Ses,
ts

  

 

 

   

 

 

 

MORNING PRAYER.
BY MRS, SARAH A. WATSON,

Father, let the morning break
Sweetly on my soul to-day,

And the minrtrel breezes wake
All my soul to melody$

Help me to forget my load,

Journeying on thy heavenly road,

Though the heavy folds of mist
Half the morning’s glories hide,
Ere by noontide sunbeams kissed,
They will climb the mountain side,
Walking, Father, in thy sight—
s‘At eventide there shall be light,”

if my path should lie to-day.
Amid darkness, amid gloom—
If, in groping for the way,
I should fall upon the tomb
Of some cherished hope long dead—
Let thy love still beam o’erhead,

If the skies should melt in rain,
And the clouds obscure the day,

When the sun shall shine again,
Lord, above my onward way

Let thy bow of promise shine,

And a perfect faith be mine,

Let me walk serenely, Lord,
Leaning on thy arm of might,
Trusting in thy holy word, :
Through the gathering shades of nights
Be thou with me, Lord, to-day,
Journeying on the heavenly way.

ADELINE, THE TEMPTED;
The Sudden Marriage.

[Back numbers of ‘Adeline, The Tempted’”® can be ob-
tained from every News Agent throughout the United
States, ]

 

 

CHAPTER XI,

A NEW LIFE.

A bright summer has faded away. A winter of
unexampled sterility and rigor has succeeded it.

That, too, has swept over the face of the fair
earth, leaving not the most shadowy trace behind
jt to hold contest with the laughing spring, which
has succeeded the iron-boundicy season.
pn And so twelve months have passed over the

ead of Adeline, Marchioness of Bulstrode.

She is paler than she was, and there is an air of
sadness and dejection upon the young face which
was a stranger to it even at that period of great
suffering when she seemed to stand alone in the
wide world, and hope belonged not to her,

The scene is one of the most brilliant saloons in

Bulstrode House.
. The early spring has not yet exhibited warmth
sufficient to dispense with the use of fires; and
mingling with the sparkling coal in the ample
grate odoriferous wood is burning, sending
through the vast extent of the palatial apartment
a faint perfume, which seems to steal across the
senses like a pleasant mist.

And in every nook, and in every corner, there
are fair flowers that have stolen a march upon the
summer season, and have condescended to bloom
in alltheir vernal beauty, to flatter the senses of
the sons and daughters of luxury.

It is near the evening. One of the French win-
dows is open. The soft south wind puffs its way
gently through the casement, slightly swaying to
and tro the Venetian blind that shuts in that
abode of luxury from the curious eyes without.

Long, slant gleams of golden light pervade the
room, shedding a new, rich, and rare beauty upon
Objects sufficiently glittering in themselves to look
fair and beautitul, without such adventitious aid.

There is a couch drawn close to that open win-
dow. Adeline reclines upon it,

The poor, rich Marchioness.

Poor in happiness, poor in contentment, poor in
all that really constitutes the heart’s wealth; and
yet lapped in golden luxury so far as regarded
those external possessions which those who have
them not look mistakingly upon as almost the ele-
ments of a state of beatitude.

Her hands are clasped over her face. She is
either sleeping and moaning in her. sleep, or her
waking thoughts are full of bitterness and woe.

It is an anniversary.

How long that day has been coming round!
But, at length it corresponds in time of year and
date to that on which the Marquis of Bulstrode
first looked into her eyes, and, with tender praise
of her young beauty, and joy at his heart that he
was once more restored to human feeling, made
her what she now was,

A peeress.
ue richest peeress on the golden scroll of no-

ility.

But how changed she was!

Where are the soft outlines of that girlish face?
Wuere are the surprised, eager-looking eyes, only
blurred for a time with tears, wrung from suffering
that would pass away like a dream ?

She was still young. She was still beautiful.
But it was not the same youth and the same
pare which had made her the Adeline of former

ays.

And now those slant rays of sunshine passed
away. A cooler wind swept through the open lat-
tice. There is a slight rustle of the heavy silken
hanging over one of the doors of the apartment.
A gaudy French clock strikes the hour of seven,
and then, with little piping and carol-like sounds,
the pretty toy plays a few bars of a lively measure.

