,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

of light and of love, and it brought with it all the
bitter experiences of human existence. Nature
deceives us not, even in her most capricious
moods; and when warmed by the sunshine, we
know it is by the glorious rays that proceed direct
fromheaven. But human lips can wreath them=
selves in smiles, and yet deceive,”

“Not always, Frank.”

“Not you, my Margery—not you, my. Mar-
chioness! But let me tell you. The false love—
the ane meteor which I mistook fora true

. light—has left my heart for ever.”

Bis voice faltered as he spoke. | 3

“And in its place there has arisen a pride—s
pride, perchance, as false as the light that led me
into darkness. Oh, Margery! Icannot tell you
all; but that false love, which for.so long I held to
my heart, and believed in and worshiped, basks in
the prosperity that should be yours. Ask me no
more—ask me no more! Oh, this struggle be-
tween the past and the present. Margery, I
thought your father rich; I thought that he had
hoarded concealed wealth, and that it was not
necessary I should wring my heart by asserting
my right to that which is mine own.”

“Frank!

‘sy Margery |”

“7 do not understand. you.” '

The look that she cast upon his face was so full
of ingenuous simplicity—of bewildered: innoesnce
—that Frank felt it necessary to be more explicit
upon a subject regarding which he had rather
thought aloud than spoken.

‘Margery, my father was Marquis of Bulstrode
—an aged man of many prejudices, and violent,
stormy passions; and I was young, and wanted

-that discretion which could separate the dross
from the gold in hig character. We quarreled,
and I became an outcast. He was proud; and if
he left me nothing else of all his greatness and
all his vast possessions, he left me that.”

Frank Anstey drew himself up to his full height,
There was a flash in his eyes, and a heightened
eoler in his face.

‘Yes, he left me that.”

How like the old Marquis he was. The very
tone and manner.

Margery shrunk back and trembled.

‘And go, being an outcast, the idea feund a
home in my heart that I would make a position
for myself, for youth is strong in its credulity, and
believes in the world, andin high desert, and in
the rewards of conscious merit and ability. I
scorned the wealth wltich was denied me, but those
are dreams, and have faded away before the prac-
tical realities of the great scramble of existence,”

‘And your father has wealth?” —

‘Tmmense,”

And we?”

Margery glanced about her.

‘Hear me out, dear one, She, the one—she—
her of whom I spoke—the false light—the blind-
ing meteor—she has all,”

“Again, Frank, I do not understand you.”

“It is an old tale, Margery. Alas! that it
should be socommon. She loved, or affected to
love, the poor, discarded son; and then, by some
sirange accident—I know not how—placing her-
self in communication with the wealthy tather,
she became higs——”

“His wife?”

‘His Marchioness! And then, in the pride of
my heart, I would not condescend to claim that
which was mine own; but, mingling tegether in
ene expression of scorn and disdain, the deceiver
and the wealth for which she had deceived me, I
have permitted both to sail down the stream of
time together, waiting for that mortal retribution
which will surely come,”

‘Alas! alas!”

‘Weep, Margery, weep! The little one sleeps.
Come, dear one, it will comfort you. Creep down
these stairs with me, and assure yourself how
gently he has passed away, whom, _at times, we
have almost thought harshly of, thinking that ho
had wherewithal to give us when it was not so.
Read this, Margery. Itis another message from
your dead father.”

Tearfully, and with many sobs, Harney read
the scrapt of paper which Frank Anstey had found
in Pennycost’s cesk. That scrapt of paper which
declared the entire poverty of the old money-
changer.

She did not speak, but hiding in the breast of
her apparel both those mute messages from the
dead, Margery, leaning heavily upon her young
husband’s arm, accompanied him down those
narrow, creaking stairs, that led to the shop, and
then to the room at its back, where so sad a sight
awaited her. ;

‘He did love me, Frank; oh, he did love me.”

“There cannot be a doubt.”

“And we judged him harshly?”

‘We are but human,”

Oh, but one word—one look !”

“Be calm, Margery; it is better as itis, When
death steals thus gently over the senses, he comes
not to appal the imagination, but as a minister-
ing angel, to waft us from the gross realities of
this world to the pure airs and gentle sunshine of
immortality. Be calm, Margery, be calm!”

They went silently through the darkened shop,
and the small light that Frank Anstey carried
from the room above, cast both their shadows in
strange fantastic grouping upon the bare and
grimy walls. ‘

‘You can bear the sight,” he whispered,

‘He loved me.” Ss

‘Prue, Margery, true—and death is not terrible
to look upon in those we love.”

