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Aug. 25, 1885.

Copyrighted, 1885, by Bunny: AND ADAMS. Entered at the Post Offiv'e at New York. N. Y., as Second Clnsn Mai! Mutter.

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

32.50 PUBLISHED WEEKLYBY BEADLE AND ADAMS, - p v _
VOL. VI. a Year. No. 98 William Street. New York. Fiveré'ficgnfs-  66-
l
R IV
. nun  J
W, ,_
“I. REGINALD ROTH, Do HEREBY sommxmr vow THAT I WILL IN GOOD TIME TAKE THEE, BEATRIX
RUTHERFORD, To B}; My WEDDED WIFE.”
’8  - ra id Succession and scattered by the north
  ; Wigd. Already ’the lawns and paths of the
Reedes were strewn; even the flower-beds were
. or, BETROTHED AT THE CRADLE covered, although that very mermng Job Hath-
 - _.._. ' away—under gardener t9 Squlre Rutheyford—
 BY GEORGIANA DI UKENS. * had spent an hour sweepmg andgathermg the
 —— ruseet—tinted leaves mto neat plles under the
*1," CHAPTER 1 laurels. .
: THE BETROTHAL. Job surveyed the Wholesale dlsorder with the

I f1 "’33 leaves were being whirled off the trees in exemplary patience for which his namesake is

-wwrm

 

 

a LORD ROTH‘S sm.

 

famed. Then he looked at the distant form of his
master on the terrace.

“ I don’t believe he would care if the garden was
turned into a howling wilderness to-inorrowl” said
Job, not unkindly.

His remark was infinitely true. S uire Ruther-
ford took all the minor evi s, the sma er inconven-

v iences, of this life in an easy and happy sort of fash-

ion peculiarly his own.
This gusty afternoon he was walking u
the laurel walk arm in arm with his

l

and down ;
ricnd Lord 3

Roth. The two were talking amicably, as men who ‘

had a liki
they passe
window. Within the room sat two ladies and an
elderly gentleman. The former were Lady Roth
and Mrs. Rutherford the latter was the Reverend

Mr. Carlyle, rector of Rothbury, and father of Mrs. 1 km

Rutherford.

Two months ago Lady Roth had resented to her
husband a son and heir. Within a ortnight of that
event a daughter had been born at the Reedes. The

children were the first-born of the two houses; it 3
was to celebrate their baptism that the families had .

dined together to-day.

There was a careless happiness in Squire Ruther- I
ford’s face and manner which even affected his a

walk. He was fair-haired and leasant-voiced. The
expression on his handsome
unsuspicion~too much so of the latter.
of an y thing mean or base himself, the Squire was
slow to see such in others. He was open-handed,
too, and the veriest im ostors found an easy prey in
the good-natured gent eman.

Perhaps circumstances had conduced to this happy
state of mind. At twenty-five years of age, Adrian
Rutherford had found himself ; the fortunate pos-
sessor of the wide stretch of meadow and forest-
land before him. That grand domain, with its
manor-house, and its deer-haunth gladcs known as,

Free Cbace—only divided from the Rothcourfil

roperty by a narrow stream—owned him as master.
The more modern but elegant house and rounds
called the Reedes were his also. Here he c ose to
reside, whil .. for Free Chace he had found a tenant
in the wee. thy member for the county, Sir Dal-
rmeJIe Dare. ,

A joining Free Chace lay Rothcourt. That, too,
was a heritage of which any man might be proud.
‘Between Rothcourt and the Reedes lay the village
of Rothbury, almost every house and farm of which
belonged to the lord of Rothcourt. leginald, the
present Lord Roth, was a few years older than the
yountr S uire. He was taller, too and very dark,
with blac hair, crisp and curly, black eyes, and a
heavy mustache which covered the Weak, undecided,
yet beautiful mouth. The face was a handsome one,
in spite of a certain sinister expression that it were

at times; and beneath the olive skin the color would .

flash with every changing passion of_ilie unquiet
heart. Lord Roth’s was not the dispos1tion to gain
the wide and loyal love of all about him, as the

Squire had done, but his face was one to haunt a ,

woman’s “nightly dreams and waldng fancies.”

Slackin their ace, the two men at length came
to a stan -still. he scene before them was a fair
one seen in the light of the late October day.

“ b0 you remember our adventure in that old elm
tree, Roth?” asked the young Squire, laughing, and
pointing to the dismantled trunk of an ancient tree
some distance 011'. “How firm was our conviction
that it contained a magpie’s nest !” v

“ I remember; and how cruelly we were deceived!
Flgu narrowly escaped breaking your neck. That is

i 6
long into any scrape, and then repent at leisure,”
was the amused reply. *

“How short atime it seems since that afternoon
when/we made our first attempt at partridge-shoot-
ing in your father’s preserves!” ‘ ,

The words of an old song floated on the breeze
in the Squire’s clear baritone, with Just a tinge of

for each other’s company. In their walk .
and repassed the open drawing-room .

ace was candor and V
Incapable ‘

on: to this day you are ready to rush liead— ‘

sadness in them, such as a past and pleasant
memory recalls.

“ Yes; and now I have a son and on a daughter,"
said Lord Roth, thoughtfully. “ ome, Adrian, let
us go in." .

There was a shade of pomposity in his veice
wheneverhe spoke of his son. No one could ever
know the depth of love in that man’s heart for his
little child.

“ And if your son should wed my daughter——
“ Why, what a wedding there Will be!”

sung the S uire, in light-hearted, careless tones.

Lord Rot looked at him quickly. It was not the
first time that this thought had occurred to him;
and it was a pleasant thought for many reasons.
But he spoke quite coolly—even lightly. .

“It is just possible they might, Adrian—particu-
if they were led to suppose that we were
‘ against any such thing. Young people usually
make a point of falling in love against their parents'
wishes.”

“ So they do, Roth. But, seriously, should such a
thin come topass, I should not know how to be
‘3 the. ful enough. It would be a closer bond than
ever between us, old fellow.” .

“ What a irl you are, Adrian)” said Lord Roth,
the shadow 0% a smile on his mobile hfps. “ You, at
least, are unchanged with the lapse 0 years.”

“ That is a doubtful compliment,” laughed the
other, as they entered the drawing-room.

The ladies were en aged in quiet talk, Mrs. Ruth-
erford holding her ha iy on her knee. The Rector
having partaken bountifully of the Squire’s old p0
had fallen asleep in an arm- chair. .

“Rose, we have been hatching a plot worth _of
1 Machiavel,” said the Squire, gay y, and seating 11m-
3 self as he sgoke by his wife. ‘ This and another
, little bit of nery are in process of time to become
, devoted lovers,-and eventually the reigning sover-
eigns of Rothbury, and owners of the united lands
; and revenues of Rothcourt and Free Chace.”

‘ The lady turned her pretty, inqinring face to Lord

Roth.

“Seriously yes," he said, smiling. “My dear
| Mrs. Ruther ord, we onlgr await your sanction to
! perform the ceremony of etrotha .”

i He addressed himself to the Squire’s wife, utterly
L ignoring Lady Roth, whose meek and quiet face was
i turned toward him. I . .

“They are to be the modern Paul and Virginia,
Romeo and Juliet, or any other devoted pair you
may choose to name,” supplemented the S uire.
; “Come, Lady Ellen, give us your support. by,
; where is Romeo?” . .

“ He is with his nurse,” replied Lady Roth quietly.

“ But I do not understand what all this is about,”
observed Mrs. Rutherford.

“Only a little plot, the dzwouement of which is to
give general joy and satisfaction,” returned her
husband, ringing the bell. “ Tell Mrs. Kenn to bring
the child," he said to the servant who answered his
ring.

;. In a very short time Lady Roth’s nurse entered
. with the little heir. She was a oung woman with
a dark [and beautiful face—an rish face of almost
, perfect loveliness. Her glossg' black hair was ath-

ered in rippling coils beneat a coquettish wi owls
cap. Her blue eyes—mostly lowered beneath their
1011 lashes—were apt to glance uickl at things
anc pee le about her. This was rs. enn,pai:tly
maid to lady Roth, partly head nurse to her child,
and esteemed by her gentle mistress invaluable in
both capacities.

The “ ceremony ” pr0ved more troublesome than
either gentleman could have foreseen. Mrs. Ruther-
3 ford. half-amused, half-distracted, held her baby

daughter, and Mrs. Kenn the little heir of Roth‘
court, while the laughter-loving Squire joined the
children’s hands, and Lord Roth said, With mock
solemnity: .

“ I. Reginald Roth. do hereby solemnly vow 13W

l

 

 

LORD ROTH’S SIN. h , 3

 

 

I will in good time take thee, Beatrix Rutherford
to be my wedded wife; in token whereof I phght
thee my troth.” ‘_ _

Then Squire Rutherford, amid sundry e losxons
of laughter, registered on behalf of the said eatrix
Ru therford—who shrieked lustily meanwhile—a
similar solemn vow to take Reginald Roth—at pres-
ent aged three months—to be her wedded husband
at some future time.

