VOL; 46—No. 51, _ Inanded, eagerly. - vies were too much for him, and prectietty wr ———, = “Yes, any time before his twenty-first birth- day if Alex does not object.” ; ‘How can he object in his condition?” “Tf Sir Piers objects it amounts to the same thing. Alex himself is many. “That is true, I suppose,” Mrs. Clare says, thoughtfully. “You had better have a talk with Sir Piers and come to some arrangement.” “You bad better have the talk. Sir Piers and I are nat congenial. We could not dis- cuss any subject ten minutes without coming to blows.” Mrs. Clare is of the same opinion upon re- flection, and is besides nothing loth to havea chat with the polite and fascinating baronet. ea Piers is ten times more fascinating than usual. ( He listens to Mrs. Clare’s propositions, and agrees to everything with an amiability and readiness that enrapture her. It is arranged that the week before Alex Dudley’s birthday Lady Julia shall return to the hall with her aunt, and the marriage shall take place. Lady Julia shivers a little and whitens a little when told, but she makes no objection — to the arrangement as her aunt had feared she would. d So the honorable Mrs. Clare and her niece having successfully adjusted the business which brought them to Dudley Hall return to London to remain till the time appointed for the marriage. Sir Piers is more polite and flattering, and altogether more agreeable after the momentous uestion is decided than he has been during the whole of their stay pepe ossly. - “TY know you are going to marry ay ee Alex from utterly selfish motives, Lady Julia,” he says, with that air of frankness which is one of the gallant- and refined baronet's strongest points, “but I know, too, that you have a kind heart, and while you cannot love him, poor fellow, you will study his comfort and happiness, and make his life as pleasant as his own unhappy condition will allow.” Lady Julia’s black eyes flash up at him. There is a sinister light in Sir Piers’ own lus- trous orbs, which puzzles her. “T shall certainly try to do so,” she answers. “Shall you live much at Dudley Hall, Julia?” the Honorable Mrs. Clare asks, as they crsehing homeward as fast as steam can take them. - ; “No, I detest Dudley Hall.” “It is a wonderfully fine eld place!” “T shall leave Alex then, and go abroad my- self, where every one who meets me will not know I have got an idiot husband. I suppose you will come with me, aunt. There will be no lack of money now, thank Heaven.” “T will go with you anywhere,” Mrs. Clare answers, with a sigh of relief at finding her niece accepting the situation so quietly. At Dudley Hall noone, not even Alex, has been told of this marriage, which is appointed to come off in a little less than six months’ time. us (TO BE CONTINUED.) this Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form, NAMELESS DELL By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON, Author of “Mona,” “Sister Angela,” ‘‘Brownie's Triumph,” “‘Trixy,” ‘Stella Rosevelt,”’ “The Forsaken Bride,” etc. _ (“NAMELESS DELL” was commenced in No. 38. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.) CHAPTER XXVII. “OH, ADELE! PITY ME, AND DO NOT ACCUSE ME OF : THAT!” At length Mr. Estcourt made an effort to pull him- self together and replied in answer to Dell’s ques- tion: : “The lady whose name you heard me speak, and om you so strangely resemble, was a Miss Col- chester.” ; “A Miss Colchester,” repeated Dell, losing a little color, as she emphasized the title. ‘Where did she live—where was her home?” ¢ “Tn the South.” ; Dell’s heart gave a great leap at this reply. “Where ?—in what State }—in what city ?’ she de- “In Tennessee, not far from Memphis,” was the re- ply, and mow Dell's face fell. “Ts she still living was she—ever—married 2?” she faltered in a low, constrained tone, a blush of shame mantling her cheek, for she fully believed that they were talking about her mother. “Ahem! ally, Mile. Adelbert, you appear to be strangely interested in this lady,” Mr. Estcourtcoldly replied. His tone, accompanied by the wary glance which he bestowed upon her, aroused all Dell's spirit. ; Rr am,” she returned, and determined to make a bold fight for her birthright; ‘‘and I have every right to be interested in her, for [ believe that she was my mother. My first question was unnecessary, for [ know that she is not living; but the other—oh! (ell me—’’ The man before her was deeply agitated, and his eyes were fixed as if by magnetism upon the girl’s beautiful face—a face so like one that he had known and loved in the long ago, that it almost seemed as if he was again in Cecile Colchester’s presence; while her every tone and movement revived memories which he had once