The door was gently opened.

How silent and reverent we are, when silence
and reverence are needless. How careful of any
stray sound, when nothing but the blast of the
Archangel’s trumpet will be sufficient to reach the
deaf ears. :

“Look! There, on his chair where he slept of
7 afernee Look, Margery; so calm, so peace-

a

Frank Anstey held up the light. He supported
her with his left arm, for he felt that she must
need support.

There was a moment’s silence, Then a look of
incredulous astonishment,

The chair was empty!

CHAPTER XIV.
MIDNIGHT AT BULSTRODE HOUSE.

Not on tho hearth, where he might have fallen
during some of those mysterious changes which

take place in the physical system after death, was

old Pennycost to be found.
Tn no portion of the room—awakening from a
- swoon thai looked like death, but had been simply
suggestive of it—was any vestige of the presence
of the ‘money-chenger,

The still form that Frank Anstey had looked up-
on with a pang of regret had utterly and entirely
disappeared, leaving not the slightest sight or
sound to solve the mystery. :

A strange awe crept over Frank Anstey, What
could it mean? 4

“Margery, what is this?”

*Tt is not death!” i

Margery spoke with a full feeling of relief, “She
could no longer believe that her fatherwag no
more. She began to doubt the evidenceof Frank
Anstey’s senses, and to believe. that amid the
darkening shadows of that evening, he had only
fancied the sight he had described to her, which
had had no real existence. i

Then Margery clung to Frank Anstey’a arm
eloser and closer still, for to her young and ex-
cited imagination there was something both mys-
terious and terrible ia this disappearance of her
father,

“What doesit mean? Speak to me, Frank—
speak to me!”

‘Alas, I know not!” s

‘Tell me again that you saw him here in life,”

“I did, Margery; and likewise in death.”

‘And then—and then ??

Frank shook his head,

“I know nothing more, Margery, but that I came
to you to tell you, as gently as I could, that the
Destroyer has been here, and that all hope had
vanished of obtaining that succor from your fa-
ther we 80 ee oe in pee ote

“Tt cannot be; it cannot be!” cried ry.
‘eis here still. Father, father! spare !
This ig not Kind! Speak tome! speak to me! It

we is eruell”

Margery’s voice rang through that silent ana
deserted abode. But ‘there was no reply to it.

wl, Lhen she shudderingly crept closer still to Frauk

4 Anstey.

‘‘Atone! alone!” she said. ‘We are all alone
now !”

‘Not alone,” he es gently. ‘Notalone,
while we both live, while we both love, and while
this house is still hallowed and sanctified by the
presence of one whom we willlook upon as a gift
from Heaven 1”

“Ibis true! it is more than true! Forgive me
that I repined; and if Iam not quite happy,
Frank, it is the wayward nature of your Margery,
and not the fault of your loving heart.”

She flung her arms about him, and held him
closer still.

Poor Margery! She seemed to dread that he
likewise would disappear from her like the exhh-
eee of the morning, and leave her desolate in-

eed.

A long and careful search in that old dwelling
only confirmed them both in the truth that old
Pennycost, the money-changer, had certainly dis-
appeared.

They then ore up-stairs, gazing in each other’s
faces, like scared children, terrified at they know
not what.

It was surprising the blank desolation of the
house now that the old man had gone from it. A
preternatural stillness. seemed to be about its
chambers, and although old Pennycost had glided
about the dismal, dark dwelling quietly enough,
yet how that he was gone one-half of its life-like
existence seemed to have fied with him.

The child still slept. And Margery and Frank
sat by the side of its little cot, hand-in-hand; and
by the flickering, waning light of the single candle
wey conversed together, in sad and whispering

ones.

“We are so poor, Frank !”

"So very poor !” he sighed,

‘Shall we want ?”

Prank shuddered.

“No—no—nol Not want. Surely I have arms
and hands with which to work, and will to use
them |!”

“But, Frank——”

“You pause, Margery. What would you gay ?”

She pointed to the cot in which the child was
sleeping.

Frank Anstey felt that she made some sort of
appeal to him, bat what it was, or why she made
it, he knew not.

“Speak, Margery. Let me know your heart's
wishes.”

‘Tor that dear sake ?”

‘Yes, Margery, for that dear sake.*

“Not for me.”

“Ay, Margery, and for you. Welcome any toil,
any endurance, any degradation; and from it I
shall pluck high honor and distinction, because it
is for you.”