Both children cried furiously. Mrs. Kenn soothed
the little heir with cooing murmurs. Mrs. Rutherford
endeavored to quiet her daughter.

“It’s over,” said Lord Roth, resigning the boy to
his nurse. “ What do you say to that piece of bus1-
ness, Mrs. Rutherford?" .

“ N o, it is not over,” interrupted the Squire. “ The
deed is not signed. See here. ’

He seated himself at the davenport, and wrote on
a slip of blue paper:

“I, Adrian Rutherford do give and bequeath to
Reginald, son of Lord Roth, of Rothcourt, in the
event of his marriage with my daughter, Beatrix
Rutherford, the whole of the property known as
Free Chace, in the village of Rothbury, as the said
Beatrix’s dowry.”

“ There ” he said, triumphantly, handing the
paper to ford Roth, “ that will make one property
of the two estates.”

Lord Roth laughed carelessly, saying:

“ If this were given to an ' one but me, you might
we the day you wrote it. {ow easily you could be
duped, old fellow!”

v,
words, and resolved to act n them. Fortune
seemed to favor him. 81x mont after his father’s
death he met his cousin, Charlotte Berney, for the
first time. She had a handsome fortune, and aface
that had she been any one else, would have proved
too fair for Reginald’s peace. He loved her With the

assionate love that it was his nature to give, and

avin once given it, gave it forever. She returned
it, an these two—so smgularly fitted for each other
——were betrothed. '

Had things gone on well, Reginald Roth would
have been a good man—a good master to his tenant-
ry, an honorable gentlemanin his generation. He
was not bad by nature, but became so by circum-
stances. Things were ordered diiferentl ;~ An ad:
verse fate appeared in the shape of Phi 'p Haugh:
ton, Lord Roth’s only cousin on his father’s side,
and, after him, heir to Rothcourt should Reginald

, die without heirs.

‘ Don’t imagine that I am so simple, Roth. There’s :‘

and the lip. Think of
humanity are heirs to,
perils of infancy; and even supposing
that the weather all these, there is a possibility
that hot may bestow their hearts in ot'ier direc-
tions—whereupon the deed is null and vonl.”

“Very well put,” said the other, coolly: “You
have missed your vocation, Adrian. Both in plead-
‘mR‘ Causes and writing deeds you excel. mm amt.”

" I think, too, that I still retain a boyish affection

many a slip ’twixt the cup
the ills these little bits 0
and of the

: tures Reginald Roth was terribly jea ous, and Chm — I
: lotte had many admirers.

for any scheme embracing a certain amount of risk,_” ;
1",‘JOlned Mr. Rutherford, ofi‘ering Lord 30th 1115 f

Cigar-case. “Come. Roth, let us smoke another
Clsar 1n the billiard-room while my wife orders
coffee.”

As Lord Roth crossed the spacious hall in the
wake otlus friend, he quietly folded and placed in
his breast-pocket the slip of blue paper with the
bquire 5 Signature.

CHAPTER II.
. THE FATHER’S summon.

IN the somber library Qf Rothcourt Hall its mas-
ter sat late at night, alone. The wax tapers lit up
the dreary gloom of the a artment, with its quaint
and massive furniture an tapestry llangin s; with-
Ollt, the autumn wind moaned drearily. The hour
“as late, the fire burnt low, yet Lord Roth still sat

y the open desk, anon rising to ace with slow and
measured tread the length of t e room. ,He was
thinking of something deeply, intently—something
0 absorbing interest.

1 For two .enerations past the Roths of Rothcourt
lad led_(1s:npated lives. ,The late Lord Rot-h—
whose wxld career reckless gambling, and revelings
at} reduced his heritage almost to nothing—had,
dying, left his son only the barren honor of the title
With the lands of ’
the furthest acre. On his deathbed he to] his son
I at} wealthy marriage would yet. save the young
Iliens honor and the heritage he held so dear.
i1Oolnng back upon his own wasted life with feel-
“ggs of doe remorse, he conjured his son to wed a
Be‘iglthy b do for his own honor, and to save him-
fron} the shame of the beggary and ruin that
sefamed inevitable. ' .
ate:- Reginald Roth remembered his parent's

Rorhcourt deeply mort aged to *

 

Between these two had ever existed a bitter ani-
mosity. As schoolbo s they had been rivals, and
in almost every case
torious over Reginald Rot Phihp was handsome,
carelessly clever, and of an easy, complaisant man-
ner, terribly irritating to one ‘so high-spirited 
Lord Roth. He was wealthy too on his father’s
side,and the desire of his heart was to possess the
title-v which he had so nearaclaim. He lovod,
Charlotte Berney in his careless fashion, but lit,
hated Reginald deeply. When these two were on
ga ed, he too was spending the autumn at Stair-
wo de, the seat of the Barneys, and he set himsvil
to work mischief between them. ‘

It was an easy task. Like most assionate m»
Philip worked cleverly.
and the fruit of his treachery was a quarrel betWecn
the two lovers. Reginald gave way to jealous rage,
Charlotte was proud, and they parted.

.Lord Roth spent that Christmas at the house of a "

friend in Devonshire. Here he met a youn lady
who was deemed an heiress—the only chil of 'a
wealthy merchant. Knowing that he must marry
for money, and quite indifferent as to whom he mar-
ried, Lord Roth made her his wife. Searcer was
the honeymoon over when tidin 5 reached him of
the death of his wife’s father, an close 11 on it the
frightful disclosure that he had died a ankrupt.
Reginald Roth, to his unutterable horror found
himself united to a penniless woman, for whom he
had not a particle of affection; He said never a.
word, but his indifference to his meek wife soon
grew into positive dislike.

Abitterer day was in store for Lord Roth. By
some means P ilip’s treachery became known to
him. Of the anguish of this awakening Lord Roth
never after dared to think.

Lookingback upon all that he had lost—love, hap‘
piness, and wealth—he swore a sacred oath.

“My cousin Philip shall never have Rothcourt—

T he shall never bear my name—not if I perjure my

soul to keep it from him i” he said to his own heart;
and he kept his vow. '

No marvel that the proud and unhappy man's
brow was shaded by the weight of his sorrow. If
he was faulty, he was unfortunate. His love for
his child was of the most intense nature. His own
life, his hopes, his peace of mind were all bl hted—
his aspirations for the future were centers in his
child. He had now an heir to his father’s name and
to the burdened property, which, by dint of almost

' impossible scheming, might bar-reserved. Above
all, the child was another barrier between Philip
‘ Haughton and Rothcourt.

i

i

To-night. as he sat in his solitary room, he took
from the drawer of the escritmre the paper which
the Squire had given him in a moment of thought-
less mirth.

“ This would save it—mv boy’s heritage? he mm.
mured,dpassionatel . “ This would secure it to im
free an unfettere, , as I might have secured it ad
I not been mad. If it might be sol Yes—it shall be

hing Haughton had been vie-4

 

 

 

.1


 

 

v .“w—WAWW.

4 ' LORD ROTH’S SIN. ' .

 

so. Yet, Adrian is my Mend. Am I then never to
have one desire gratified? My son, my little child,
is {there any sacrificeI would not make for your
as. e "

But oh, the long, long years before this fond wish
could be realized—the years of meager existence,
,of battling with povert and debt.

-“ 0h Heaven, if he s ould die!” he thought, as he
lockedthe paper in his secret drawer, and with the
thought cold drops of perspiration chased each
other down his brow, and his very lips grew white
Ho marvel that the proud man’s head was bowed
beneath the weight of his secret sorrow and the
sting of his bitter poverty. If the dream he was
cherishin was to lead him into sin, his hard fate
was a litt e to blame as well as his own weakness.

CHAPTER III.
RACHEL.

Barons Charlotte Berney knew and loved her
cousin Reginald Roth—before his meek wife gave
her tender heart into his keeping—some one else
loved him with a love deeper, fiercer and more
adoring than he dreamed 0 . It was avery sweet
and beautiful dream that lay in Rachel Flaherty’s
heart—a dream which she adorned with delicious

 

fancies and never-to-be-realized visions floatin in ;

her romantic brain. She was the dam hter 0 an
Irish farmer on the Rothcourt estate, an she hoped
to be Reginald Roth’s wife.

It was a strange and daring hope, but she was

young, innocent and foolish—not more so, perhaps, ,
han others have been before her, and will be again ;

so long as this world of imperfect humanity eon-
tinues. There was some excuse for her—he had
given her grounds for the ho e. In the listless, idle

ays before his father’s deal. , Reginald found time
hang heavy on his hands. He admired the young
Irish girl as he admired everything that was beau-
tiful and natural, until the dark ending of his life’s
romance made him indifferent and callous to all the
tender emotions belonging to youth long before his
own youth was past.