The room darkens. The twilight of that brief
April day sweeps down over the fair earth like a
cloud, and then Adeline is conscious she is not
alone, and she knows who is her visitor; for she
is, at that hour, and on that day, to give an audi-
ence to the man who has held her in his thraldom
like a caged bird for those weary twelve months.

Joseph Julian darkens the bright apartment
with his presence. The voice jara upon her ears.

‘Adeline |” ;

She shudders.

‘You are here,” :

“Itisthe hour. Listen! Punctuality is one o
my virtues; although, perhaps, in me you may
callit by another name. Listen!”

There was an unusual stillness in the streets,
and the last strokes of the hour of seven could be
heard distinctly echoing from several church
steeples.

‘“Marchioness, you remember this day twelve
months since; and I have now to ask you, have I
kept my compact?”

“Go on,” said Adeline, faintly. ‘What is your
wish now?”

“This day twelve months since I made you Mar-
chioness of Bulstrode. You then fretted in your
gilded chains, and, taking but a short and limited
view of the humanity with which you were sur-
rounded, you cast away the glittering fortune you
had won; but I watched over you and bestowed
upon you the rare privilege of retrieving a mis-
take—of retracing a false step.”

“No more—no more!” cried Adeline. ‘What is
“Hear me out.” '

your will?”
Adeline clasped her hands over: her eyes again,
and seemed to listen.

When the wild, romantic love, which made
you disdain your present state and dignity, was
rooted from your heart, you made of me one re-
quest. Do you remember it?”

: I do—I do”

It was that for twelve months you should be
left in peace, in obscurity, and almost in solitude,
in order that no atom of respect for him who had
made you 80 great and go noble should be omitted
in that year of your widowhood. I consented,
and I ask you now if I have kept my word?”

You have; and yet”

“Yet what?” 5

“T gave you all, I surrendered to you power
over all my possessions. You have been lord and
master here, Joseph Julian,”
“It was the agreement. Iam scrupulous to My

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ous grief have passed away, a new career opens to
Adeline, Marchioness of Bulsirode. Have you no
ambition ?” =3

“Alas! Thad. The ambition to be loved—the
ambition to be happy—the ambition to be humble,
obscure, and at peace—at peace!”

‘Delusions! delusions!”

“Yeg, delusions all. HaveInotfound them so?
Joseph Julian, even now how gladly wouldI give
all this state and all this wealth to be as you once
found me, a poor, destitute girl, without home,
friends, or food, and yet holding that priceless
pe in her heart, the consciousness of being
ovad.’

"Depart, gloom—depart, shadow! You are
nineteen yearsofage. Marchioness of Bulstrode,
I have told you I will not play the niggard, and
there is not a luxury that earth, sea, or air can
offer you, that you may not command. Shake off

be ablaze of light, and awaken all its drowsy

Adeline, live! For this that you call life is a sort
of vegetation, like slow-creeping moss upon @
ruined wall. Live, I say! Assume the almost
regal state to which you are entitled! Itis a sin
—a sin such as your heart even would acknow-
ledge--not to scatter broadeast about you the
golden shower which would irritate many a bar-
ren heart. You may do a world of good. The
wealth you held is held in trust; to hoard itis to
play the part of an unjust steward. Do you un-
derstand me, Adeline? I ask you, by the memory
of him who for a few brief hours loved you, and
made you the grand almoner of all his vast pos-
sessions, to rise up and fulfill the wishes of the
heart which slumber in the grave. Behold!”

Adeline half rose. Something of the ferver
which the words of Joseph Julian depicted found
an echo in her breast.

There was a flush upon her brow—a quiver of
her lips.

What folded paper was. it he handed to her in
that dismal twilight? She could not read it.

“It is a testament,” he said; ‘and it is signed
‘Bulstrode,’”

“From him?”

Yes; from the late Marquis. I found it
amongst his papers. Itisaddressedtoyou. The
heart that indited it was full of love, although the
hand trembled that penned it,”

“I cannot read it. There is darkness in the
room.”

__“Oh, we will have light; and Bulstrode House
shall blaze out again in all its own magnificence.”

Julian clapped his hands.

With a bright flash, by some unknown means to
Adeline, the pendant lustre from the ceiling, with
its forty glittering lights, was all ablaze,

He clapped his hands again.

A soft, subdued crash of music sounded through
the palatial residence.