“No, Frank, you do not comprehend me, You
are a gentleman.”

“A gentleman without the means to live. Ob,
Margery, Margery! briefly calculating that which
we possess, it may be jthe value of half-a-dozen
meals to come, or less, or perchance a little more;
but I seem agif I heard a knocking at the door,
and that the visitor had « terrible name.’

“What name, Frank ?”

‘Destitution !” :

“No, no! It must not—cannot be! I am
thankfal for that. I seem as if I could speak to
you more freely.”

Tho light had burnt ont, and Frank and Mar-
gery were in darkness. Darkness, with the ex-
ception of a faint metallic glitter that came in at
the window from a street lamp.

‘Why can you speak to me better in darkness
than in light, Margery? Is it because our fate
and prospects are dark and clouded over, and
you can sée no light in the time to come ?” ’

“No, Frank; but Iam about to try your heart;
Tam about to make war upon your feelings. I
put on armor like the knight in the old picture
below, who is about to attack the dragon.”

‘I do not understand you, Margery, AmI the
dragon ?”

“No, Frank; but there is one in your heart, and
its name ig Pride.”

Margery spoke quickly, now, as though she
feared an interruption.

“You are a gentleman—a noble—a marquis !
You say your father is no more. Of course, he
is no more, or you would not be a marquis. Is it
poe that he died hopeless—helpless ? That

6 left nothing willingly or unwillingly to you, his
only son? Is there nothing you can claim, Frank,
as your own? Think—oh, think, and then think
again! Itis not for myself I speak; but for you,
and one dearer to you than yourself! You hear
mo, Frank, but you do not reply to me. Is it
pride, or the deep sense of injury, or—or what
else is it that keeps you from the assertion of a
right, if right youhave? Frank, speak tome, I
can feel you tremble, but you do not speak.”

“Margery !”

“That is well, Yes,I am Margery, your Mar-
gery! Yours ever, and ever, and for ever |”

‘She knows it not—she knows me not! As
plain Frank Anstey she believed I loved her; and
now, in the midst of riches and splendor, she ex-
ists with possibly the canker worm at her heart,
which deprives existence of all its joy.”

Or possibly forgetting you, Frank ,and basking
in the sunshine of a prosperity for which she

bartered alove that were the whole world one |}.

emerald ts

Margery could not continue. She only clung to
Frank, and wept convulsively.

Then he spoke to her ealmly, and with tones of
deep affection.

Yes, Margery, you are fighting the dragon, and
its name is Pride. I have left her all, holding to
my heart the idea that I was heaping coals of fire
upon her head, and that the time would come
when, happy and PronDenotas I could meet her in
some of those gilded saloons of high aristocratic
life, with you, my Marchioness upon my arm,
showing her what she might have been, and leay-
ing her then to the enjoyment of the empty Ca8-
ket, while we wore in the fullness of our happi-
ness the rich gem of joyful, contented existence.
Then I meant that she should see how she had
exchanged the substance for the shadow.”

Alas! alas

“It is alas, my Margery !”

*Dreams—dreams, Frank |”

“Yes, Margery, the dreams of a young heart un-
schooledin tho great world, and taking Romance
forits Mentor.”

“But now, Frank ?”

‘Margery, you have slain the dragon {”

She uttered a cry, and flung her arms more
closely about him.

“T will assert my right. Beshe happy or mis-
erable, my duty lies plainly before me. Iam the
Marquis of Buistrode, and such properties and
pe ous asIcan claim by that right, belong
tome |”

Yes, Frank, yes—oh, yes !”

*l will be common-place and practical. Rest
this night in peace, my Margery; and to-morrow,
be assured, that I will take some steps as you say
—not for myself, but for you and for this fair
treasure.”

Margery wept more gently upon his breast.

The clouds that had seemed to be rolling over
the future were stirring and scattering, like the
mist upon a mountain-top, through which thesun
of a new day is darting a thousand golden beams,
making even the uncertainty and obscurity ra-
diantly beautiful.

eee eee

Adeline is alone. Itis midnight at Buletrode
House. Midnight!

She has yielded to the solicitations of Joseph
Julian, and on the morrow a new life is to com-
mence. Alife of glitter, of fashion, extravagance,
and, possibly, of dissipation.

Cards are issued to the elite of the aristocracy
for an entertainment at that Bulstroge House, the
gorgeous magnificence of which had been the
theme of every tongue.