So, he had dallied after Rachel Flaherty’s foot ‘

steps, to whisper fond words in her car. He had

been wont to honor her dairy with his presence ‘

watching every movement of t e rounded arms an

graceful form with undisguised admiration in his
lustrous eyes. He had kissed her once or twice, un-
mindful of the rapture in her downcast eyes. To

him it was an hour’s play, forgotten as soon as 3

ended.

But Rachel did not forget. The first cloud in her
sky was a short visit aid by Miss Berney and her
father to Rothcourt. ‘hen followed a period of bit-
ter suiferin , in the midst of which came the tidings
of Lord Rot- ’s marriage.

The day he brought his wife to Rotheourt she
watched, from a Wicket gate where he had often
been wont to meet her in the past springtime, that
for Rachel had been the brightest, gladdest s ring
in all her life, the carriage which contamc the
newly-married pair. She looked at him as he passed
-—herself unseen—and, although her heart was sick
and sore a strange bitterness rose init, making her
face flush, and her hands tighten their grasp on the
railfiy which she stood. . _

“ e has won my love but to cast it from him,”
she thought, fiercely; “now my hate shall work hlin
woe ~
I Bezmtifur Rachel Flaherty had many admirers,
and the next thing she did was to marry the bailiff.
Why she did so she scarcely knew. During the few
months that she was a wife she scarcely thought of
her husband; she was thinking always of the man

who had wronged her—wild and, at times, horrible ‘

thou hts. She told herself thatshe hated him, but
she t ought of him day and night.

When they brought her husband home dead—-
killed b a fall from his horse—she did not shed a
tear. lgeople thought she felt more deeply than

{ she allowed the world to see, but, in reality, she did

not feel his death at all. When her baby was born,
it seemed to her that he resembled Lord Roth. For
that reason she was doubly fond of the child. She
was, however, obliged to maintain him; so, leaving
him in charge of her widowed mother, she secured
the post of maid to Lady Roth and head nurse to
her child. Some fascination drew her near to Rewi-
nald Roth and his wife. True, she did not like t e
lady with'the childish face and gentle voice, but she
was Willing to wait upon her.

On the afternoon following the children's be-
trothal she sat by the glowing fire in the pleasant
daflnursery at Rothcourt. In her lap lay the little
he , asleep. A strange smile played upon her lips

‘ as she turned over in her imaginative mind the

events of the preceding day.

Opposite to her sat the under-nurse at needle-
wor . Behind Rachel was a. door communicating
, with Lord Roth’s dressing-room. It was closed, but
the sound of footsteps moving about on the ca eted
floor was plainly heard by the two women. hey
were Lord Roth’s footsteps—he was dressing for
dinner. Hearing the child cry, he opened the door
and came into the nursery.

“ What is the matter with the young Turk,Rachel?”
he asked. gayly.

He took the boy from Rachel’s lap and held him
in his arms.

He played with his boy for a few minutes, and
then restored him to Mrs. Kenn. Her hand—small
and white as a lady‘s—layan instant upon his as
she took the child, but it touched no chord in his
heart—awoke within him no memory of the time
when he had held that same hand closely within his
clasp. He stooped and kissed the boy’s dimpled
cheeks, and the perfume of his glOSsy looks was
wafted in her face. Then he went out of the room,
leavin the dressing-room door agar. .

Eunlce Mills looked after him with open admira-
'tion upon her ruddy face. .

“ How fond his lordship seems of the little fellow!”
she said, as the sound of Lord Roth’s footsteps died
away.

“ es, but I wonder if it will last," was the reply,
spoken slowly.

, Eunice was a young servant—years after, when

she was housekeeper in this same house, Rachel’s
words returned to her with strange significance.
She looked up from her darning.

“Last?” she uttered. “Why should it not last?”

“ Oh, I don’t know—men’s love is short-lived,” was
the listless answer. “Love one day, forgetfulness
the next.” .

Her bright eyes were bent upon the fire._ a

“ Oh, he’s not like that, Mrs. Kenn,” said Eunice,
incredulonsly. .

“Isn’t he?” replied Rachel, With a half smile.
“Why, child, thou h he is Lady Ellen’s husband, I
have seen him ma re love to another lady—ay, and
look at her with eyes that seemed to say the earth
was not good enough for her to tread or the air for
her to breathe.”

“ Have you really?” said Eunice, interested.
“Who was it, Mrs. Kenn ?”

Ré‘iiis cousm, Miss Charlotte Bemey,” answered

c e .

“Wh didn’t he mar her then?" ’
nature question. ry was Eunice s
youvgfiyg’ttreturned Racghel shaylty. “Don’t I tell

a 1 ’s ove one a an or etfulnes he
next. with them all?” y, g s t

Eunice appeared incredulous. She was “keeping
company’ With the footman, and this was a very
dismal prospect. Suddenly she lifted her head.

u What is it ‘r” asked Rachel.

. I thought I heard some one in there,” said Eunice,
pointing to the dr< ssing-room.

Get up and see.”

The gir obeyed. No—the room was empty. She

gleafilgtthe door and sat downwith an expression of

 

 

LORD Ro'rri’ssm. 5

 

"Su osem lad had heard us?” she whispered.

Mrsplgenn a§ppea¥ed quite unrufi‘ied even by this
su osition.

Elly lady,” had heard. She was locked in her
bedroom now, trying to do battle with her fierce pain.
The half-bitter, half-scornful words she had heard
fall from Rachel Kenn’s lips told her a new tale.
Had her husband loved his cousin once? If so, did
he love her still, and was he her husband only in
name?

She fought avainst the terrible idea. In spite of
his coldness to her she had fondly believed that in
his heart he loved her, else why had he chosen .her
for his wife? She had never wronged him b think-
ing that he had any other motive for wedding her.
Now all seemed to be changed—a new hght was
thrown upon many things. The coldness she had
held to be his manner was in realit the true nature
of his feelings for her. He had oved before—he
had been disappointed in his love—and he had
married her because—-

Why? The reason baffled her. She loved her
husband; he had lifted her from her lower estate;
he had given her a title, and made her a. Wife.
Should she not in return give him her love?

The tears gathered in her eyes, and fell hot and
fast upon her costly dress, as her. thoughts went
back with a deep, ineffable earning to her girl-
hood’s hap y home, before 0rd Roth came into
her life. .A it never in all her wedded life had the
,loomy splendor of Rothcourt given her so light a

ieart as the old home where the merchant had let
his daughter reign as queen. And now as the
autumn sun set, and the shadows grew ark and
numerous in her chamber, the last learn of sun-
light went out of her life, leaving it ark and cold
and dreary forever,

“ Oh, m boy, my darling boy!” she cried, in her
despair; ‘ on love me. I have only you in all the
world; not 'ng shall part us but dea h—nothingl”

 

CHAPTER IV.
THE CHILD LOVERS.

THERE had been a shower, and the hedge-rows,
in all the glory of spring-tide verdure, were droop-
mg beneath their weight of crystal drops. The or.
chard .trees were laden with blossom, and in the
well-trimmed beds of the Reedes, spring'fiOVl 81‘!
retire in full bloom; everything looked fresh and

The shower was quite over. On the terrace ste s
stood Mrst Rutherford, regarding with a thoughi 'ui
face her little daughter, who was seated in a chair
saddle upon a diminutive Shetland pony, held by a
groom, Just in front of the steps.

Three years have elapsed, and, beyond a certain
{rim/112mm and an expression of dee er gravit in

or eyes. the Squire’s wife is little glinnged. he
light color is still liloomin in her cheek—the sweet
smile lingers round the p easant mouth. During
t e§6 three years two more children have been born
OBbquuya Rutherford.
a cleam'ix Rutherford sat her horse well for so young
(111,11 51. Her roud httle head was erect, her bridle
trggttllvyvifgisf . dROfilngl herh sgozullders, 23in in con-
er ar no a 1 an e wavin
mfisses of her golden hair. ’ g g
rogesgfiitlyghlel Squiifie, on his ba'
esa es. e ucere uhishan
fags a'Sellehcriticised the Elougls. p dsome
s ower is over t 'nk” he sai . “
“Fe for Beattie to venture." ’ d It is
like care of her,” returned the mother. fondly.
child? Watched them away, the Squire holding the
he 81 leading~rein as they rode to ether through
Emil V Huge. His little daughter istributed her
.. Mes freely to old and 'oung. All Rothbury loved
138$ Beattie " as they oved her jovial father.
visit tEras taking her to Rothcourt to pay a farewell
tor a the little heir. The Roths were going abroad
6; Lady Both had been ailing during the

mare, rode round

of 1{Timsitter—Its1y or the editerranean.
1 In
court, t e quire and Beatrix met little Reginald
with a nursemaid. , Mr. Rutherford dismoumed,
and lifting his daughter down, left her with her lit-
tle friend while he rode on to the house. .
. From the window of Lord Roth’s rivate room
thlek taro gentlemen watched the chil ren as they
ta e .