Adeline had involuntarily shielded her eyes from
the bright light; but now her ears were charmed
by the gentle dulcet sounds of that music,
‘“Whatis all this?” she said,
mean ?” :
“Tho Marchioness of Bulstrode requires light,
by which to read the message of affection from
her deceased husband.”

“But those sounds ?”

‘The Marchioness of Bulstrode’s private band
have it in command to usher in the coming night
with melody.”

Adeline looked about her. The vast saloon in
which sne sat had never looked so gorgeous and
so beautiful.

She opened the folded paper with trembling
hands. She strove to read it, but for a few
seconds the characters seemed as if they eluded
her observation, and a strange fancy crept over
her that they were not intended for her eyes.
‘Another time,” shesaid. “I cannot—I seem
as if I dare not read this paper now.”

“T pray you do so—it isa duty.”

Adeline tried again. She pronounced the words
faintly as she read them:

‘My dear child, all coldness, all harshness has
passed away.”

She looked up in the face of Julian,

“To whom is it addressed?”

“To you.”

be payt .

“Nay, look at the superacription—ttrn the
paper over.” Oty :
She did so.

‘To the one I love best.”

These were the words at the back of the paper.
‘You see—you comprehend,” added Julian.
‘He calls you his dear child; and what were you
bane child compared with him? Read, Adeline,
read!

She continued to read the paper with a feeling
of dread and doubt:

‘Do not be a niggard of my wealth. . Enjoy it;
and spread around. you allthe good that such
enjoyment must bring to thousands. Dispense it
with a liberal hand, and fear not—so earning the
love and blessing of him who has passed away.
“BULSTRODE.”

‘J will obey him,” said Adeline. “If this be a
voice from the grave, or’ but a false echo, yet I will
obey it. To hoard this wealth which has been
given to me will not bring happiness, while to dis-
pense it may perchance divert——”  -

Julian would not let her finish what she was
about to say. He caught atthe word “divert.”
“Tt will!” he cried, ‘it will divert a thousand
gloomy fancies; and while light music, gaiety,
and company will chase grim despair and sadness
from your heart, you will scatter about you many
a blessing. Let Bulstrode House be the gayest of
the gay. Trust to me for all arrangements. We
will congregate here sparkling crowds of the high-
est and the noblest—even royalty shall tread
lightly in these vast saloons. Next week you are
presented at Court; the week after you give a
ball—at once the wonder, envy, and admiration
of the season; while your cousin, Mr. Joseph
Julian——”

“My cousin ?”

“Certainly. It will still the voice of scandal,
and crop off some of the heads of the, hydra. de-
traction if we seem to be related. Therefore, I
say, your cousin, Joseph Julian, will, as a kins-
man, and inmate of Bulstrode House, help to do
its honors; your opera box shall be the best, your
equipages shall outshine royalty, your diamonds
daze and dazzle the multitude. This is the com-
mencement of the London season, Adeline; when
it closes, there shall be sufficient talk to last the
winter through of the magnificence and glory of
Bulstrode House and its fair mistress.”

There was a bright glow on Adeline’s cheek.

*T may succor distress?” she said.

You may.” é

“I may stretch out a helping hand to struggling
genius ?”

‘You may-—you may.”

“T consent. Do with this vast fortune what

| you will, Joseph Julian. Let it descend around

me in what showers it may, I heed not if it.all be
scattered; and yet—oh, forgetfulness—torgetful-
ness!”

Of what?”

The past. If I could purchase that. One
drop of those fabled waters of oblivion, that leave
the heart fresh and new, obliterating from it all
the stains of past suffering and past regret.”

Julian laughed.

A sparkling goblet,” he said, “of such a
draught were welcome to those lips as the first
rain-drops to the parched traveler in the’ arid
desert. I, too, have something to forget,”

Vou 9

He turned and looked at her. The expression
of his face was something awful; but it quickly
passed away, and he laughed loudly and boister-
ously. Then checking himself by a sudden effort,
he bowed with infinite grace, as he said,

‘Pardon me, Marchioness; I was vulgar for the
moment. What is it you would fain forget?”

‘Nothing,”

SAh 1?

“It was a foolish speech, and I rather want
something to remember.”

‘And that ?”