thought buried beyond reeall. Once or twice he opened his lips, which were dry and hot, as if to speak, but no sound issued from them. “Tell me,’ commanded Dell, in a voice in which au- thority and anguish were strangely mingled. “Cecile Colchester was the one woman whom I loved in my youth. if you must wrenel the truth from me,” the man said at last, a bitter expression curving his white lips. ‘From my boyhood she was the object of my adoration—I loved no other being as T loved her. You resemble her to a startling degree, Miss Lancaster, I am bound to confess, but that fact does not prove of a necessity that she was your mother. as you have asserted.” ? “Ts Cecile Colchester—the woman whom you so loved—still living ?”? Dell demanded. “‘N-o—she is dead,” came hoarsely from the man’s pale lips. ; “T knew it,” Dell cried, wildly. ‘She died in the South—in New Orleans—in a boarding-house kept by a certain Madame Papineau--you know this as well as I, and you dare not deny it. There was some secret reason for her being there, and under thename of Mrs. Warren; some secret reason for your visiting her there from time to time as you did. There was some mystery surrounding her—I know it from the fact that, when her life went out so suddenly, you. deserted the little helpless child Wliom she left, and thus doomed her to become the bond-slave of the un- principled woman who kept the house. T anrthat child, sir, and, but for tlie goodness of a kind Northern ntleman, I should probaby have remained in that Hexrhdad position all my life; while you would have been responsible for the wreck which such an exist- ence would have made of me. Now, Mr. Estcourt,” Dell went on, rising and standing proudly before him, for she was greatly excited, and could not re- main quiet, “I know that you hold the secret of my birth and of my mother’s sad and questionable posi- tion at the time of her death. Mr. Wéstlake called upon you in Albany, and tried to prevail upon you to reveal what you know, but you pretended that you were not the man who had known my mother in New Orleans. You are the man, sir—Madam Papineau has seen and identified you. You have, yourself, be- trayed it to-day. Lresemble my mother—you meet me and are so startled by the fact that you utter the name of her whom you profess to have loved. And now, [ adjure you, by that love, and by the sacred- ness.of the love which she bore me, to reveal to me the mystery of my birth. “Can you notunderstand,” she resumed, after paus- ing for breath, and in tones of anguish that thrilled her companion with keenest pain, ‘can you not ap- er hg my position? Lam nameless, homeless, and riendless as regards all ties of kindred. I am vir- tually an outcast from society because of it—or should be if these facts were known. I cannot marry the man whom I love, for I will not run the risk of bringing any stain upon his fair name and reputa- tion. Tell me—was Cecile Colchester ever married - and—to whom ?”’ - Horace Estcourt had at first tried to assume a_bold, unruffled front, while Dell was pouring forth this _ wild torrent of accusation and entreaty upon him ; but, evidently, his guilty conscience and o * beg lis eyes had drooped and his head sunk upon his breast, un- til he looked the picture of self-conviction and wretchedness by tlie time she concluded. But Dell had no pity for him. E She despised him. She loathed him, for she be- | é \ «oatsa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. @3> lieved in her heart that he had been guilty of some great wrong against her mother; while the terrible fear, that, perhaps, she even owed her existence to him, took possession of her, and galled her almost to madness. “You are self-condemned,” she said, in a cold, hard tone, after a long and painful silence, during which he seemed utterly oblivious of her presence, ‘and I know you are the man. Now tell me what [ want to know—TI will learn the truth.” “Yes,” he answered, without lifting his head, and seemingly impelled to speak in spite of himself. “Cecile Colchester was your mother, and you are so like her in face, form, and manner, that [I could al- most believe that she, herself, was standing here be- fore me. Strange! it is very strange that 4 But he checked himself suddenly here; then, as a flash of color went over his face, he resumed: “She was the Mrs. Warren who boarded with Mad- aim Papineau in New Orleans, and who died so sud- denly. Great heaven!’ he groaned, ‘‘what a blank same over my life when [ knew that she was dead! I have never known a happy uor a hopeful moment since— “Whom did she marry? Who was—my father?” Dell asked, as he appeared to be falling into a sad reverie again. He looked up at her, uttered along sigh, and then sat erect, his face pale as ashes, but with his lips set in a stern, resolute line, a forced calmness and dignity in his manner. “T cannot tell you,” he said, “and for your own peace of mind [ beg that you will not question me further.” Dell caught her breath sharply at these terrible words, but she wanted the truth, even though it might blight her whole future—even though it should bring the knowledge of a shame which she so much dreaded. “T will know—you shall tell me!” she cried, al- most fiercely. *T will not tell rags Miss Lancaster.” Mr. Estcourt said, firmly, as he arose and took his hat to leave, “there is too much involved in this matter—you can have no idea how much—and it is better that the secret should die with me. No one else living knows the truth, and it can by no possible means ever come to the knowledge of any one, unless I choose to re- veal it. Madam Papineau can never harm you. for she is as ignorant of the truth as any one, uo matter what she pretends to know.” “She can harm me with the vilest of iusinuations, which [ have no power to refute,” said Dell, sternly. The color swept over the man’s face again, but he went on without replying directly to her: “You have said that you are nameless, homeless, and friendless as regards kindred. True, but no one need ever know the fact. Mr. Lancaster allowed you to adopt his name; keep it—it is an honorable one, and you will always be respected while you bear it. More than this, you have made another for yourself, which has brought you fame and homage. Nothing from the past can ever tarnish either, for I swear that what knowledge I may possess regarding your ante- cedents, shall never be divulged to any human being. You have also said that you cannot marry the man whom you love; you may marry him, if you choose, and be happy—indeed, I would urge you to do so, for you are not only bringing sorrow to your own heart, and sacrificing yourself needlessly, by your refusal to do so, but you are also blighting the life of a noble young man, for there can be no possibility that your future will be nnplosemn Dy attected by anything connected with the history of yourself or your mother.” ff “LT could not go nameless to any man.” said Dell, with great bitterness. “That is a morbid and senseless objection, Miss Lancaster, which ill becomes one of your otherwise sound judgment, and my advice to you would be to mImatry young Westlake and make two lives happy without delay ; unless, indeed, your ambition prompts you to strive for greater laurels as.a prima-donna.” “Can you not realize how I am situated?” Dell pleaded, a sob of despair breaking from her lips, as she saw how inexorable he was. “Can you not under- stand how I am tormented by an inastinbte desire to learn my mother's history and——” “Yes, I do realize and understand,” her companion gravely returned, while his glance rested sorrowfully upon her beautiful, pained face, “but you would hate me if IT should accede to your request; you would wish that you had been stricken dumb before you had made it; you would curse me for yielding and— cere never bear that from Cecile Colchester’s ehild.’’ Dell regarded him with horrified astonishment as he said this. What dreadful thing was this for which she should curse and hate him, and wish that she had been stricken diumb before asking to know ? “Tf it will be any comfort to you to know that I suffer in adhering to this resolution,” he went on, after studying her face a moment, ‘then gather what youcan from the fact, for a more wretched man does not tread the earth than I am at this moment. [have been guilty of a great wrong in the past—a wrong that will follow me to the grave, and there can be no possible restitution for it in this world. Jt has blighted my whole life and made me the homeless, lonely man that I am, for { have neither wife nor child to perpetuate my name. Yet it need not materially affect any one else, if yow will heed what l say, for no one need ever know——” “IT shall know! Ican never forget what you have told me to.day. I can never cease to remember that a stigma of some sort is connected with wy birth,” Dell interrupted in a weary, hollow tone. “Why will you harp upon that? You do not know anything, and it is better that you should not; this is a case in which ignorance is bliss, compared with knowledge, and it is better that I should leave you in this state of uncertainty, which I know is very try- ing, but which is better far than the state you would be in if IT should tell you the truth. And now, Miss Lancaster, [ feel that it will be unwise to prolong this interview, so permit me to wish you all success in your profession and bid you good-day.” He turned to leave the room, and had nearly reached the door, when a swift rush of garments fell upon his ear, and the nextinstant Dell laid a detain- ing hand upon his arm. “Tell me this,” she panted: “Was my mother a legal wife?’ - “T can tell you nothing without telling you all,” he answered, a hot flush mounting to his forehead. “Oh!” cried Dell, with a shiver of repulsion, “but did my mother leave nothing—no memento or keep- sake, that her child would treasure? Is there not something that she handled, or looked upon, or wore, that [ can have? Oh! you cannot know how my heart yearns for my mother, in spite of everything— give me, at least, something that belonged to her.” The man before her was deeply moved by her ap- peal, yet it was evident that he was also smitten with au keen consciousness of wrong against her, for he shrank beneath her touch as from the touch of a branding iron. “Have you nothing ?” he asked, in surprise. “Absolutely nothing.” “But there was a whole trunkful of things—a large trunk containing your clothing and hers—her writ- ing-desk, her jewels, watch and chain—what became of them?’ he questioned. Dell straightened herself likea haughty and angry princess, and her face flushed hotly. “Then she stole them all, that inhuman woman! she stole those sacred things,” she cried, sternly. “Why do you speak of her with such bitterness ?” Mr. ere asked. “Was she so very unkind to you? : “Unkind !” and the word repeated in that tone eut him like a knife. ‘Until I was thirteen years of age I was her slave. I, the only child of the woman whom you_adored,” she interposed, with a sarcasm that made him throw out his hand as if some one had stabbed him. “She heaped upon me every possible abuse; I was not properly fed or clothed; she made me toil in the hot Southern sun with bare head and arms, until I was the color ot old parchment, until she called me ‘nigger,’ and people believed that I was the child of some Ore. servant. Tell ine,’ the excited girl here interposed, “is there a single drop or a taint of colored blood in my veins? I feel there is not, but I want positive assurance.” “Colored blood!” repeated her companion, redden- ing angrily. “No! but you may be proud that some of the best blood of Tennessee flows in them,” ie asserted, haughtily. “Thank you for that much,” Dell scornfully re- turned, but growing pale as death now, for she be- lieved that in that assurance he had virtually ac- knowledged, what she had mistrusted from the first, kinship with her. Ms “Well, then, to go back to that woman,” she went on; ‘‘she made me toil like a slave from the moment I was able to run upon an errand or to scour a knife ; she whipped me with a lash, a strap, anything that came to hand. She would not allow me to learn to read or write. I had not even a name save that of ‘Dell.’ When I asked her to tell me what it was, she would sneer and mock at me, and say that I was only name- less ‘Dell.’ She neariy ruined me, body and soul, for I had begun to hate the sight of any one whose life was happier and brighter than mine; the spirit of a murderess was beginning to germinate in me, and you, sir, are answerable for those thirteen long years, during which Iwas a hardened and ignorant little heathen; you are responsible for my wretched and darkened childhood.” “Don’t! don’t!” cried the man, turning from her with a face of anguish, “do not accuse me of that. I have enough to think of in connection with what went before. Oh, Adele, pity me! and do not tell me that I am accountable for such cruelty and wickedness.” Dell started at that name which seemed to have slipped unawares from him. “Adele,” she interposed. ‘Ah! then ‘Adele’ was the name that my mother gave me. I am thankful to learn that much, How TIshould have loved to hear her speak it—how I wish I could remember her looks, her tones; but I cannot, I eannot; and yet, once in a while, 1 have a vision of a lovely face, with bright, loving eyes, looking into mine, and of feeling a pair of soft lips pressed against my own.” Dell sobbed as she pressed her hands to her throbbing temples, and seemed striving to recall s0me memory of the dim past. “Stop, for heaven's sake, stop! more,” groaned Horace Estcourt. IT can bear no “T thought my ¥ . burden was too heavy to be borne before, but this is a thousand fold worse. Oh, Cecile! you are amply avenged in the torture of this moment.” He turned away from the gaze of the lovely girl, in whose great dark eyes there gleamed such an ac- cusing fire; from the face so pained and wistful, and rushed excitedly from the room, swinging the door violently after him. Dell, her strength all forsaking her, now that the exciting interview was over, sank upon