“ So you are going to send the girl away, Adrian.
What a di nified style she has of olding her heaol”
said Lord oth, with an amused smile. .

“ You know of it, then? Yes, I am going to sen
her to my aunt Margaret at Dijon. She is her god-
mother, is wealthy and a one, and has begged earn-
estlfi to" have the child, for a time at least; so we
con d scarcely refuse, although Rose and I have
had a hard tug with our f( clings. However we
console ourselves with the thought that it will be
for Beatrix’s good.”

“ For her good ?" questioned Lord Roth.

“Why, yes. My aunt is very wealth —she will
give Beatrix a better dower than I con (1, after all.
I have two more girls to rovide for, Roth.”

The Squire shrugged is shoulders. Lord Roth
shot a covert glance at him fi om under the shade of
his long lashes. .

“ She is a pretty little child,” he said, slowly.
“ 'ou are sorry to os‘e her?”

“Can you doubt it? But we could not let our love
stand in the. way of so great a benefit for Beattie.
My aunt thinks a great deal of her.” said Mr. Ruth-
erford, fondly regarding the little figure in the blue
riding-dress. “ 1 may have a large famil , you
know, Roth and I cannot shut my eyes to t is ad—
vantage which good 1'01‘tune has laid in In path."

Had the Squire forgotten a certain 9. ip of blue
paper which he had given his old friend three years
or more _a 0? Lord Both had not. ~

“ I thin _they get on very well together—don’t
you?” he said, eagerly.

“ The children? 0 , capitallyl How tall our
boy is—taller than Beattie, and We think her ."

“ Yes.” said Lord Roth, regarding his son proud-
lby. 2,116 is afine lad. I am glad I have no more

0 s.
alf an hour later, as the Squire mounted his
horse, he glanced down at little Reginald Roth.

“ Good-by, Regg ,” he said kindly, bending from
his saddle to place is hand on the curly head.

If he had only known of the changes that time
would have wrought upon the sweet, sunny face be-
fore he saw it again!

The Squire and his little danghte r rode away
homeward side by side' and the gath‘cring twilight
hid the mist in Adrian utherford’s b: ue eyes as he
thought with wistful pain of the few rides that re-
mained to him with his dearlyloved little Beatrix.

Meanwhile the greparations were complete at
Rothcourt for the ontinental so ourn that was to
restore Lady Roth to health. Al the servants were
dismissed save the steward and his wife, who were
left in charge of Rotlicourt, and Rachel Kenn, who
was to accompany her mistress abroad;

It was the evening before the day appointed for
the journey, and Rachel Kenn was bent ing over the

plain little, crib, and the room containing it was
simply and scantily furnished, although very clean.
There was no tear in the young mother's eyes, but
upon her lips was a yearning smile that lent an ex.
quisite beaut to her face.

“ Darling, ( arling,” she murmured, in soft, musi-
cal tones—“ my own love, good—by i”

The passionate murmur did not wake the child.
He slept on calmly, one brown arm pillowing the
head with its masses of shining dark hair, and on
his olive cheek a. tear. As she bent over him a sob
fluivered on his hps. It moved the mother‘s secret
: 0V8.

 

past winter, and her ph sician had ordered change
11 the avenue of elms that faced Botnr‘

wooden crib in which her boy lay asleep. It was a, ,

0

6 ' . LORD Roms sm.

 

waken she’ll be gone; but it is better so. Perhaps
somefiday we shall meet again—some day not very
aro .

She laid the bed-clothes straight and turned away
never pausing to look back. Down the well~scoure
stairs she came, and into the little kitchen, where an
elderly woman sat knitting by the fire.

Rachel advanced to the other side of the hearth,
and bent her head 11 ion the wooden mantlepicce.
It was a very pale an serious face that the flame
played upon.

“ ¥ou will take care of Oliver?" she said, without
movmg.

“You know I’ll cherish him as in
core, Rachel,” was the reply, in
richest brogue.

“And, mother, he sure I shall not forget to send
you money for yourself and him regularly. Do not

e troubled.”

“ Ye’re a good daughter, Rachel. None could say
that iver ye forgot your mother in her old age. I’ll
remimber. Now, sit you here, and eat a little of this

own heart’s

"“Dreaming of mother! Ah, darling, when you '

l

Lady Roth’s health had decidedly improved of
late—she loo iced better, too—less thin and fragile.
_ “ Still, I would rather remain at home. Lord Roth
is anxious “.20 go—he expects to meet his cousin,
Miss Berney. whom he has not seen for some years.”

Lady El en often talked of her private affairs
with her maid—Mrs. Kenn stood high in her regard.
There was a slight peculiarity of tone in Lady
Ellen’s voice as s e spoke—an effort to speak with
careless indifierence which was patent to Rachel’s

’ sharp ears.

“No, his lordship has not seen Miss Berney for

lon ,” she sai musin 1 .
i “2&0 d. s y

rs. Flaherty’s ‘
‘ Bernev could ever forget her, my

stew; it’s splendid, and I’d be throubled to eat it all I

myself.”

An hour later the two women arted. With slow
and “thoughtful footsteps Rache returned to Roth-
cour .

It was a fair and’balmy day in spring when Lady

Roth entered the carriage that was to convey her to .

u remember her, I suppose?” asked Lady

Ellen, with that same assumption of carelessness.

“I don’t think any one who had C(lmce seen Miss
, a y.’
f ‘l‘lShe was so beautiful?” asked the other. wist-
u y. .

“Beautiful? (Will you hold your head a little
higher, my lady, 1f Eu lease?) Yes, she was
very,beautiful whenl ew er—that was five years

Rachel took a subtle glance at the mirror. She

1 hated the childish face that it reflected. Her eyes

the nearest station. Her maid and the luggage were '1

already gone on. As the carriage drove away, Lady
R0." turned her face toward the old _Hall. She
looked ‘t the turrets that rose up fair against the
sky—at the massive gates, at the pillars with the

otesque stone faces that adorned them. She
ooked at the pine wood that bounded the park—the
dark pine wood where the wind walled and sighed
in low moans; she looked with a languid smile upon
her face. It was her last look at Rothcourti

CHAPTER 'V.
A REVELATION.

In the front chamber of a small but exquisitely-
furnished villa overlooking the Bay of Mergellina,
on the Mediterranean. sat Lady Roth before her
mirror. The May sunset flashed upon the waters of
the bay till they leamcd like fretted gold. In the
garden beneath t 6 window Lord Roth was laughing
, and playing with his little son; their voices could be
heard distinct] . Beyond the grounds, which were
bounded by a ow white wall, lay a narrow stretch of
golden sand washed by the waters of the little bay.
A few fishing boats la at anchor, and far off in the
sunset the spires an pinnacles of Naples—which
was scarcely five miles distant —were flashing in the
gorgeous light.

Rachel Kenn was dressing her mistress’s hair.
Lord and Lady Roth were going to an evenin"
assemblage at Naples. Lord . th’s scheme 0
economy had ended in his taking this small but costly
home with a suitable staff of servants, and in his
rather free indulgence in the pleasures of the best
society in Naples.
born tol

 

; like her.

 

The life suited him—he was ;

uxury. . ' 3
As Rachel wove the brown hair into sxlken braids, <

her restless eyes cast swift glances through the
window every now and then. Seated upOn the gun-
wale of a boat that lay upon the sands was a young
man mending a. fishing-net. His clear-cut profile
was distinct against the sky. His face was one of
dark and sensual beauty. As he worked, he sung
in a tenor voice of exquisite tone, the clear, rich
notes sounding through the open window. .

“If it were not for disappointing Lord Roth, I
would not go to the palace tonight—.1 feel so
strangely nervous and restless,” said Lady Ellen,
dreamin

came back to the brown braids with a q1,1ictsatis-
faction. She was not sorry that the woman who
had supplanted her should feel some of the pain she
had sufifered. She went on in unruflicd ioues: ,

“That was at Rothcourt, m lady. Miss Berney
and her father were Lord Rot 1’s guests for a short
time then. Miss Berncy used to ride and hunt with
my master. They said no lady in the couni ry rode
My master often called her ‘ Di Vernon.’
Begging your pardon, m lady, people used to say
she would be mistress of othcourt.”

Another swift glance at the mirror. The shaft
was telling—the face was white, the mouth still.
With skillful fingers Mrs. Kenn fastened the gems

. above the forehead.

The conversation was interm ted by Lord Roth.
He came in with a brighter look t ian he usually wore.

“ I am very late, I fancy.” he said. “ I had almost
forgotten the time pla ing with the boy. What a
romp he is, Elleni ait for me in the drawing-
room will you? I shall not be long.”

He hastened to his dressing-room, and Lady Roth,
having finished her tonet, descended the staircase
and entered the drawing-room as one in a dream.