“Joseph Julian, can you tell me aught of—of—
Frank Anstey, and the—the——”

“The fair girl he married? Oh! they are well,
thriving and happy. If you remember, he was
pale, and there was a look of sad reflection in his
th but all that hag passed away. I saw

im——

**You did?”

 

“Yes; and his smiling bride. Twelve months

word; but now that those twelve months of decor-

this lethargy of the soul, Let Bulstrode House }

echoes with the sound of happy music. Live, |

“What does it }

 

 

have lent fresh sparkle to his eyes,”

“No more! Iam content that he—he is well
and happy. I will play the part of Marchioness
of Bulstrode, even as you would wish me, Joseph
Julian. This day ends the widowhood that I
held sacred to the memory of some one who holds
80 high a place in my esteem. I will be what you
wish. I will do what you say; and perhaps—per-
haps I may not even have time to be unhappy.”

“More music!” cried Julian. ‘More music,
Marchioness! You will be as some fair butterfly,
bursting forth in beauty and in glory to dazzle all
beholders. Moré music! Throwthe doors open!
Your arm, Marchioness. We have alittle party in
the next saloon. Your arm, Marchioness. . Din-
ner waits only to be lentanew charm by your
gracious presence.”

 

CHAPTER XII,

CHANGE FOR THE MONEY-CBANGER,

“Country air, my dear sir; carefnlly selected
diet. Ishould recommend game; and let what
wine you use be the very finest quality—old and
dry. ‘This is early spring, too, and I cannot
answer for the life of the patient in so precarious
a climate as this. I should recommend Maderia;
there are some charming situations at Punchal.
But remember, everything of the best. Game for
solid food, and old dry wine in moderate quanties,
but often repeated. Cheerful society, too, is a
great auxiliary in such cases. In fact,my dear
sir, nothing must be spared upon the. patient.
Hem! a delightful spring day. We willcall again
on—let me see, this is Wednesday—suppose we
say Friday.” .

Dr. Oleaginous, the great Court physician, drew
on his faultless kid gloves, and looked bland and
smiling in the face of Frank Anstey.

Poor Margery lay on a sorry couch in the one
little sitting-room of the miserable broken-down
house of the money changer. She was pale and
wan. The blood had fled from her cheeks. The
light of health no longer glistened from her eyes.

Frank Anstey bowed. He compressed his lips
until not a particle of color remainedin them. He
could not speak. His heart was too full for utter-
ance.

Dr. Oleaginous satisfied himself about the fit of
his left hand glove. He smiled and coughed. An
aristocratic, slight, fashionable cough, and then
he looked hard at Frank, as though he would have
said,

“Well, you have forgotten something.”
And so Frank had. The fee!

With a start and a fiush of color, he took from
his waistcoat pocket, with a trembling hand, the
sovereign and the shilling, wrapped in paper.

“Certainly, Maderia,” said Dr. Oleaginous, as
he held out his hand, and let the fee drop into it,
rather than took it. ‘Certainly, Maderia—and re-
member the game, You quite understand me,
Mr. Anstey ?”

“T do, sir.”

Frank’s voice was hoarse and husky.

Dr. Oleaginous had got on his rignt-hand glove,
and then he glanced about him.

The room was 80 poor. So sad and weak an ai-
tempt at gentility was manifest in all its arrange-
ments. :

The physician coughed again.

“Good day, Mr. Anstey. I hope we shall find
ourselves better on Friday. Ah! Tobject tothat.”

There was a wail of aninfant. Margery strove
to hush the babe, which up to this moment had
lain sleeping on her breast.

‘An experienced nurse,” said Dr. Oleaginous,
as he slowly settled the little finger of his right-
hand glove, ‘tan experienced nurse, Mrs. Anstey,
at any cost. Madeira, game, very old wine, and
an experienced nurse, and plenty of cheerful
society. Keep the mindamused. Good day, Mr.
Anstey.” :

“Good day, sir.”

‘ Frank’s voice was more husky and hollow than
efore, :

The fashionable physician’s carriage stood at
the door of the humble, old, ricketty, broken-down
house. The tall, sleek horses pawed the ground
impatiently. ;

Slowly the physician .descended the ricketty
staircase, and he mused as he went.

Dr. Oleaginous was not a bad man, but he was a
conventional man. He had been brought up as a
physician; his business was to take fees, and give
advice. But he was a man of the world, likewise,
and he had seen the threadbare black coat of the
young husband, and in his glance round the
apartment, he had noticed the terrible struggle to
keep up appearances.