The romantic marriage of the late Marquis—
his death even on the altar steps—the year of pro-
found seclusion which his young widow had ob-
served—the exaggerated reports of the boundless
wealth of which she was possessed—a!l combined
toinvest an entertainment at Bulstrode House
with the most abundant charms of novelty and
curiosity.

The mystery, too, that surrounded Adeline’s for-
mer position was 2 never-ending theme of gossip-
ing conjecture. No one knew who or what she
was; and, for allthe great world could discover,
she whom they were prepared to welcome into the
ranks of the peeresses of England, might have

 

dropped down from the moon into Berkeley

 

 

 

 

Square, to wed the old millionaire Marqnis, an?

to leave him dead at the very altar.

And was Adeline happy? No, never happy.
But was she happier? Did she look forward to
the glare, the glitter, the music, the Mashing
lights, the diamonds, and the soft hum of polish-
ed conversation which would fill her saloons on
the morrow, with any feeling of gratification ?
No, no, a thousand times, no. In the solitude of
that magnificent chamber which waa sacred to her
own repose, she sat and thought until thought
became a pain.

, ‘Happier, happier far,” she moaned. s*Hap-
pier far had I been in the poorest lot that fortune
could have placed me, with fis love to make it
beautiful! How cruel he hag been! He would
not listen to me at the church porch when I could
have told him all; and then when I would have
sought him, and, in a few words,convinced him of
my truth and boundless love, he had precipitately
raised up a barrier between us we neither of na
dare attempt to cross, and then ho has scorned all
help. Ihave striven to lavish money on him; I
have sent jewels to her whom he calls his own; I
would have given him all—and there is nothing
rich or beautiful in Bulstrode House that I woul
not have bestowed upon him. And how have all
my efforts been met? By scorn, scorn—nothing
but scorn. Icannot help it. Oh, Frank, Frank |
let me hope that you are happy; but the light of
joy has passed away foreyer from the breast of
your Adeline |”

She started to her foet,

There was a dull, heavy sound in the house, as
of some heavy object falling.

An undefined sense of alarm took possession of
Adeline. At that hour of the night, Bulstrode
House was usually so calm and still that not the
slightest sound cisturbed its serenity, Well she
knew that, with the ample means in his posses-
sion, Joseph Julian had, during the twelve months
of her seclusion, kept high revel in another house
he called his own. What could the sound mean?
Adeline strove to reason herself out of any fears,
but the effort was in vain. The sound had come
from the room immediately below her, and that
was one of the suite of drawing-rooms which were
to be thrown open on the next evening to the
fashionable crowd that would besiege them. But
all was stillagain, What should she fear? Her
full complement of servants was in the house.
Oh, it was nothing. Some accidental noise. Par-
haps the fall of some flimsy bit of gilding, or glit-
tering decoration ill put up for the ensuing enter-
tainment. eee

Adeline was getting more composed.

And then the sound came again.

She stepped tothe door and listened, flinging
aside the rich velvet curtains that shut in that
palatial chamber, and, opening its door, she lis-
tened, standing’ in the corridor without. She
Seka the murmur of yoices. They came from

elow.

A dim light burnt in the corridor amid a collec-
tion of rare exotic plants, that made a mimic gar-
den along. its entire extent, and which, in that
dim light, looked as if moonbeams streamed
among them,

Upon the rich and rare carpeting of the corri-
dor Adeline’s footsteps made no sound.

She crept down the stairs, She heard the

ae a necessity,” he said; “the woman was
mai

What woman? Did he mean her, Adeline ?

She paused before sho reached the more mag-
nificent corridor on the first floor. She paused,
and listened, stilling almost the beating ot her
peers lest she should lose a word of what was ut-
ered.

A door was opened, She saw, dimly, the figure
pt & man stagger out of the room to which it be-
onged.

voice of Julian.

“Spray, you are a coward |” cried the voice of | -

Joseph Julian.

“Manage it yourselves,” said Mr. Spray, who
was the person who had emerged from the room.
“Manage it yourselves; it is not in my line. Iam
a good ‘hand at dice of the right sort, and know
how to shuffle a card, with anybody; but when
you come to mur——” ;

“Silence, idiot!” said Julian. ‘‘How dare you
utter such a word, even to the night air ?”

The door was closed.

Spray went muttering down the grand stair-
case toward the hall, :

What could all this mean ?

Adeline felt hot and cold by turns, and the dread
of something dreadful having happened that
night beneath the roof of Bulstrode House came
strongly upon her.