the floor and, bowing her head upon a chair, burst into bitter sobs and weeping. ; ; “Adele, Adele,” she murmured, when the force of” her grief had somewhat spent itself, *‘the name that my mother gave ne! how glad Iam to know it; it has the sweetest sound in the world to my ears, for it is the only link, the only tangible link between us. My poor, deeply wronged mother! oh! what is the sin of which that man is guilty toward you? Can it be that heis my father! that he wronged and de- serted you? I cannot believe that he is anything to me. [seem torevolt against the thought. I loathe him, and yet by some he would be considered an at- tractive gentleman. Oh, this cruel mystery, this in- tangible something which [ am never to understand! ot {I bear it during all the long years before me CHAPTER XXVIII. DELL PAYS A VISIT TO AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. After leaving the presence of the fair girl who had charged him as being responsible for the blight on her life, Mr. Estcourt hastened to his own room where he hastily packed his portmanteau and sent it di- rectly to the station. hen going to the oftice, he paid his bill and left the hotel, for he felt that he could not again run the risk of meeting the child of the woman whom he had so loved and wronged. The train upon which he was to return to Albany did not leave until eleven o’clock, and not knowing how better to kill time, he resolved, after having his supper, to attend the opera in which Dell was to ap- pear, aud judge for himself if the high praise be- stowed upon her was well deserved. Had the fair prima-donna been able to single any one out from among the sea of faces before her, when she came upon the stage, looking radiantly beautiful in her exquisite costume, she might have seen a man, seated by a pillar, against which he shrank as if he feared and was anxious to escape observation, his face drawn and pinched as if from some great men- tal agony, his pained and restless eyes following her every movement, while he drank in every tone of her magnificent voice with an eagerness which betrayed an absorbing interest in her. _ But she did not see him, and it was well for her, rhaps, that she did not, for her heart was sore and eavy enough as it was—so sore and heavy that never before, during all her experience, had she found it so i to sing and enact the role belonging to er. , Horace Estcourt was obliged to leave before the last act was quite finished, inorder to catch his train, but he carried away with him a picture which he never forgot—the memory of a lovely, brilliant face, with great, dark, wistful eyes, which haunted him incessantly; while there never ceased to ring in his ears those accusing words whieh she had shot with such telling force at him thatafternoon. “She nearly ruined me, body and soul; the spirit of a murderess was beginning to germinate within me, and yon, sir, are answerable for those thirteen long years, during which I was a hardened and ignorant little heathen ; you are responsible for my wretched and darkened childhood.” He never could forget them; they seemed to glare up at him, in letters of fire, from the page on which he was writing; they looked out at him from the face and eyes of every poverty-stricken child that he met on the street; he heard them amid the bustle aud rush of business, as well as in the silence of his own chamber; sleeping or waking, that lovely, ae- cusing face was ever before him, those burning lips were always repeating that solemn denunciation, until it seemed as if he should go mad, until he lost his interest in his business, his health began to suffer, and he knew that he must have some change or he emg: break down utterly in the very prime of his ife. Six weeks from the day of his interview with Dell, |, he had settled up his business in Albany, closed his office, and left the city, tellingno one whither he was going. It was as if he wished to hide himself, to blot out his identity from the world; but let him go where he would, Horace Estcourt could never hide from him- ! self and his accusing conscience. ; * * * * * * * When Dell's engagement in New England was at an end, the company left for their tour through the West and South. About the middle of January they arrived in New Orleans, where they were to remain a week. Ever since her interview with Mr. Estcourt, Dell had been longing for the visit to this Southern city, where per mother had died, and where the first years of her own life had been spent; for she had resolved to seek out Madam Papineau—she could never think of her by any other name—and demand of her the trunk of things, or at least what might remain of ae which her mother had left at the time of her death. 