He paused a moment at the door. He shook
his head.

“Tama humbug,” he said, ‘a rank humbug!
Maderia, game, and old wine for those people who.
find it a hard struggle to provide themselves with
the commonest necessaries of life. Tm ahum—
No, I’m not. The advice is good—correct in every
particular. Ihave done my duty; and that young
man, with his sick child of a wife, has done his
duty—for he has paid my fee, and here it is,
What did Icome into the world for but to take
fees? But still, if I take this one, may everlast-
ing——Well, well, there’s no occasion for strong
language. Mr. Anstey! Mr. Anstey!” -

“Sir

‘A word with you.”

Frank came dreamily down the stairs.

“Mr. Anstoy, I conduct my business in my own
way. Sometimes I prefer my fees as I go on, and
sometimes at the end of the case. You under-
stand me, sir? On this occasion, I prefer them at
the end of the case; so take your guinea, sir, and
don’t be contradictory.”

Another moment and Dr. Oleaginous was off.

Frank Anstey looked wistfully at the guinea as
it lay in his palm, ‘

“The last!” he said.

Slowly he took his way up stairs.again,

‘Margery! Margery !”

There was no answer.

He crept softly intotheroom. She slept. The
young child and the young mother,

Then Frank Anstey wrung his hands. He was
no longer observed, and had no longer occasion to
play a part.

‘Madeira, game,” he murmured. “Old wine,
cheerful society. or she is lost. Oh, heaven! what
a fate is this! Do I destroy all who love me? Is
Adeline happy? And is this poor young heart
fading away? I will speak to him again—the old
man. He must have money—he cannot be so
poor, A money-changer! The very sound has a
golden tingle with it. I willspeak to him again—
again, while she sleeps. Margery! Margery!
poor Margery! TI have not loved you as I ought,
but as bounteous heaven is my witness, I have
loved you as I could.”

Slowly he crept down the stairs again. Old
Pennycost reclined in an easy. chair in the back
parlor.’ He seemed to sleep, for his head rested
on his breast.

There was a wild tumult in the heart and brain
of Frank Anstey. For twelve months he had re-
spected the ol: man’s word, and believed in the
old man’s protestations of poverty; but now,
urged by feelings that would find utterance, he
oy in tones of passionate grief and expostula-

ion.

*Sir—Mr. Pennycost—I did not deceive you—I
did not deceive Margery! You knew that I was
poor, penniless, homeless, friendless, or wherefore
should I have become to you what [I was? But
now hear me, sir. I know it is the custom of men
like you to have hidden hoards—to affect poverty,
in order that you may dazzle your own eyes in
secret with a contemplation of heaped-up gold.
Sir—Mr, Pennycost—it is not for myself I speak
—it is for Margery, your own child. I call upon
you, in the sacred name of human affection, if you
have gold, to pour it forth lavish as water from a
stream, and save her.”

The old man did not speak.

‘Awake! awake, sir! I have never used this
tone to you before, but you shallhearme. Heaven
forgive me if I do you an injustice, but I think
you must have gold. Mr. Pennycost, I demand it
of you for the sake of Margery, and the young
life, too, that is bound up in hers. Iam a desper-
ate man, sir, and I must speak ag I now speak.
Mr. Pennycost, answer me.”

He shook the old man roughly by the arm.

Some accidental puff of air made its way into
the dingy room. A blackened old blind, that had
clung for half a century to the begrimmed window,
gave way from some sudden impulse, and fell flut-
tering to the floor. :

The last rays of the April sunshine of that fair

day gleamed into the room. They were a few
rays spared from the flood of glory that streamed
amid the crimson hangings and profuse gilding in
the saloon of Bulstrode’ House.

The hour was the same as that at which Adeline
had declared her intention of distributing with a
liberal hand the wealth which the old Marquis
had placed in her possesssion.

Alas! what a contrast! Could she imagine for
one moment that Frank Anstey was imploring aid
to save his young wife and child from destitution
and from death ?

And now, irate at the oe indifference of
ne old money-changer, Frank turns again toward

im.

“Mr, Pennycost, this indifference——”

He pauses. He clutches atthe table for sup-
port. One glance at the old man’s face was suf-
ficent. There was no voice there to reply to him—
no heart there to be wrung by his reproaches.
No brain to meditate upon the appeal made to.its
feelings. Deathhad already stepped into the
money-changer’s abode; and old Pennycost had
passed away in the midst of his afternoon slum-
ber, calmly and gently, without a pang.