Some of this agony she had suffered once before. ‘

Time had softened the sharpness of it, although it
had never healed the cruel wound. Now it was
opened again. How should she bear it—how meet
the woman to whom the first, best, and only love
of her husband’s manhood was given, and perhaps
never recalled—given so openly that the very serv-
ants talked of it? ‘

Lady Ellen was a meek woman, but a sensitive
one and her every nerve quivered with pain, while
within her breast was born a feeling nearer akin to
anger than she had ever felt; jealous anger it was,
and sullen, as in peo 1e not easily provoked this

assxon is apt to be. he had long known that her

usband did not low her, and now she was going to
see the woman he had loved.

Her husband came in presently, and cried out at
her ghastly face, but she laughed the subject oil’.

1 He suggested that she should remain at home, in

. to her, but she persisted in going.

the cool, unruflled matter-of-fact tone he ever used
Not for worlds

, would she stay now that some fascination possessed
‘ her to go.

“Perhaps you will feel better when you arrive ‘

there, my ady,” suggested Rachel, in the soothing
tones of her musical voice.

The twilight was gathering when she entered the
carriage with her husband. The last thing she saW
was her mail, Rachel Kenn, leaning over the low
white wall, and talking to the young fisherman With
the tenor voice.

There was silence during the long drive, but that
was nothi unusual. Once Lady Ellen, looking at
her husban ’s face, fancied it were the same bright
look as it had worn all day. When they reached
the glittering mansion of the Neapolitan Minister-

..... u-..“ M‘s...

‘

 

LORD ROTH’S SIN. . ’ 7

1.. I

the lights that flashed upon her showed a: burning '

color in the usuall pale face. There was a great
crush, and present y a lady of their acquaintance
offered her a seat. Lord Roth accepted it for her,
and for a little while stood at her side; then an
English gentleman came and took him away. He
turned a moment, as he went, to say that he should
not has long gone. She gazed after him as he de‘
parte . . _

In the room adjomnig the one in which she sat
there was dancing gomg on. The costly curtains
which usually hung from a. marble archway and
separated the rooms, were withdrawn, so that a full
view of the dancers could be obtained. The crash
of the music formed a 00d excuse for not conver-
sing, and with straine eyes Lady Roth sought

among the glittering throng the face she wanted to .

see.
There were fair women there—aristocratic women
———many she knew; but she thought that she should

recognize among them all the face of Charlotte Ber- f

ney. She sought in vain. Not one of all those
countenances, it seemed to her, could belong to her
husband’s cousin.
approaching her: and, while he was yet some dis-
tance off, a. woman swept by her with a flash of
diamonds that almost blinded her, a. throat white as
alabaster, eyes blue and soft, laughing lips, and a
stately head crowned with golden hair.

It must be Charlotte Berney. Lady Roth guessed
it by some‘wild instinct before she saw her husband
advance with outstretched hand, and bow reverent-
ly while he looked down at the fair face.

Lady Ellen watched them with her dazzled eyes,
and a strono‘ agony convulsed her heart. The
music seeme a crash of discord, a hideous noise;
she Dressed her hand upon her heart to still its wild
throbbing.

They were coming toward her now, and her gaze
never moved from the smiling face and luminous
eyes till they were bent upon her,

“ Lady Roth—my cousin, Miss Berney.”

Then in a vague way, she rose and took the
dainty hand, and strove to smile at her husband’s
cousin.

f‘Miss Berney has promised to dance this waltz
with me, Ellen,” said Lord Roth. Then, turning to
hisoousm, he added: “Afterward, Charlotte, I hope
to introduce your father to my wife.”

“I have quite lost papa. Reginald. He is tired,
and wants to go home; so our dance must be a
short one.”

The accents died away as Charlotte Berney, lean-
ing upon Lord Roth’s arm, swept away, with her
arch face lifted to his as she spoke.

“Do _you feel better now, my lady?" Rachel
asked, in her soft manner, as she bent over the still

face on the pillow.

All the flush was gone now, and the face was very
White, and ve weary.
Yes, 1 feel letter, Rachel. I think I will take a
sleeping draught. I want rest.”
B BS, she wanted rest—rest from her heartache.
t 1113 she was not to know it yet—she was to drink
We cup of suffering to the dregs and then there
wggcslr come to her the rest that is promised to the
thRachel gave the draught, and sat by the bed till
8 tired eyes closed; ut the sleep was troubled.
t ending over her mistress, the waiting-woman lis-
efied to the disturbed moans and broken words.
new it would come this time,” she mur-

mur . ,, . .
I Shgllfidhlaéfgfidlud, and I said that, when it came,

 

CHAPTER VI.
,, A WIFE’S AGONY.
WILL you come out on the piazza. Ellen?"
8 question came from Lord Roth, as he ar-

ranged a li ht shawl round Cllarlotte B '
. r I erne s
nhff‘fédem. dy Roth looked up at them. y

0-" she replied. “I will stay here.”

Presently she saw Lord Roth 3

B " Are you not so Well to—night‘, Ellen?" asked Miss
erney.

Lady Ellen shivered under the tOuch of the jewel-
ed hand.

“I only want Quiet and rest,” she answered; “I
am better alone. ’ / ,

Miss Berney’s arched lips were parted: in a fasci-
nating smile as she strolled at her cousin’s side on
the piazza, now flooded with the sunset glory.

Lady Ellen lay still on her couch. It seemed to
her that Charlotte Berne was now always in the
house. She heard the so 'ter tones of her husband’s
voice when he addressed Charlotte, she saw the
deeper fire in his eyes when. they rested upon her;
All her fears were realized. Reginald Roth loved
his cousin still, and his wife knew it. It was no
wonder, she thought; yet day b day the lines of
‘ gain and weariness grew upon row and lip—day

y day the gnawing pain grew in her heart—pain
that no word of hers might give utterance to.

“Mamma,” said the soft voice of little Reginald,
“may I sto with you? Rachel said I might—she is
talking to onio.”

Lady Ellen lifted the child to a place beside her,
kissing the sweet face and flaxen curls.

“Will you tell me about Ridinghood, mamma?
I like stories so much,” pleaded the babyish voice.

“ Not to-night, Boggy; mamma is tired. You
may talk to me instead.”

Re ,inald availed himself of the privilege, and
lispe out a disjointed account of his small adven-
tures during the day-jot the stran e fish that Tonic,
the young fisherman, had given to rim; of old Mar—
, iotta, Tonio’s father, who was gone over the sea, but
was soon coming home with some wonderful shells
he had promised the little “milor ”—“pink shells
and white ones that would sing in your ears,” said
Reggy, with wide-open and mysterious eyes.

Lady Ellen listened with the smile she always had
for the darhng who in his three short years had

ve existence seemed to depend on her child.

1Lrs. Kenn entered noiselessly.

“You here, my lady? I thought you were on the
terrace With my master,” she broke out in sur rise.
l She came to the couch and arranged the l lows
; With care. As she did so she glanced at t e two
. figures in the garden, and then at her mistress. For
‘ a moment their eyes met.

“Come, master Reggy,” said Rachel, turning
‘ quickly to the child. ‘ It is bed-time.”
E He lingered a little, till the rustling of Miss Ber-
E ney’s dress sounded near, and then he hurried away.
, That lady was not among his favorites.
‘ Charlotte Borne took her leave early that night.
‘ Lord Roth 1‘rlaced ier in her carriage and retired to
spend the owning in his private room. There was
nothin tempting to him in the society of his dull
and bet  wife.

Lady Ellen's solitude was broken by Rachel Kenn.
She asked the favor of a few minutes‘ conversation
with her mistress.

“I want to tell you, my lady, that I am going to
marry Antonio Alfieri,” she said, calmly.

Lady Roth looked up astonished.

“You are surprised, my lady?” said Rachel, col-

orin .

“ es; ve much, Rachel. But I hope you will
be ha py. shall be very sorry to lose you," added
the 1;. y, ently. ‘

“ I wou d not leave you for any other reason, my
lady,” said Mrs. Kenn-she was touched a little by
the sympathy, and the unvarying kindness she had
received during long years at the hands of the wo-
man she had tried to hate—“but Antonio pleads
very hard, and he will be ood to me,” she con-
tinued. “He will be well- o-doI my lady, for old
Marietta, his father, will take but-one more trip in
the barque, and then he Will give it up to Antonio,
and live with his friends in Naples.” >
I “It is Mariotta the merchant of whom you speak,
is it not?”

 

 

grown into her heart and life, so closely that her

.A_“lini<

I
. Assn-mus

imam}.

   

 

 ~ in ,1' -
hair, e‘iig'v;thighsshatter Reginald used to talk so mu" h
when we first came here.
his last; then Antonio will have’the barque.”,
.. , re was a lon pause, and then Lady
spoke suddenly, lift ng her wistful face:

’; “ But what is to become of Oliver, Rachel?”