3 ioe She looked up her residence immediately wpon her arrival in New Orleans, and found that she lived in a quietand handsome street in thesuburbs of the city; but it was not until the third day of her so- journ there that she could arrange to go to her. She said nothing to Edith of her purpose, but ris- ing and breakfasting a little earlier than usual on this morning, she remarked that she had an errand or two which must be attended to, and would take her out for a while; then, donning a quiet street cos- tume, she started out to seek the Womau whom years before she had served as a menial in that very city where now she was reigning a queen of song, It was a lovely morning; the air was unusually mild and summer-like, even for that warm climate, and the city was like a garden. Flowers were in bloom, the grass was like velvet, the trees like huge plumes of tender green, and Dell could hardly realize that it was the middle of January. She found the street she was seeking readily enough, but though the tram-cars ran the whole length of it, she preferred to walk and enjoy the. un- accustomed beauty of everythiug about her. As she threaded her way along the aristocratic avenue where Madam Papineau’s residence was lo- sated, she realized how greatly the woman’s fortunes had changed since she kept a boarding-house for winter visitors in Florida. It was broad, with better sidewalks than most of the streets could boast, while the residences were wide apart, and surrounded by spacious and tastefully ornamented grounds. Upon reaching the number, which she had copied from the directory, she found the dwelling to be one of the handsomest upon the street. It had originally been the winter residence of a wealthy cotton planter, but, like many another, it had passed out of his hands during the war, and later, when peace was declared, was purchased at a merely nominal price by the thrifty little tailor, whom madam had married, and who had had it thoroughly repaired, until now it presented a really imposing appearance. It seemed to Dell, however, to wear a somewhat deserted look, for the shutters were closed at most of the windows, and she began to fear that she might not find madam at home. But as she drew nearer she saw a carriage stand- ing before the stable at the rearof the house, and this reassured her. She passed up the wide walk leading to the front entrance, but as she stepped upon the porch and raug the bell, which gave in answer a resounding peal, a sudden chill ran over her, and she wished that she had either brought Edith with her or told her where she was going. But she was too intent upon her errand to turn hack now, and when a colored servant opened the door, she inquired, with every appearance of selt- possession, although her heart was beating with heavy, almost suffocating throbs, if his mistress was at home. Dell thought the man regarded her with some sur- prise as she made the inquiry, but she did not give the circumstance a secoud thought at that time; while, receiving an answer in the affirmative and be- ing invited to enter, she stepped within the elegant hall and followed him toa beautiful room on the right of it. She was upon the point of handing the servant her card, when madam herself stepped into the room from an opposite door. . She was dressed asif for going out, and looked heated and fiushed, and even more astonished than the nan had looked on beholding her. “A lady to see you, missus,” briefly announced the darky, and then bowed himself out of their pres- ence. At first madam did not reeognize Nell, for the room was darkened by the closed shutters and heavy dra- peries—not until she spoke. “Pardon this intrusion, Madame Griesbach,” Dell said, “but [ have come to you upon a matter of im- portance.” Then madam gave a violent start, for those full, clear, rich tones were only too familiar to her ears. “You!” she cried, her red face becoming suffused da a deeper tint, her eyes flashing with an angry re. “Madam,” Dell began, in a conciliatory tone, “I beg that you will bear with me fora few moments. I entertain no ill-will toward you. I have come to offer no reproaches for the past; Iam here simply to | make a request of you.” “Indeed! A request to make, a favor to ask—youw of me! Pray what may be the nature of it?” madam asked, as she ran her glance over Dell’s queenly form and noted her elegant though simple costume. It was evident that time had not served to soften her resentment or lessen the hatred and rancor which she had cherished against the girl whom, in her childhood, she had oppressed and wronged, Dell realized this at once, and began to fear that her errand would prove a fruitless one. “Tt