“Gracious Heaven! he is no more, and my last

words were those of reproach. Nay—not so, for
he had passed away from us before they were well
spoken. Whatisthis? A written paper?”
. Close to the old man, on the table by which he
sat, were writing materials, and an ancient ebony
desk, at which old Pennycost had been wont to
keep his accounts. pee

A acrapt of writing-paper lay upon it, with some
neatly illegible characters scrawled, in the old
man’s hand, diagonally acrogs it. 4

Frank Anstey stepped to the window, and with
difficulty deciphered the writing:

‘Main CornperR: Lam yon ruin. I had nothing
to come away from Rotterdam, and that nothing
is gone less and less. I am von ruin; and ven,
mein childer, you take all, you take nothing but
von blessing of von old ruin. PENNYCOST.”

Sadly and silently, Frank Anstey looked upon
the still form of the old man.

The communication between them had been
ever of a kindly character; and now that he had
passed away, leaving that declaration behind him
that it was not from want of feeling or generosity
toward those about him that he had abstained
from lavishing gold upon them, there came to the
mind of Frank a bitter sense of depression.

He had done the old man aninjusticethen. He
had thought harshly of him. And he had spoken
more harshly still. Into the deaf ear of death he
had poured reproaches.

Bitter and repentant, indeed, were those mo-
ments that he now spent alone with the dead.
But Frank Anstey’s mind was of too reasonable
aud logical a character to cherish the delusion. for
long that he was to blame.

And, at all events, there was a something that
exonerated him from all charge of harshnegs or
haste in the matter.

It was not for himself that he had spoken. It
was for Margery—for the child of the old man,
who, by his parsimonious and somewhat mysteri-
ous mode of life, had engendered the idea that he
had hidden treasures.

But all that passed away now.
dream. ‘

Not, however, until he had fully awakened to
the reality did Frank Anstey feel how strong a
hold upon his imagination the idea had taken,
that at the last extremnity—when the worst came
to the worst—old Pennycost would produce some
cherished source of gold, and banish want, with
all its attendant miseries, from the humble dwel-
ling.

“Heaven help us!” he moaned
can help us now!”

But there was the shop. There was the little
grimy window; and lying beneath it were the few
articles that denoted the business carried on
therein. '

An old, battered teapot, that looked like some
family relic, but yet it was surely silver. Some
wooden bowls, the chief contents of which were
sand, but on the surface of which lay, as if thrown
with prodigal munificence, some foreign coing.

And then there was the confused heap, in one
corner of that window, of shreds of gold lace,
faded bullien tassels, cruet tops, a battered snufi-
box, and the thousand and one articles that make
up the window show of whatis called a gold and
silver refiner, i.

Surely these things were worth something.

With a bitter pang, Frank Anstey told himself
that he was heir at law to the stock in the old
money-changer’s shop.

He crept out of that dismal back parlor which,
since death had taken up his abode within it, had
seemed to put on an air at once solemn and awe-
irspiring, and by the dim, fading light of evening,
he glanced at his possessions. His fortune.
Those miserable articles in the window of the
money-changer.

He directed his attention to the bowl containing
gold coin. There were only seven pieces, but so
artfully bestowed above the sand, that they pre-
sented to careless eyes a confused heap of the
precious metal,

A small folded slip of paper lies beneath them.
Frank Anstey cannot read it, for the light has
faded away, and.aconfased fitful sort of glare
come through the window-panes from a distant

amp.

That lamp is just lighted in the Oxford Road,
and burns bright and dull alternately, in imitation
of a revolving beacon.

Then Frank Anstey closed the shutters of the
old shop. He thought he ought to have done so
before, from respect to the ol@ man who sat in
the gathering darkness of the back parlor; and so,
when all was fast, he procured alight, and casting
one more glance upon the still, sad looking figure
that sat in the old chair occupied by Pennycost so
many years in his life, he unfolded the paper he
had found in the wooden bowl.

There were but few words upon it, and they
were in the handwriting of old Pennycost. These
were likewise in his peculiar phraseology and
orthography.

‘*Von swindle. Plated on von copper.”

Frank Anstey dropped the paper. The seeming
gold coins were valueless.