It was some minutes before she could muster
courage to descend the remainder of the stairs,
but then she did so, guided by a long pencil of
light that came again from the door aa it swayed
open, perhaps, the width of half an inch, in con-
sequence of its latch not having taken secuazely.

Then she heard the murmur of voices again,
andthe drawling tones in particular of the man
called Finch. 3

“My dear fellow, that’s always the difficulty,
Find out how to dispose of the kody, and then
hold your tongue, and you may get rid of whom
you please.” ;

*Silenee |”

That was in Julian’s tone.

Then there was a pause. It was terribly broken.
Ayell! No other word can express the sound,
and yet it was stifled almost as soon as uttered;
go, soon, indeed, that Adeline might well sup-

ose that the sound rang out of her own over-
fieatea fancy, and had no real existence,

Ifher life had depended upon it, she could not
have resisted approaching the door.

The crevice was but small, but still, if she were
quite close to it, it might be sufficient to enable
her to gaze through it.

And as she did so, she heard the voice of Julian
again. He was speaking impatiently.

“Hold the light, Finch! hold the light! High-
erup! There, that will do!”

The same strange sound as of some falling
body—it was something like a chair being thrown
over—came upon Adeline’s ears that she had
heard while in her chamber,

“That will do,” said Julian.

CHAPTER XY.
THE FORGED WILY

Closer and closer still Adeline crept to the cre-
vice of tae door. She saw plainly into the draw-
ing-room, There was no appearance of disorder.

Lhe man calling himself Captain Finch was
there with Joseph Julian, and they stood by a
small, round gilt table, on which only one wax-
light was burning.

There was wine upon the table, and some silver
dishes of fruit; but Adeline, at the time, and af-
terwards, could hardly tell herself why she took
such particular notice of the fact that there were
four wine-glasses on the table, in each of which
were the remains of the bright, ruby-colored wine
which glistened in the decanter. s

A glass for Joseph Julian. A glass for Captain
Finch. A glassfor Mr. Spray, who had lefs the
house, beeause what was going on was not exact-
ly ‘in bis line.” And the fourth glass—whose was
that ?

Adeline shuddered to ask herself,

But her attention was soon absorbed by the
proceedings of Joseph Julian, who looked intenze-
ly pale, and yet appeared to be heated as though
he had undergone some great exertion.

‘That is over, Finch,” he said, ‘and we shall
get on better.”

‘You never can depend upon those women,”

“Of course not—of course not! But now, asI
was telling you, I am quite sure that my inform-
ation ig correct.”

“Dreams! Dreams!”

‘No, Finch, “he lives |”

“Stuff, Julian—stuif !”

§°Ah |?

“My good fellow, what’s the matter ?”

“Phe matter ? :
have you taken upon yourself to call me Julian,
and good fellow?” :

“Since,” said Captain Finch, as he coolly lighted
a cigar by the candle on the table, ‘since the lit-
tle affair which has just been concluded. It was
not in Spray: line, but it was in mine, and fellow-
ship in murder, my beautiful Julian, levels all
distinctions !”

“Perdition seize you |”

“Like enough! Will youtake one! I can re-
commend them !”

Since when, you seoundrel, |

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ing and foaming with rage; thea he stopped
abruptly, and burst into a high, excited laugh,

“Good!” he cried. “I rather admire you. for
once in my life, Finch. You are a wonderful deal
cleverer fellow than I thought you. The only pity
is that genius seldom lives long.”

“Keep off |” cried Finch. Keep off! Don’t come
near me with that look in your eyes |”

Joseph Julian laughed.

“Your courage has fled, Finch,” he said; “aud
from the cool, audacious ruffian you wished to ap-
pear, you are willing now again to be the humble
friend of Joseph Jutian.”

“We dare not quarrel now,” replied Finch, in a
lower tone; “‘we dare not quarrel: United, we
may be strong and support eath other; but you
have been arrogant, Julian, and overbearing; the
temptation was too great for me, and I spoke to
you as I have done; but let it pass.”

“Enough—enough! And now let me repoat to
you what I said before. I have ascertained that

é lives 1”

"That is sufficient if you are sure-of it.” .

“Iam sure of it, and he might give us a world
of treuble. A word in your ear, Finch, for I would
not trust what Iam going to say even to the walla
of this apartment |”

“Indeed |”

“Yes, he who I need not name, not only lives,
but is one and the same person with_—”

The name that was utterod by Joseph Julian
was whispered in the lowest possible accents in
the ear of Captain Finch,

Adeline would have given much at that moment
to have heard that name uttered,

And yet the wildest conjectures of her over-
wrought brain never led her for an instant to
suspect what it really was.