    
     
  
  
    
  
   
     
   
 
   
  
  
  
   
  
   
   
   
   
   
    
   
  
    
  
   
 
    
  

G

planned the wait ng-woman, “that Ollvel‘ and my
:mother are to come out here and live with us—m
mother will be willing, for she is lonely by herself
.v shall be lonely too, my lady, when Antonio is gone
onhis trading voyage."

" “And If she as ould not be willing?” said Lady

, “ we must pay for her journey back
, can not be separated from Oliver on
,know, my lady. But no moth
but me; and I feel sure s e will choose to make her
:ho‘ine with me wherever it may be."
 And Antonio is willing that it should be so?”
,. ‘Mntonio has no wish but to make me happy,”
 in a low, but proud tone.
 ‘ Lady Rot turn her face away. There was a
*  henwan cheek, and a sudden pain inher
yes. rs. Kenn went out, closing the door.
Lady Ellen lay still. Her fingers were toying with
slittle gold crucifix on her t roat. It was an old-
iashioned ornament that had belonged to her when
she was a. e initials of hermaiden name
 in raised letters on the back- and, after her
marriage, she caused the initials of the new name to
be, tied. ' she lay thinking, her thin fig ers
passed' ' mechanically over the three letters. or
«were ‘ filled th unutterable sadness; and,
,. after Rachel Kenn was gone, they were bent in
. ttul gaze ufimn the waters of the buy, as if,
 .t e “ at ering twilight, they could see afar
 , Mario a‘ssail. .

 

  * CHAPTER VII. _
 r' m assume 5 conrnssron.
 {morning sunlight was sparkling upon the
£21m sand and upon the white piazza w ere the
. H Vow of the leaves creeping up the pillars, lay
., ' .. '-.. It was a ver hot morning; the window of
e! Keiinls chum .er was thrown wide 0 en.
el, knelt u n the floor in front 0 an open
_,' in which s e was packing linen and fincry.
5 , was packing it to take with her for a fortnight’s
,hbfldaiy to Antonio’s friends in Naples. Lady Ellen
«l, we thoghtful for the happiness of those
' er—h given Rachel a present of money
with. Which» to by clothes for her marriage. It was
.~ ’ ‘ this th ‘ Mrs.'Kenn was goingto Naples.
f or room was a small off-room on the round
a, Adjoining it on one side was Lord
.-  : apartment, half-study, half-librar , where he
. s , man of the hours when Charlotte erney was
~ in the. ouse. The same vine that spread its ten-
drhsabout Rachel’s window grew in thick luxuriance
b6er Lord Roth’s sanctum.
This'rooin hag twto doors—lone letadéng firolrn a tiny
conservatory, eo ier eaciu ino 1e a.
IprdRoth was seated beforeghis writing-table this
, . '. with his face shaded by his hands. Before
him lays. paper containing a peremptox applica-
n’lforimoney. 'He had had many such ate y. but
' V aninsult that it was bar for-proud Lord
)1 , ' We:
‘sf‘thetable were strewn a heterogeneous hea of
. ._ at‘the sum total of which he scarcely claret to
_ .2; His eyes were fixed upon the sheet before
a every written word of which was torment to
 a 2 « He had. sat thus since he opened the
two hours ago; and so stupefled did-he feel by
Wuthat h s thou hts refused to arrange
hi“ end he, amount of moggy
e

m 61‘. ‘
‘nde‘dz wash er than he could
itereiseltiggouldentaflwwhatt

. it

the on  with ates-see ,.

» next voyage will. be yzglgd’to hold on, to strug le‘ through for the boy’s . 1'
Roth ‘ h nor before the world' but it is more than i

":“I have arran ed with Antonio, my lady,”ex-! has crossed my P

r

f

. hat with a drooping lume shaded the arch face' 3

er has no rela ve :

 

' Every nerve quiver-ed within him as he stood, and

oth’s '

. armsunonit. and buriedhls ceinth

 

, _ : lady
“'1” If she should not be willing to remain,” repeated ‘

_“After all that has passed between us it would

 depots" come" I W inseminated

later '9 no sad to himself, meohagegly. “Iifiv
e. I would have done 5:11! I could—have kept my - 1, ‘

0 can
accomplish. Honor!” lie moaned passionately.
“I don’t think I have any honor 1e t since she
ath again! It would be a good
thing if death came between me and this load of sin
and misery.” ,

Some one entered the'room. He raised his head
and looked at the beautiful vision before him. A

 

.1'

dark riding-dress so off the erfect figure. “ he
came to his side and lai one hand with its
white gauntlet on his shoulder.

“ What is the matter, Reginald?" ,

He laid the paper before her in silence. He did
not lift his eyes; he dared not; the touch of her
hand was almost too much. He bit his lip fiercely,
and turned his face away. so that he did not see the
scaglet flush that dyed his companion’s cheek as she
rea .‘n

“You must let papa lend you the money," she
said, decidedly.

Had she spoken otherwise, breathed one word of
signpathy or tenderness, it would have been more,
t- n his strength could bear from her. Asit was, ~
he could answer: but he did not lift his eyes.

“ y choice is limited to these two pleasant alter-
natives—begging of our father or—ruin." '

“Then, Reginald, f it would be less hardto you, '
let me help you ” she said t .

,“ You?” be asked, vaguely. -

“Yes. Remember I am a Roth, too, Reginald.
Your honor is mine also. Let me help you; no
one not even my father, need know it,” she pleaded.

e rose to his feet. I
“Do not tempt me, Charlotte,” he said, hoarselv.

Re téio ’terrible a humiliation to take this at your
an s.’

She raised her matchless eyes to his face.

“Afternll that has passed between us I?’ she re-
eated, passionately. "Oh, Reginald both our
ives were darkene byone man, and of all the
world that man would reJowe the most if you were
dishonored in men's eyes!”

She never forgot his face as she saw it then, when
he had drank to the drags the cup of humiliation.

 

 

 

his hdowncast eyes glowed like fire beneath the dusky
es.

She laid her hand on his arm.

“You will not let Philip Haughton have this
triumph, Re inald? If ever you loved me, take this
favor at my ands.” , " ‘

“If ever I loved you?” he madly re lied. “Oh
Heaven, my very brain is reeling wit the love I
have tmrne you, and which I never can crush outl" .

“Hush!” she whispered, drawing her hand from ~
his passwnate clasp. “ It was your fault, Reginald,
not mine; yet I too have to suffer. On] my own
heart knows its bitterness, but the worl shall not
read my secret.” _

. The mournful words fell slowly from her pallid

ps.
“ Do not taunt me, Charlotte, or I shall go mad 1"
he cried, bittelrgy. “I would give my life to undo‘
the past. My ' e is intolerable to me—my heart is
breaking for the love of out” ‘ ,
He laid his hands ten erly upon her shoulders a!
he stood before her, and looked down into her face.
With burning eyes. The brim of her hat hid the
scarlet flush that his gaze brought into herwa-
Ehe put his hands gently away, and turned from~
m _ _ , . .

“Elwill 0 now' to—morrow I will see   
It is best or both’of us to be apart justynow, 
Said. in low‘and plaintive tones. " ' r

the tabelfifoldqd:

 
 
  
   
  
 
  
  
   
 
 
 
   
  
    
  

 

He sunk upon his knees b

 

 

    
  

   
     

 attire door   . .

eaen'essyom .

L  onately; then moving,away,.she
om the room. . _ z ' x
. He neither moved norrspoke. Qnoe. as her foot-
 steps died away, a dee , convulsive sob shook his
frame. Then succeeds a long silence, broken/by -
nthe rustle of a silken dress. ,
. The wearer was Lady Ellen. He lifted his face
With a sudden movement and stared wildly at her as
she stood midwa in the room—the lilies in her hand
not whiter than er face. ,

He looked at her with unutterable loathing. He
- had no pity for her—no regret that she had heard
Words no wife could hear and not resent. He felt
nothing for her but hatred. I
v “Leave me! For Heaven’s sake. leave me to my-

, self!” he cried, in frenzied accents. “ The salvation
of my house, my lands, :33 child, my peace of mind,
my hopes on earth, are sacrificed, all destroyed,

y You!

The flood-gates of his wild passion were let loose.

Had he known the price he was to pay for his mad

' words, surely his better judgment would have re-
strained this insane speech.

Lady Ellen had heard from the conservatory all
thathad passed—heard words from her husband’s
ll 3 that sealed the assurance she had long felt. Yet
_, wild despair had drawn from the well-spring. of
. her love an .unutterable desire to comfort hml,
~ though her own heart was broken. In the years to
" come her face as it looked now would often haunt
his nightly dreams and waking thoughts. For a
moment 3 as one turned into stone, then
~. walked slowly to the door. Panel for a moment,
- " = she looked back but his face was uried again, so

j: she passed out of the room. , .

CHAPTER VIII.
, r rm: wmn’s FLIGHT.