Was the battered tea-pot a snare, and would it
turn out to be tin? Were the shreds of gold lace
and bullion tassels oxiv yellow delusions? Were
neo silver coins in their peculiar bowl only

ea,

Frank Anstey would not have been surprised to
have found the whole stock in the shop fade away
in this manner from’before his eyes, like fairy gold
that turns to leaves in the hands of some un-
authorized and luckless possessor.

But his investigations were cutshort. He heard
a wailing cry from above. Then his own name
was pronounced,

“Frank! Frank!”

_ Margery was awake. To what a terrible revela-
tion had she aroused herself! What a task was
his to inform her that they were now alone in the
world, without a hope. But it must be done.

One more glance he took into the back parlor at
the still form he had thought so harshly of in
life, and now regarded with a kind of veneration
in death.

“Tt was not for myself,” he said, “it was not for
myself I spoke. I would well have borne pain,
misery, want, and even destitution; but poor
Margery and the little one, youunderstand? That
they should have a care or want, unmanned me.
It was for them alone—-for them alone.”

He spoke to that silent image of humanity as
though his words could still reach the cold heart
and senseless brain. He seemed to think that he
must excuse himself, even to the dead money-
changer, before he crept up those miserable
stairs, to tell Margery she was fatherless.

Then, with the light held above his head in his
trembling hand, he slowly took his way to the
young mother and the helpless babe.

“Frank! Franky? :

“I come, Margery! Icome, dear Margery. I
come!” :

It was but a

“Feaven alone

omnes

CHAPTER XIIt,
A DEATH AND A MYSTERY.

Frank Anstey hastily made his way up-steirs,
and yet he paused at the top of the flight.

How was he to inform Margery of the catas-
trophe that had occurred in the back parlor be-

 

low? In what words was he to inform her that
her fether was no more, and add to it the direful

terl

 

intelligence that the dream of obtaining pecuniary
succor from him had faded entirely away?

Well might he pause.

But the voice called upon him again,

‘Prank! Frank!”

‘JT come! ITamhere!” |

He entered that small scantily furnished cham-
er.

There was a dim light burning in it now, and ag

the teeble rays fell upon the face of Margery, he

saw that she was strangely excited, and that some~

thing like her old color had visited her cheeks.

“Ob, Frank!” she cried, “what isthis? What

is this? Can it be true?”

His heart failed him. For a few seconds he
had no voice with which to speak to her.

She had divined, then, that her father was no
more; and yet, how it was possible that the
knowledge could have come to her, was beyond
the imagination of Frank Anstey to conceive.

He stepped forward and folded her in his arma,
He wished to let her know that she was not utter-
ly deserted; and when he could speak to her it
was with the only words of comfortthat suggested
themselves at such a moment.

They were something like those words used by
Hamlet’s mother when suggesting a less extrava-
gant show of grief for the death of the majestic
King of Denmark.

“Tis common, Hamiet—all that live must die,
Passing through nature to eternity.”

‘Yes, Margery, he has gone from you—but there
are compensations, and indulgent heayen, when
it snatches away from us one whom we love,
ee still to fill up. the void in the poor

eart. ’

Then Frank Anstey saw the bewildered look of
Margery.

She did not understand him.

There was no mystery, then—no wonderful
means by which she had acquired information of
the death of her father, so recent and so strangely
sudden, with no human eye to note his dissolu-
iton, but that of the young husband and father,
who had certainly not communicated the sad in-
telligence.

But Margery has a folded letter in her hand.
It is that which has attracted her attention, and
brought the strange light to her eyes, and the
color to her cheeks.

: ae Frank—read!” she said. ‘Can this be
rue ?”

The light was very dim in that poor chamber,
but as with one hand clasped around her he looked
over her shoulder at the letter she held in her
trembling hands, he saw that it was in the hand-
writing of old Pennycost.

“‘Mrtn Curip: Tell your husband that as you
are yon Marchioness, you will be von great lady
with much moneys, and great honors; and this is
from PENNYCOST.”

Margery half turned round, and looked in the
face of Frank Anstey. He was paler than usvai,

“What does this mean, Frank? What can my
father intend? How can Ibe aMarchioness? It
is not possible; because, if such had been the
case, and you had had great rank and great
wealth, we should not, could not have been——”

Margery glanced about her. She meant to say
“ag we are,” but it was not necessary to utter
the words.

