THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. Vol. &7—No. 3 Lovely, undulating fields, separated by trim hedges, ‘babbling brooks, patches of wood- lands, white cottages here and there, and standing on ‘commanding heights, the three show places of the neighborhood—the Cedars, occupied by Sir Simon Letheridge; Dashwood Lodge, the property of Major Dorman; and Briarwood Grange, residenceeof Lord Feather- setone when in that neighborhood. All three were handsome places, the ideal of those homes which have been handed down from father to son since the Conquest. But Briarwood Grange was exceptionaly lovely. It was perched on the summit of a hill, the ‘slopes of which were, for a Swaient yards or more on every side, smooth and undulating lawn, unbroken save by a few beds of flowers, Then came some delightful shrubberies, and a lovely lake whereon sailed stately_swans, swimming now in the brilliant sunlight, and snow beneath the shade of some stately oaks. Four years had passed since the day when Lawrence W eyville had visited the solicitors, Edwin & Mortimer, and had sworn he would have his revenge. Despite the advertisement which Lawrence Weyville and others had seen in the Times, “nothing more had been heard of Colin Ram- sey, and in the Featherstone household it had never been heard of. On the night on which we introduce Briar- wood Grange to our readers, two ladies were dressing for the county ball. : The one was Gladys, the other Mrs. Howard Amberworth, sister of Athol, Lord Feather- stone. 3 The years which had passed had in no way detracted from the beauty of Gladys. She had developed from a lovely girl into a splendid woman, ripened, matured both in form and in grace, her bright eyes glowing with a dovelike, wistful light, though there was a sadness and a depression in her man- ner which made people wonder. They had only reached England two days before, just in time for the county ball. In four days Gladys would be twenty-one— and then? “Tt seems so strange to be here again, in dear old England,’ she said, as she gave a finishing touch to the roses in her bosom. “The past appears a dream—at least, that part of it which I have spent abroad.’’ “Let us hope, dear,’’ said Mrs. Amberworth, a-good-natured, fussy little woman of about forty, ‘‘that the past will always remain a dream in your mind. When I think of that horrid Lawrence Weyville, I thank. Heaven you escaped him by trusting to. Athol. I am sure you will never regret it.”’ Gladys sighed so deeply that the roses her bosom trembled violently. “No, L do not suppose I shall ever regret that,’’ she said, “though life has for me many other regrets. eighho! She must be a happy girl who has none! Mrs. Amberworth smiled. “You are very sentimental to-night, Gladys, a she said. “I only hope that at the ball you will cast- aside all vain memories, and give your brightest glances to dear Athol! . Poor old patient boy! I am sure he deserves them!” es, he deserves them; he has been very good to me,”’ said Gladys. ‘‘He shall have no reason to complain of me!” When Gladys and her chaperon, Mrs. Am- berworth, entered the brilliant assembly room at Braington, a buzz of admiration arose from the company. There was little doubt in the minds of any a there as to who would be the belle of the all. Who had such dovelike eyes? Who had such a perfect figure? Who had such lithe e grace and such a sweet smile? And yet—who had such a weary, heart under so fair and exquisite a bosom? She had scarcely reached her seat near the entrance to the big conservatory, from which came the scent of many and delicious flowers, when a tall and stately figure approached her. Athol, Lord Featherstone. The four years since that eventful night be- fore the wedding had passed lightly over his brow, so much so, indeed, thar he looked younger even than on that day when he had spoken of his hopeless love at the gate of Heathcote Lodge. “Gladys!” ar said, as he held on his hand to press her shyly- given ‘one; and then he. paused, for all the gladness seemed to !} e expressed itself word tie: in In eyes reised Ss, her lips o £-auda; the ros c He sat down beside her, where they were. “Have you no word of welcome for me, dar- ling—darling?’”” he murmured. “Oh, Gladys, in four days to be my wife! Do not let me think you regret it, after all!” In four days! What did it mean? Were they not married, then? ‘ - She looked up at him bravely—trustfully. “‘No, Athol,’’ she said, ‘I regret nothing I do for you. You have been too noble, too kind, to permit of that.’ Kind words, truly! But he recognized the ring of pain in the voice. “And yet, Gladys, one word of real love would be more worth to me than all else, and that I never have,’ he said. “Oh, darling, when shall I win your heart?’’ She smiled with. well- assumed gayety. “‘Athol,’’ she said, ‘‘your sister Harriette told me to-night that I was getting quite sen- timental; don’t you be the same! Ah, they are playing that darling waltz I love so much! Come, you are my partner now, you know!” “For life—forever, I hope!” he murmured, as he passed his arm round her waist. And the downcast eyes and blushing cheeks seemed to give promise that his heart's great- est wish would be realized. The dance over, he led her into the-conserv- atory, and sat down by her side, his eyes glowing with admiration. ““You~have grown more beautiful than ever, darling!’ he cried, in a voice trembling with its fondness. ‘I can scarcely believe that you are to be mine, all mine, in four days!” A deep blus® suffused the cheeks of the young girl. But she did not raise her eyes or speak. “‘Are you sorry, dear?’ he said, with a tinge of disappointment in his voice. She roused herself by an effort. Her thoughts were far away in the past. She was thinking of that other -wedding five years ago when she had pledged her faith to Colin Ramsey. She was then but a girl, a_child of sixteen, yet her brief joy lingered fresh in her mind. And with it mingled another feeling; a sad regret that circumstances had compelled her to part with her boy, her Gabriel, now a bright-eyed lad of four. She knew he was well. ; She had contrived never to be a month with- out news of him. Her mother had seen him and been loud in his praises. His future was assured by the kindness of Norris and Sir George Amwell, to whom the secret had been imparted. But this had been little more than cold com- fort for her. . She longed to clasp him in her arms, to smother him with kisses, to listen to his in- fant prattle, and’ gaze into the eyes which they said were so like Colin’s. In vain were these regrets. She knew the stern resolve of her future husband. Never, he had sworn, for all the love in the world, would he marry a widow! And the die was cast irrevocably now. He would never forgive four long years of deceit. “Sorry?’’ she answered, raising her eyes to his; “how can I be sorry when you have been so noble, so kind?’ He took her hand. “And have you not yet, four days before our wedding day,’ he said, “learned a little of the lesson of love?’’ Love! She knew that that was over for her. Gone; buried fathoms deep beneath the cruel waves that had robbed her of her Colin. . “Athol,” she said, ‘I respect and esteem you. There is no other man in the whole world I would have trusted or given myself to. But I have never deceived you. My love seéms lost. I fear it can never be revived.”’ He looked at her passionately. She was indeed an image of beauty; her rounded cheeks tinged with slight blushes, her eyes large, wistful, limpid, her ruby lips full and tempting, her bright hair kissing her dimpled, creamy shoulders. Oh! what would he have given for the power -~to animate this lifeless statue, to rouse the lovelight in those pansy eyes, to set that heart beating wildly to love’s own sweet music! “T shall rouse that, love again,’’ he said, in a tremulous whisper; “it shall be the task and duty of my life. Oh, heavens! what is the matter? y darling, my own, what is it?’ For Gladys had suddenly risen, her eyes dis- tended, her bosom heaving, her form seeming to dilate, and her gaze seeming to be fixed - upon something far beyond the present. Only for a moment had she stood thus, her parted lips paling; then, with a dull cry of pain, she had swayed and fallen into her lover’s arms in a dead faint. her alm ost aching A waiter was passing swiftly as this hap- pened, and Lord Featherstone eagerly called him, bidding him bring some wine, and then find Mrs. Howard Amberworth. But it was not the waiter who returned with the restoratives. It was one whom—even after all these years —the earl knew well, despite the havoc which dissipation and evil passion had wrought upon his features. TO BE CONTINUED. Run 1toE od arth. By NICHOLAS CARTER, Author of ‘‘ Weaving the Web,” ‘‘The Old Detective’s Pupil,” “Gideon@Drexél s Millions,” ‘Tracked Across the Attantic,” etc., ete. (‘Run TO EartTH’’ was commenced in No. 47. numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers. ) Back CHAPTER XXII. CONVERGING FORCES. Half an hour later, and at a point in the mountain pass some four miles beyond, two men came together from opposite directions. One was the man from Yuma—Chick Carter, The other was riding a magnificent sorrel horse,.«and was clad very like a country par- son. They came together at the brow of a gentle rise, from whichsthe ravine coursed to the northern highlands; and the rider. instantly reined in his horse, and Swept a quick glance over the man afoot. It must be remembered that both were in disguise. ‘Hello, stranger!”’ ‘he cried. ‘Hello, yourself!”’ cried the man from Yuma. +» And he pushed back his broad sombrero, and thrust his ‘hands into the depths of his pockets, then burst out laughing. He had recognized Nick’s voice. “Well, TV’ll be darned!’’ roared the latter, leaping down from his horse. ‘‘Chick!’’ ome Nick!’ cried Chick, extending his and. And the palms of the two detectives met with a more than genial and joyous hand- shake. “Well, -Chick, what are you doing here afoot?’’ demanded Nick, when their greeting was over. “Tt hadn’t any option in the matter,”’ Chick. ‘‘My wishes weren’t consulted. I took a chaneeé, sir, when- four infernal cutthroats were not looking, and legged it for dear life. Here’s a bullet hole in my sunbonnet, which shows how near they came to dropping me after I started.” “Something has happened!”’ “T should say happened! cried exclaimed Nick. It was more than a case of happen, Nick. The stage was held up four miles below here, on less than an hour ““The deuce you say!’ : “Tt’s a fact, Nick. The driver was shot dead, Ethel Dare taken prisoner, and your humble servant only effected his escape by the skin of his teeth.” “Who were the desperadoes ?” “Who do you think?’ “Not Elkins?” “That hits the nail on the head, Nick. He and | Riggs, aided by two dirty-faced greas- ers.’ = BD you know their names?’ *T heard one of them called Chavez.”’ “By Heaven! it was Manuel Chavez!’’ cried Nick, at once. “The whole dastardly job is plain enough now. “Then you know the man?’’ : “T know of him,” said Nick. “I have heard the whole story es Hillary Dare.”’ “Then you also have run across Dare?’’ “Yes, Chick, and he has turned out all that | I predicted. The Slang Pe mine was ‘salted’ by this man, Chavez, and I’ve been hanging about for the past forty- -eight hours, on the LYS but suddenly disappeared. Un- communicated with him in they must have held up the tthel Dare of that epee e just it!’ eried Chick But El- kins met ih a mishap, and Ethel Dare rec- ognized him: That made it necessary for them to hold her a prisoner, even if they do no worse than that. Her testimony would convict them all.” “She must be recued,’’ said Nick, decisively. “But you haven't told me why you are rid- ing here alone.’’ “That's quickly explained,’’ said Nick. ‘‘Soon after noon I received the note you sent from Paes § Spring.” ago, C a1