Nor was she clear at allin her own mind as to
the identity of this mysterious person mentioned
as ‘‘he,” whose continued existence seemed to be
such an alarming proposition to Joseph Julian.
Whatever the nan.e was, however, that was utter-
ed in the ear of Captain Finch, it seemed to strike
him with so much dismay that he reeled back, and
had to hold by a chair for support.

‘Can that be true, Joseph Julian?” he said, “or
has your imagination only roused up such a spec-
tre to frighten us ?”

“Tt is true.” :

“Without # doubt? Without a flaw in the evi-
dence ?” :

‘With a doubt, and without a flaw.”

‘Then we are lost.”

“Wemightbe. Weare as we were again.”

*I do not seo it. Ido notseeit, All this gran-
deur, allthis splendor will vanish; and we had bet-
ter again, as far as we are concerned, be eating
our scanty rations beneath the wild gum trees of
South Australia,”

“Silence |” cried Julian, as he stamped his foot
passionately. ‘‘Silence! I will have no more of
that. The past with meis dead and buried, and
this is a new life.” .

“Yes, of which we have had a tempting taste
for twelve months, but to have it wrested from us
at once and forever.”

“Not so fast—not so fast! Am I the sort of
man to relinquish that which I have once obtained
possession of ?” ‘

*But he will claim all.”

Tet. him.”

And she will be willing to surrender all -to

im

“Tet her.”

“Joseph Julian, you are more mysterious than
ever. What, in the name of all that’s wonderful,
do you mean to do? Or rather, I should ask,what
can you do ?”

‘Has your ingenuity deserted you? Why, the
poor fool Spray, if he were here, would suggest
some means of overcoming such a difficulty.”
Captain Finch clasped his hands together.
**True |” he cried. “True! Ha, ha! It is but
& ie and I neyer knew that to stand in our
way |”

“And yet, Finch, I do not suggest that as the
best and easiest course.”

*Tndeed!”

“It might be dangerous. Here, in this house,
there were facilities for a work of this night which
we could scarcely expect in the case of this man,
who, if he came here, might be missed, might be
watched.”

‘*T see, I see.” :

Julian poured himself out a glass of the wine.
Finch did the same,

ae careful,” said Julian. “What glass do you
use ?”

They both looked narrowly round the table.

‘This was hers,” said Finch.

‘Are you quite certain ?”

‘Perfectly so. Let it go.” :

Finch flung one of the glasses over his head,
and striking the gilded wall of the galoon, it fell
in a thousand fragments to the floor.

“Look you here,” said Julian, speaking in a
lower tone. “This large gilt cabinet has not been
opened since the‘death of the Marquis. Suppose,
now, upon looking into it, we shouid find his will
drawn -up roughly, as the will of such an eccen-
tric man might be supposed to be; but yet with
sufficient point, clearness, and legal emphasis to
make it thoroughly binding upon all concerned ?
Suppose it dated on the day of his marriage with
that girl who sleeps above, and witnessed by
Richard Finch and Henry Spray ?”

“I begin to see.”

“Ofcourse you do. Suppose it to leave all and
every possession, great or small,to her who an
hour after its execution was to bear his name,
and become the Marchioness of Bulstrode 2?”

Finch looked confused.

“Stop,” he said. “I have heard a good deal
about wills, There might be difficulties.”

‘‘None—if Joseph Julian be appointed sole exe-
cutor.”

“Ah! I seo.” )

‘Tbe answer will be complete to him whom I
will not name; while, acting in an official capacity
it gives me increased power.over the wayward in-
clinations of the Marchioness.”

‘“Bxcellent | excellent!” cried Finch, “It is a
master stroke of—of——”

“Oh, don’t be chary of words. Call it villainy,
if you like 3; or policy, which is the politer term.”

Fan approached the gilt cabinet, of which he
had spoken; and with a skill which betokened
much experience in that line of business, he pick-
ed its lock with what appeared to be only a piece
of twisted wire.

‘What doos it contain ?” asked Finch, eagerly.

‘Old china; but it matters not. Now, Finch, to
work—to work |”

Julian took from a drawer, belonging to a table
in the room, writing materials, and pushing the
decanter, with the ruby-celored wine away from
him, he sat down and mused for a few moments.

“Come, Finch,” he said, “you were wont to
write a clerkly sort of hand; and, if I mistake not,
once spent your dignilied leisure in the practice of
the law.”