And then Frank turned paler still, as he clasped
her closer to his breast.

‘Margery! Margery! there is a seeret, a secret
that would not have made you happier to know.”

“But I should know—I ought to know. Oh,
Frank, Frank; where there is a secret there is not
perfect love, for love in one of its true conditions
is perfeet confidence. What doesit mean? You
willnot tellme? You hesitate still, and I see
trouble on your brow. Then I willlearn it from
him. Father! father!”

Margery made what noise she could, stamping
with her little foot upon the floor.

Tt was a signal old Pennycost was wont to an-
swer by speedily making his appearance from be-
low when he heard it.

Alas! it now fell upon ears deaf to all human
sounds.

“Hush, Margery! Hush! Iwill tell you ail,
but it will not be for your happiness. It is true.
Leok about you—look at these thin and fluttering
hangings--look at the poor appointments of this
room. Do you see anything glittering, great, and
noble about them? Is the sparkle of a coronet to
be found in any of the dim recesses of this cham-
ber? And yet, Margery, yet you are a Mar-
chioness.” ‘ ‘

She uttered a little scream. She shook with
emotion, Then she clasped her hands over her
eyes.

“Say it again! Say it again, Frank! Fora
marchioness must be rich and great. Father!
father! come hither! He says I am @ mar- ©
chioness|”

Again she stamped upon the floor.

“Oh, forbear, Margery, forbear. You know not
what you do. How strange this is,”

“What Frank ?”?

“This resemblance to the course of human ne2-
ture—smiles and tears, but more tears than
smiles.” ;

“But Tam a marchioness!”

“Yes, Margery; and at the moment when your
heart is full of the excitement of a new joy, Ihave
tidings for you that will fill it with griet.”

“No! no!”

Margery glanced upon the little sleeping form
upon the couch. ~

What great grief could come to her while, with
regular inspirations, that young existence slept
the sleep of health?

“Your father——”

Then an alarm seized her,

‘Your father is no more; but you are a mar-
chioness !”

Margery looked stunned, bewildered. Her father
had been much to her. She knew she had been
the apple of his eye, the cherished treasure of his
heart’s core; and strange, wayward, and grasping
as had been the old money-changer, there was no
bright gem, or mountain of light, the treasures
of the world could have exhibited to him, for
which he would have exchanged his Margery.

Frank Anstey was rather alarmed at her sudden
silence.

Grief is like anger, all the more bitter when it
can find no ready expression.

‘Remember, Margery, remember,” he cried,
“Tam with you and this ether one, who should
be, and is, dearer still.”

He led her to the couch. One glance at the
fair face of the slumbering infant was enough,
and Margery’s surcharged heart was relieved by a
flood of tears.

Then Frank Anstey, with a conviction of the
philosophy of supplanting one direful image by
another of more pleasant hues, spoke to her
gently and cheeringly.

_ ‘It is the course of nature, Margery, and the
time willcome when you and I will pass away;
and if we do so as peacefully and gently as your
father, surely all will be well. I thought him
sleeping in his usual chair below; but it was the
long sleep that knows no waking. Remember,
though, that you are a marchioness; and believe
me, that I kept this secret from you, not to abate
by one ray any sunshine that might fall upon
your heart, but because—because——”

‘Because what, Frank?”

Because it left us poor as ever; and, perchance,
with the superadded pang that we might have,
been otherwise.”

“But how is it? How could it be?”

“Margery, you know—that is, I have darkly
hinted to you—that there was a time—a time, be-
fore I knew what wealth of love resided in that
gentle and innocent heart of yours—when I was
dazzled, dazed, bewildered, and scarce master of
myself, like some poor somnambulist who walks
to his. destruction, I believed in the love of
another.” .

Margery shuddered.

“J know! I know!
now ?”

She clung to him. It seems as though she
thought he would slip away from her; and that,
by the mere hint of the possibility of some other
attachment, she should find that she grasped but
an unsubstantial shadow, that would leave her
lone and desolate. — i

He understood her.

“Yes, Margery; yours only, and for ever!”

She clung still closer to him, and sobbed bit-

 
  
 
 
  
 
 
   
  
 
 
  
 
  
  
   
  
 
 
   
   
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
   
 

She spoke faintly.
You did tell me. But

 

y. f
“The dream has passed away. It wasadream