is relative to my mother,” she resumed, with as much composure as she could command, though she was trembling inwardly with suppressed excitement. “T have learned that at the time of her death she had a quantity of clothing and some valuable jewelry— among them a watch (and chain—and these things were left with you.” “And who has told you all this ?” demanded madam, in an angry tone, while a look of guilt and couster- nation overspread her now almost crimson face. “The only person in the world beside yourself who could know anything about it,” quietly responded Dell. “‘Lhave recently seen and talked with Mr. Horace Estcourt, and’ he mentioned a number of things which belonged to my mother, and whieh should have been preserved forme. Of course they are comparatively valueless to you, while I should inestimably prize the smallest thing that had been hers; so [ have come to ask them of you.” ‘Ask them of me !—and did you suppose for a mo- ment that [ would give you anything ?—that, even if the things you mention were still in my possession, I pore relinquish them to you?” tartly demanded madam. “Tf know that you appear to entertain an unreason- able hatred toward me, though I cannot couceive why you shonld, unless it is because you are con- scious of and galled by the fact that you did me great wrong when [I was a child,” Dell returned. with some sternness. “But [ do not wish you to give me any- thing—not even what may rightfully belong to me. [ am willing to pay you handsomely for whatever you may have im your possession that was my mother’s.” “Humph! DoT appear like a person in need of money or charity?’ sneered the woman, as she glanced around the elegantly furnished room in which they were sitting. “No, certainly not; I simply wished you to under- stand that I did not expect you to grant me any fa- vors unconditionally,” Dell responded. “I will give you any reasonable price for my mother’s watch and chain or any other article of jewelry.” “How is it that you happen to be so flush with money ?* madam abruptly inquired, with a sudden curiosity. ‘The last I heard your philanthropic guardian was dead, and report said that he died a poor man.” “Yes, Mr. Lancaster is dead,” Dell replied, sadly, “and he did lose a great deal of money; but, fortun- ately for me, he had so educated me that I am able to take care of myself, and am now reaping a hand- some income from my own labors,” “Indeed! What especial talent is so prolific, if I may inquire?” madam asked, with a harsh, mocking laugh. . “My voice.” “Ha! a public singer !’” “Yas: “Perhaps thatis why you arein New Orleans at this time.” “Tt is.” : “Where are you singing?” madam asked, curiously. “T have an engagement at the St. Charles Theater for the whole of this week.” “Why, Iam going to get some tickets to-day to go and hear that great singer, Mlle. Adelbert, over whom the whole city is raving,” said madam, looking some- what surprised at what Dell had toid her. “So you are singing with that company. Perhaps you are one of the chorus girls.” A sinile of amusement curled Dell’s lips for an in- stant, then she modestly remarked: ‘ “No, I do not sing in any chorus; ZJ am Mlle. Adel- ert. Madame Griesbach nearly started from her chair at this unexpected information, while she stared at Dell in blank amazement. But quickly recovering herself, she retorted skeptically and scornfully : “T don’t believe it.” “I think [ can prove it to you,” Dell answered, smiling slightly, as she opened a chatelaine bag that hung fromher belt. ‘‘Perhaps you will honor me by accepting some tickets for the opera this evening,” and she laid three for one of the proscenium boxes upon the table near which she was sitting. Madam did not even have the grace to thank her for them; perhaps, however, she was too astonished to doso, for she still regarded Dell with a look of surprise and perplexity. “I know everybody said you had a wonderful voice when you were a child, though it used to drive me almost crazy to hear you yell,” she said, at length; then curiosity getting the better of her again, she said, though in a mocking tone, “Perhaps you are at the head of the company ?” “No, [am simply engaged by the manager of the company to take the leading lady’s role for a certain number of performances during the season,” Dell explained, thinking it wise to conciliate her if pos- sible. “Suppose you should—be sick?’ madam asked, shooting a swift, cunning glance at her companion. “Then some one, whois called an understudy, would have to supply my place; butin that case [ should have to forfeit a certain sum, as it would be a great disappointment to the public, as well as a source of extrele annoyance to Ny manager, who