“Hang the practice of the law!” exclaimed
Finch. “Look you here, Joseph Julian, for once,
you are not so fullof iinesge and cleverness as
usual. This will should seem to be written
wholly by the old Marquis himself.” o

shee ! true! Can you imitate handwriting
weli?’

“Ii is not one of my accomplishments.”

“Tecan, then, Only show mea fair copy, and
wore the Marquis alive, he would swear himself
to his writing and his signature.”

‘Indeed |”

‘Behold !” added Julian. é

He took from his pocket that identical paper
which he had shown to Adeline as an inducement
to her to spend freely the large income ef the
deceased Marquis.

“Capital !” said Finch.
three minutes |”

Julian looked eagerly over him as he wrote.

Half a dozen lines sufficed to convey from the
late Marquis of Bulstrode to Adeline, the friend-
less and forsaken, the whole of his vast wealth,
without the slightest shadow of an exception, and
to appoint Joseph Julian as sole executor.

‘Now I sign tor myself, as witness,” said Finch 5
“and Spray should be here.”

‘‘T will procure his signature,” replied Julian.
‘And should the person of whom we have spoken
appear here, either personally or by deputy, to
set up the dangerous claim he might, the answer
is here, complete and explicit.”

‘And well done,” said Finch,
pass tho night, Julian ?”

“At the Meadow.”

Finch laughed.

J will have it done in

**Where do you

 

|. Julian strode to and fro in the apartment, fum-

“The meadow ‘that is always green. The

meadow that wants no mowing: The green cloth
Penion sparkle brighter gems than dew-drops.”

1 Pon my word, Finch,” said Julian, with a
ie .,/ OU grow poetical, and adorn a gaming-
able with such flowers of rhetoric, that when I
ped te cones it I shall believe myself en-
z i 2
o2h i fn asic ein employment, at once inno
= Julian blew outthe light as he spoke.

2 hey both made way toward the dues and Ade-
line felt thatif she would escape observation, it
must be by shrinking back amid the shadows of
the corridor. It was too late to take even the
ee ees up the ee and but that those

Ww were pre-occupied about the ine
that had passed, and thinking higuteot ie
vicious excitements and pleasures to coma they
might have seen dimly the trembling figure of
age

ut they passed on. Quickly down th,
staircase of Bulstrode House. ae

Some words, which she did not catch, were
briefly exchanged
Then the outer door was opened and shut, and
Joseph Julian, with Captain Finch, had left the
mansion.

Adeline pressed her hands upon her eyes.

“Yes,” she said, “I am awake. I have heard all
this, and seen all this. But what does it mean?
Has there been a murder? and, if so, what con-
nection has it with this forged will? Or why
should a will be forged to give me that which I
had already ?”

Adeline had never asked herself what was the
precise law upon the subject of her succession to
ee = and properties of the Marquis of Bul-
stroae,

it seemed to her so natural that after becoming
his wife, and knowing, or seeming to know, that
there was no living soul who could claim near
consanguinity to him, she should quietly become
the poszessor of all his wealth, thatthe matter
had eevee assumed a questionable shape in her
mind,

Now it was somewhat confusing. She was not
aware that distant relations of the Marquis had
in truth made applications at Bulstrode House,
bat had been answered by Joseph Julian to the
effect thatthe young Marquis was expected home,
That was a sufficient answer to all such claim-
ants; but it was only by a series of accidents with
which we need not encumber our story, that Ju-
lian became really aware of the identity of Frank
Anstey with the son of the old peer.

Why or wherefore he came not forward loudly
and energetically to proclaim his rights, Julian
could not understand.

The proud, romantic modes of action of such a
man as Frank Anstey were totally beyond the
comprehension of Joseph Julian. -

Just, therefore, in proportion as the young
Marquis slept upon his rights, did he become to
Julian a mystery. A sort of slumbering volcano,
containing within a world of hidden fires; which
might, at any moment, burst into life and activ-
ity, overwhelming with destruction all around it,
But surely he waa safe now. The forged will and
the sole executorship armed him with a power
that even the only son of the late Marquis of Bul-
strode could scarely resist.

But what of Adeline?’ Would she ba content to
lay before Frank Anstey, upon his fully declaring
who and what he was, that cold and inanimate
piece of writing paper as an answer to hig claiua?
No. Julian knew she would not,

But in the depths of his intricate heart there
lay a half-developed plot, to which he had but to
give the touch of life, and Adeline would shrink
aghast from the consequence of opposing his
wishes.