. SCARCELY a week later Rachel Kenn came rig the
 garden toward the white piazza. Old Mariot Al-
 'iieri had already started upon the voyage that was
if to be his last for on his return the barque was to be
 Antonio‘s. he was bound for Marseilles with a

mixed cargo. The time of his return would de mi
 ‘ upon the dispatch with which he conducte his
«  tradi ; but.as soon as he did return, Rachel and

Antonio were to be married. Already a French
maid had been engaged for “ my lady,” that Rachel
might have leisure to make any needful prepara-
tions for her wedding. y Ellen was always
thoughtful for the comfort of those about her.

Itkwas a glorious summer morning when Rachel
, It on came up the rden toward the white iazza.

w might have been enfancy, but she though there
_ was an air of something unusual taking place, al-

yRough to all apgearanoe the house and nude

more the same. he quickened her steps. assing
t Eng}. to asideentranoe, she encountered J acquetta,
m such maid, whose neat attire was strangely

sorde r
Madame Kenn,

  
 
 
 

   
 
     
 
   
    
  
    
   
  
  
   
  
   
 
 

 

 

“-

_ . have on h t '
V 1318 newst‘goehe cried, raisigi‘fi hey;- hafggxgligggg-
. u; I” think you sh d be away—c’est horri-

 ‘FBad news?” estioned Bach '
with a. nameless ' o . “ _ 61' taming Wmte'
trimmed; I have heard?!)otliliugrajw’1'jut um moment
Not heard? Ah, c’est um’meroeille! It is my

Bicwhois gone and the little monsieurl”

hel eras her arm convulsiver '
I u s ' "
wv_.vh°{i}.;)1r§el"’she repeated, with white lips. “99116

"How can I tell! No one knows Madam
12:13 11053th (is .”‘since it happened; ialifimi’a

. shims " ‘
reward? .' 


 
 
 
  
    
  
 
   
  
 
    
         
    
   
   

 "MadameKenn is a, I

good thing she is, gone: she and H uldnewer
on together~never I” said the offended littler A
Woman to herself. or Rechnl walked away in his;
misfit .ot a voluble description of LOrd'Beth as
s r. r r r ;

pIn.the house Rachel met the butler. The Weston
ped simultaneously . “ -.

“ Where is my master?" she asked, hoarsely. V y
The man shrugged his shoulders. , r ‘ "
“ On a wild-goose chase, I think, Mrs. liens.- 3M3!
lady had a nig t’s start of him; though itseemsto
me "—he added, lowering his voiceto a confidential
whisper—“ that he’s more troubled about the 
than about her. I’ve never heard him in I ran
her name, but Robert said he cried out terms
when-they first told him. What do you
she’s gone for, Mrs. Kenn?” - . , ' ’ ';

“ How should I know?” she returned, angrily, with
a flash of her bright eyes as she passed him. , ,

She went to her own room—Jehe‘pretty, sunn
apartment adjoining Lord Roth’s privates
darkened the tiny Chamber and pr. herbalists
to her forehead; a hot, burning flush was on he?

face.  a
“This is no (10111 ,” she thou ht re  the
words over aid ovgr again. “ t was finesse
sowed the seeds of this calamity—I said I should.
glad if such a sorrow came 11 on him; and ’ ' I
now I would give my life to on o it)” I , :_ g _;
She started up in a frenzy of remorse and 
the room the old butler’s words ringing inherears
—“ Why has she gone?” I W ' z 
Why?'-To Rachel‘s mind there was butane
swer—-“ Because of Charlmte Barney.”  j
“I. helped it on. I added the fuel to madame
gratify my revenge. I have broken his heart ,
sent her out a wanderer from her home. . I " '
Brought disgrace and desolation upon mymds
ouse. ' _ . i u " '
She laid her head down on the 3110 bed, . N
hot tears coursed down her cheeks. Agra“ ‘
mild face of her mistress haunted her an ,. 
drove her to madness. ' "

She sat on Ion er than she imagined, a . .
bitter remorse. léow that a new love was  y .

her heart, softening it, and making her’life'inte .

ing again to her, she was bitterly sorry, 

words or acts of her own had fostered and c1 ‘ ‘
thelsadness of the gentle lady whom she had , ‘
o a e. ' a: 4
The sun was high when she entered the room ,
the red sunset was now flooding the be P 
up to unfasten her bonnet and the lig t. shawl 
wore. Pausing a moment to lay some trifle‘in a ‘,
ebony box which Lady Ellen had given‘her, here-y
fell upon a folded aper with somethin‘ writ
upon it. The clear de icate writing wasLaXyRot
the inscription written firmly: r .
f‘ In the hands of Bache'llzlgqgtJor my hug _ ,
o . I '

Utterly regardless of the fact that theflletter was
here only in trust for another, she tore it» open, and
with throbbing pulses read it. _ ' l I ,_ __ 

moraine.
k were

perso

   
 

    

   
  
     
       
   
  
      
 
  
 
     
  
  
  
   
   
 
  
  
 
    
    
 
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
   
  
  
   
  
  
 
  
 
 
  

 

  

   

i

      
   
  
  
  
  
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
      
   
      

“ Loan Romehen I left you this
seemed to me that the words you had a '
be end all forgiveness or reparation.  r new
digerently. You have done me a great wro
greater could a wife sufier, or be called

ve; yet, because I amiyour Wife, 9. d [moons

ess child’s sake, I do forgive you.“  ,-
return to your roof—neverinafiain be more. i;

v

 

 
 

; spoke. Bier listener stood as
events». hearing nothing but in her bewfldeggg dad.
 be comprehend: e horror at this thing that
am ones. ' '

    
   
 

I the master‘s h

\

          
 

stranger to 5'0!!- ' 0111‘-  331'9 599% .
this-hour. ‘ ' ',  ’ .  _.
“Tomi ht I sailywith riotta Alflefi . or M
games; tfienc‘e' I shall go Paris, where I have 5
rem;in auntof my fa r-~hv1ng   _

{guitarists .Therelisvill ab 

 

 

 

 

comm"  ignition  ou. ,,

micrthe presentit “£2617. that. he should remain, in
 yWheueyer, in the future,.you desire him
‘ ‘ our roof and care, I shall obey

  
  
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
   
  
 
 
  
  
 
  
   
 
 
 
  
    
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
   
  
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
 

7.  , ’ ' sis plyaoe’d in your'hands I shall be far
rm my way. You will have somewhat recovered
(your madness, and will have had due time for
 station. As we are henceforth strangers, the
wider our paths lie apart the better for both.

* '  . ' , v “ELLEN Rom."

K tithe dee :drawn breath of relief Rachel Kenn
aided the le tor, and placed it in her osom.
‘fThree days sl
athoxiil? she mused. “ Thank Heaven I returned
 Three days and nights since Marietta Al-
 and the barque is bound for Marseilles!”

CHAPTER IX.
m eisrsa’s RETURN.
Was May, it was chilly enough for a

 

 

:snraouenit
 be pleasant in the evening.
he burned in the drawing-room of the Ree es—the
” * pleasant apartment wherein, twent years
gLofrd Roth'and Adrian Rutherford ha laugh-
ingly betrothed their two infant children. binding
fl, Nb apromise that was only to be fulfilled by
Wd’e e of both in the after years.

,Vei‘y leasant and homelike the room looked to-
t. ‘%pon the center-table a silver-coffee service
 dainty cups ’gleamed in the lamp-1i ht. In
, v available niche ex uisite ferns rooped
_, 7 ,r’branches from their vases. At awritmg-
identitMrs. Rutherford.

“Crime had dealt gently with the Squire’s wife;
. mooniget lingered on her checks, which were
When, delicate as of old—the sweet smile still
minefieldin to her lips. Beneath the lace cap her
mt~ihairreamong the ripples of which a few gray
rendSWere visible—was gathered away from her
wrinkled forehead. Very motherly very womaa
tier street, was Adrian Rutherfor ’3 wife.

 ojother end of the long room were two girls
ne standing in a thoughtful attitude by the sofa

5

tom'th ears, whose life was shadowed by a com-
‘ ,j w Q h confined her alwa s to a couch.

Yet: Florence Rutherford
‘,thot>-hung) Over her life to darken her home.
; _‘  not lot It

‘  Neither was

I it which she was
it was to her what p ensure and society are
girls. She was put a son-131r disciple, follow-
, altering steps 1n the pat trodden by the
_ rot her art. Her own failings never di-
_ " , her-fionly made her love and revere her
H  the more; and her art gave her some-
' think of always—something to take her out

herself
 pped up by sofa-pillows,

it,
15%

:Shé half reclined pro
‘ ‘ sorting and laying in neat order a number
Varsketohes, engravings and etchings with which
)‘ tablets her side was strewn, pausing now and
 Z to. toss back her heavy dark hair, or to 023
 at some sketch after Rubens, an—
te, or hex-favorite, Michael Angelo. .
 . other girl, dark-haired, dark-eyed, with an
.  p uant face, and a small, slight form,
by the, bio handing'tho precious possessions
. r. be was four years older than the
Between these two one had died in hr-

“ fitntherfordg-«with ,whose cheery ,face so

 of sunshine was missin from the room

.v million. A‘week ago ntclligenoe had
; in of“ is aunt’s rapidil

,x.: J. ,4

 

nce it was written. and laid upon ; _
' vined that his aunt’s days were numbered-—

A vcr bright

when-ion lay the other, a pale, patient girl of some .