advertises mine largely.” “Ah 3 ~ “T am never sick, however—fortunately, I have perfect health, and have never yet missed a per- formance,” Dell returned, without noticing the pecu- liar expression on madaim’s face or the repressed ex- citement in that single ejaculation. “Where are you going when you leave New Or- leans ?” she questioned. “To Vicksburg, aud from there to St. Louis, and then West.” “Hum—I should think you’d be likely to get sick going from this hot climate to where there are ice and snow. Do you suppose that understudy, as you eall her, could make your place good if you should ?” and madam’s look was like that of a serpent about to spring upon its prey, as she made these strange remarks. Dell wondered afterward, as she recalled it, that her suspicions were not aroused. “Ido not know; she has never been called upon, for as I told you before, I have never missed a per- formamee. She is a sweet little singer, but I should be perfectly wretched not to fulfill my engagement after having been advertised,’ Dell responded. “But,” she added, as she looked at her watch, “I have an appointment with my manager at eleven, and besides, Edith will wonder what has become of me, as I did not tell-her where I was coming when I left the hotel.” “Edith—that’s Mr. Laneaster’s girl. too ?” madam asked, in a sharp tone. “Yes, Edith and I are very fond of each other, and SO We are never separated. But, Madame Griesbach” —and the fair girl turned her earnest, beautiful eyes appealingly upon her companion—‘tell me, please, will you give me something that belonged to my mother? Oh, I should dearly prize some keepsake, however valueless!” Madam bent her head as if in deep thought, while an ugly frown again settled upon her face. “So Horace Esteourt told you I had her things, He'd better have held his tongue,” she muttered. “Yes, he said there was a large trunk full of things; that besides a beautiful supply of clothing for herself and me, there was a writing-desk anda number of trinkets. Now, madam,” Dell continued, a note of resolution creeping into her tone, as she imagined from the woman’s looks that she might have further trouble with her, “I want at least that writing-desk and whatever articles of jewelry may have belonged to her, if you have preserved them.” “And suppose I refuse to give them to you?” de- manded madam, as she benta baleful glance upon her. “I do not like to make use of threats,” gravely re- turned Dell, who saw that she must take a decided stand, ‘‘butif you persist in withholding what rightly belongs to me, I shall be forced to adopt legal measures to gain possession of my property.” “Do you imagine such a course would accomplish your purpose. You cannot prove anything against me,” said madam, in a voice that was thick with pas- sion. “Perhaps not; but I can at_ least compel you to go into court and take the oath that you have nothing in your possession that ever belonged to my mother.” “Well, Miss Lancaster, or Mlle. Adelbert, or what- ever else you may choose to call yourself,” madam responded mockingly, but with a cunning smile working at the corners of her cruel mouth, “I don’t want to be driven to that, so [ suppose I may as well own up that I’ve got the things—every one of them, clothes and all.” “Oh!’’ ejaculated Dell, in a tone of intense thank- fulness and relief, “I ain so glad.” “They're up stairs in the store-room, where I keep all my trunks,” madame continued. “I haven't looked at them for years—I reckon not more than once or twice since you went to the Lancasters. I’ve been tempted to sell them, heaps of times, but I can never touch them without chills going all over me, as if a ghost laid its hand on me.” “And will you let me have them—all? May I take them away with me?’ Dell cried, choking back a sob which was caused by the revulsion of feeling that had been occasioned by madam’s apparent and unex- pected concession. “Did you come in a carriage?” the woman irrele- vantly asked with a start, and reddening violently. “No, [ walked; but I can send for one,” Dell replied. “Then perhaps you'd like to come up stairs and take a look at the things first,’ said madam, as she arose from a chair. “Oh! may I? Thank you,’’ Dell exclaimed, with trembling eagerness, as she also sprang to her feet. (TO BE CONTINUED.) Is she here —> CLOSE COMPANIONSHIP. There must be some bond of sympathy, some mutual interest, something in each that awak- ens a responsive chord in the other, in order that any two persons shall take pleasure in each other’s society. And where no pleasure is taken a union brought about by artificial or compulsory means will soon dissolve by com- mon consent. 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