We shall see, A dense bank of clouds is rising
in the horizon of Adeline’s young life. They are
charged with furious storms, and all that has yet
endured—all that she has suffered, wept, and
wrung her hands for—shall seem but as the mere
playthings of the passions in comparison to the
stern realities that are to come |
(To be continued.)

WHAT IT HAS COST YOU.
BY NETTIE VERNON.
Has it become an old, ‘old story, oh, my read-

er, this painful war? Ab! rather woulda pen of
mine write joyful greetings to you to-day, but the

| 8ad spell of war, war, war, broods o’er my ‘gpirit,

and mayhaps the plaintive strain to which my
pen finds utterance will find an echoin another
heart—and ifso, I would bid it whisper of sym-
pathy and love.

Father! mother! the settling gloom of your
furrowed countenance—the more than fervent
prayer which rises from the domestic altar—the
days of sorrow and nights of sleeplessness—the
earnest perusal of the daily sheet—tell me, more
forcibly than words that a son has been taken
from your home! He was young and strong—
fall ofthe vigor of opening manhood, your idol,
your pride! But ye laid him on our country’s
aitar, and to-day he fills asoldier’s graye! God
pity you, aged ones, and be to youa surer pro-
toction,s stronger staffin your declining years than
the noble son, whose loving hands ye had so
fondly hoped should smoothe a path for your
trembling feet though life, and then gently lay
you away in your long, last sleep! Ah! God
pity you in your helpless years, as ye reflect, with
many tears, what the war has cost you!

Fond wife! guard jealously the cottage portal
from rude stranger feet—watch lovingly the ex~
panding “‘bud of promise” now sleeping in thine
arms—teach, ina hushed whisper, papa’s name
to bright-eyed Willie, as he leaves his little drum
unbeat to come and kiss mamma, and ask so in-
nocently what makes her cry—then look out
timidly, falteringly, faintingly, upon the world's
rough path which you must henceforth walk alone
—for the strong hand that would encircie and
shield youis powerless, and the manly echo to
thine one weaker heart-beat is crushed ever-
more

Sad priestess at the sweet altar of home! God

ity you, as with aching heart you realise, O! go
forcibly, what the war has cost you!

Sister! Ah! how can I write of the day when
ye parted! Too well—ah ! too well do I know the
agony of your heart when that darling brother
claimed and gave a last kiss! I know how fer-
vent and affectionate was the pressure of that
hand which had just brushed away (so. hastily) s
tear or two! I know how almosi inarticulate wag
the ‘‘good bye”—and when the bell had rung, and
the shrill whistle sounded as the train moved on,
I know the sorrow that rent your soul as you
turned upon your pillow to stifle those wild, wild
sobs, while he, (a soldier now) bowed his fair
young head with suck emotion, 43 he had never
felt before, and wept alone, while the ears rolled
on—on—on, bearing him away—away—away! I
know how ye have missed him day by day—-the
unspoken, merry greeting at morn—the laughing
jest of almost every house—the song which ye
have no'heart to sing alone—the deserted path
which has led ye on many a moonlit ramble—the
tiny boat which hag never been unlocsed since he
fastened it so securely just im the shadow of that
old gray rock—the vacant room, with pictures of
his own drawing hung around the walls—his un-
strapped trunk closely packed with clothes which
he may never wear again—these, with a thous-
and other things, will write upon your heart the
desp, terribly deep ‘lesson of what the war has
cost you, as to-day you may read his name among
the slain! Oh! God, be very tender, yery com-
passionate with you! e i

Brother! ye were but two, and to-day ‘ one is
not.” Upon Virginia’s sunny plains, within a
grave, fashioned, not by kind and careiul handg—
moistened not by tears of kindred—blessed not
by voice of sacred, solemn prayer—guarded not,
by the eye of love and affection, he sleeps—thy
brother sleeps ! :
Manhood bids thee noi repress the flowing tear
—manhood bids thee not repress therising sigh—

and pity you in she sad hours which will bring so
forcibly to your remembrance the painful proofs
of what the war hag cost you!
SERA ATS
TO CORRESPONDENTS,
Gossip WITH READERS AND ConrRisvrors.—

We have a number o i1MS8S. on hand which will be at-
tended to next week.

 

 

 

with the porter in the hal}, -

 

and while thine heart is yet tender and_ bleeding, -
fain would whisper in thine ear, God guard }

 

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