mother.”

When Nicholas and Oliver entered the elegant
Graham mansion the former looked a little uneasy,
but his countenance lighted up when Mrs. Conrad,
her face genial with smiles, thanked him warmly for
his kindness to her boy.

“T couldn’t help it, ma’am,” he said. “I’ve got no-
body to care for except him, and I hope you'll let me
look after him a little still.”

“JT shall never wish to come between you, Mr.
Bundy. I am glad that he has in you a kind and
faithful friend. His step-father, as you know, has
been his worst enemy and mine. I hoped he would
prove a kind and faithful guardian to my boy, but I
have been bitterly disappointed.”

“He’s a regular scamp, as far as I can learn,” said
Nicholas, bluntly. ‘‘You haven’t got a picture of
him, have you? Ishould like to know how the vil-
lain looks.”’

“T have,” said Oliver. ‘‘This morning, in looking
over my carpet-bag, I found an inner ‘pocket, in
which was a photograph of Mr. Kenyon. I believe
Roland once used the bag, and in that way probably
it got in.

‘Have you the picture here?” asked Mr. Bundy.

ore itis,” answered Oliver, drawing it from his
pocket.

Nicholas took it, and as he examined it, his face
wore a look of amazement.

‘Who did you say this was?’ he asked.

“Mr. Kenyon.”

“Your step-father ?”

iV eg?

“Tt is very singular,” he remarked, in an under-
tone, his face still wearing the same look of wonder.

“What is very singular, Mr. Bundy ?’ Oliver asked,
curiously.

“T’ll tell you,” answered Nicholas Bundy, slowly.
“This picture, which you say is the picture of your

| step-father, is the picture of Rupert Jones, my early
| enemy.” ,

Both Oliver and his mother uttered exclamations
of surprise.

“Can this be true, Mr. Bundy ?”

“There is no doubt aboutit, ma’am. It is a faceT
can never forget. There is the same foxy look about
the eyes—the same treacherous smile. I should
know that face anywhere, and I would swear to it in
any court in the United States.”

“But the name! My step-father’s name is Ken-

yon.”
" “Names are easily changed, Oliver, my boy. The
man’s real name is Rupert Jones. I don’t care what
he ealls himself now. He’s misused us all. He’s
been my worst enemy, as well as yours, ma’am, and
yours, Oliver. Now I move we join forces, and pun-
ish him.”

“There’s my hand, Mr. Bundy,” said Oliver.

‘‘He’s your husband, ma’am,” said Nicholas. “What
do you say ?”

“TJ was mad to marry him; I will never live with
himagain. I am out of patience with myself when [
think that through my means I[ have brought misfor-
tune upon my son.”’

“T don’t look upon it just that way, ma’am,” said
Bundy. “But for that, I might never have met Oliver
or you, and that would have been a great misfortune.
He’s played a desperate game, but we’ve got the
trump cards in our hand, and we’ll take his tricks.”

“T fear that he may harm you,” said Mrs. Conrad.
“He is a bad man.”

“That is true enough; but I think I shall prove a
mateh for him. I’ve got a little document in my
pocket which I think will checkmate him.”

“What is that?”

“A note which he has forged. I picked it up at
Kelso.”

The next day a consultation was held, and it was
decided that Oliver, and his mother, and Mr. Bundy
should go on to New York at once, and that hostili-
ties should be initiated against Mr. Kenyon.

During the day a note was received from the city
prison, to this effect:

“T have a secret, of importance to your young
friend, to divulge. Come and see me. DENTON.”

“Shall you go, Mr. Bundy ?”’ asked Oliver.

“Certainly. It is worth while to strengthen our
evidence as much as possible.”

“May I go with you?”

“T wish you would. You are most interested, and
it is proper that you should be present.”

There was no opposition made on the part of the
authorities, and Oliver and Mr. Bundy were intro-
duced into the presence of the prisoner.

Denton smiled.

“You see I’m hauled up for moral repairs,” he said,
coolly. ‘Well, it’s my luck.”

“Did you have a pleasant return from Kelso, Mr,
Denton?” asked Oliver.

“So you recognized me ?’

“Yes, in spite of the red wig.”

“Some one else recognized me, too—a detective.
That is why lam here. But let us proceed,to busi-
ness.”

“Go on.”

“T ean give you information of importance touch-
ing this boy’s step-father.”

“Perhaps we know it already.”

“Tt is hardly likely. His name is not Kenyon.
can tell you his real name.”

“It is Rupert Jones,” said Bundy.

I