I V A efelt among those she loved, to :
. it she Was a sweet resence, much and tenderly 1
er own life quite cheerless; .
warmth, companionship and sunlight in =
omitted to cultivate, ‘

‘ i take my'cn’flci with in :55 1w, wing ' 
y

i

. . W0 Sims, ‘ 380 her residence With, .
her weal and lonely godmother had been varied. , 
by the long summer , ciday she had yearly spent-'
with her family at the Reedes. ’ Not even his re am.

I for his wealthy and warmly’loved relative—w ose

, dau hter, but that two

1

whole existence seemed bound up: in her golden.
haired little goddaughter—wwld- «have induced the ,
Squire to forego these annual visits of his eldest
ears ago Miss Martha
Rut erford’s rapidly declining health caused her to "
cling to Beatrix for constant support, and to shrink
with evident gain at the thought of the girl’s leav-
ing her even or a day. ‘ ' , » -
This being the case, the Squire—~who right! ag-
fiu .

I mitted to the loss of Beattie’s visit for two Summers I

|
1
l

 

; blue eyes.
id not permit the

 

T7“

3' the fire and placed her feet entire fender.

V failing health. 'I , . x
 once ha em 1' 4 - , ' 9 Then her. thoughts went out of theroom and ~
i;&§dg£§m fwd m i ‘ leasant-homoto somebody else+somehody_she
yearr'haudmd since seams. had visited oushtabout a we “limes—and Whom

past, consoling himself by crossing the Channel oc-
casionally, an

aunt’s roof. Longer not even his love for his daugh-
Itergould induce a Squire to stay from his native
an . '

The past week had brought a message from
Beatrix and a telegram from Miss Margaret‘Ruther—
ford’s lawyer. The Squire had hastened to be pre-
sent at her deathbed. He would bring Beatrix ,
home with him—home for good.

To the two younger sisters the idea was ve

loasant. I They looked forward to her coming wit I

tense delight.

“I want these sketches laid aside for mounting.
Georgie. Mr. Noel has promised to do them for
me ” said Florence Rutherford. ‘

eorgie went on sorting for a minute. :

“ Never mind the sketches, Fla; 1 can think of
nothing but Beatrix,” she said, throwing the draw-
ings aside with a quick, impatient movement.

‘ Nor I,” was the quiet reply. ‘ ' I

Florence trifled for a moment with those she held,
while her dark eves conjured up a vision of her sis-
ter, now on her ourney homeward. In the vision
Beatrix was endowed with high art, race an
beaut by the little sister whose whole 'fe was a
long c ream of these things. .

There came a‘rumbling of carriage-wheels on the
drive; a. flash of hght from the hall lamp fell upon
a black-robed figure With golden hair and starry
S uire Rutherford, mud and happ ,
stood aside w 116 the rest crow ed round Beat it
and with fond welcomes, drew her into the light'and
warmth. . , v , '

Often lately Florence Rutherford had dreamed
day-dreams of her sister picturing her with tender ,
yearning love, but never had a face so fair and pure ‘
and mud entered her thoughts as the one she now
behe d- ,All this evening Florence’s rapt oiyes
scarcel left the graceful figure, the haunti ,
flower- ike face. V “ , I

“How beautiful she has grown—how glad I am
that she is my sister i” thought the girl, whose love v
for all that was bright and beautiful was as intense ‘
as her religion. A little later, when Beatrix bent ‘
over her for a good-night kiss, Florence spoke sud.
'dcnlv out of her thoughts. '

," Beattie, I hoipe you will always be happy.” -

“So do I, an I hogs that you will too,.darling.
What makes you say t at now, Flo?” V 5;

The blue eyes looked down at her with a little 
wonder ‘ 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” was the dreamy reply. ,

"You auglr to be as happy as you are lovely—I '
hope you will be. Good-night.”

Mrs. Rutherfordhad conducted Beatrix to the
beautiful and warmly~li hted dressing~room adjom
ing the bod—room thats was to occupy, and let
her with tender in. unctions to retire immediatela
Beatrix meant to o ey. She drew an eusyyhagafi

 

 

have five minutes to realize it," she then - t

 

spending a. couple of days under his 

 

 

 

 
   
  
 

    
  
 

 

LORD ROTH’S SIN. ' 11

 

would see tomorrow—Reginald Roth—but they
were speedily interrupted.

“I couldn’t resist coming to your room for a.
cosey talk. It’s a treasure I have so often coveted—-
a dear sister to whom I can unburden my mind,”
said Georgie Rutherford, entering suddenl and

y
alighting bird-like upon a Chintz ottoman, and con- i

templating her sister with an ecstatic smile.
is charming, Beatrix.”

“ I can searcely realize how charming,” answered
Beatrix, uite happy.

“ I shal
continued Georgie, tossing back her unbound hair.
“ I’m afraid some one else will monopolize you in
the day. However, we have a long golden summer

“ This ‘

come for aconfldential chat every night,” 3

before us to spend together, and to know each i

other again."

Georgie settled her chin in her hand and rattled
on. “ Beat tie, will you promise to tell me all your
secrets—everything~for the time we are together?
I will tell you all my very darkest mysteries.
Promise."

“ I promise,” said Beatrix, laughingly.

“ The very profoundest?”

“ Everything.” .

How easy it was to promise, Sitting there and
looking into the piquant face upon which the fire-
light played! How little did Beatrix dream that

lone; before. the golden summer waned she would 5

find the promise a heavy chain around her heart!

“Are you not anxious to hear about Reginald?"
questioned Georgie, airily; and accepting Beatrix’s
changing color for assent, she continued: “ He is at
home, you know, of course, and Lord Roth, too.
They returned from Germany in the earl spring.
Reginald wished to accompany ape. to alais to
meet you, but we all thought the. it would be nicer
to have the first meeting among ourselves. He is
coming to dinner to morrow. He is the handsomest,
dearest fellow in the world—a little reserved to
strangers. but a model of amiability to those he
knows. I wrote and described him to you—didn’t I?
—cven his eyes, which are surpassxngly beautiful.
In fact, had I not known that he was your espeCial
property, I should have fallen in love With him my-
Self the moment that I saw him,” concluded Georgie,
With delightful candor. .

Beatrix listened in happy silence, shadin
face a little that Georgie might not see the appy
smile on her lips. Presently Georgie began again.

“ Reginald attained the highest honors at the Ger-
man University where he has studied. He 5 ends
much of his time here. I think he must be reary
at the Hall, Beattie. I fairly hate Lord Roth; 8.
more gloomy, morose man I never knew. Papa. says
that he is much changed since he went abroad, sev-
enteen years ago: but I don’t believe he was ever
nice-tempered. He treats Reginald with elaborate
courtesy—J hate such cold ccremon -—and shuts

imself up in that loamy old Hall. hope you’ll
make it more cheerlul when you live there, Beattie.
eginald sa 5 that he thinks a home without a wo-
Iljan but ha 1! a home. It is such a pity he has not a.
Slster even. He cannot remember his mother; he
Was not much more than three years old when she
died at Naples, you know. Did I tell you that he
as an old Itahan servant? Such.a strange little

her

ellowi Reg picked him up somewhere abroad.
I study Carlo ai'ini—he interests me. If, after all
that I have told ou about your fiance, you are not

alt in love with im Beatrix, you ought to be.”
Georgie shot a. swift glance at her sister, drew her
Wan conclusion, and rattled on.
at a, fortunate girl you are, Beattie! You have
all the family beauty, a. glorious husband waiting to
D ace a coronet on your brow and you will go to him
With Free chace in one hen , and aunt Margaret’s
oney in the other—a, princess endowed by a. fairy
80dmother, I shall be devoured by envy; though, next
9havin a title oneself, the best thing is for one’s
“flier toiave one.”
You may have one. Georgie.”

i
i
l
i

i
i

i

“I! Oh no! Don’t suggest it ra ," said Geo 'e.
with resi nation. “ I am not sit tedyfor one. I five
not that repose ' which is so essential to the wear-
ifiers of titles. No, you ,may ‘ marry the laird,’ Beat-

ie—

And jewels so fair you may twine in your hair—
They are better for you than me.

But how thoughtless I am! And you so tired! Good-
mght, darling.”

Beatrix returned the warm kiss and embrace, and

Georgie ghded out of the room, leaving her sister to
settle herself among the cushions and fall into a.
fresh reverie.

Yes, she was half in love with Reginald Roth al-
ready. Perhaps the feeling dated further back than
she cared to own. He had been in her thoughts a1-
ways—the hero of all her girlish dreams and ro~
mances—the lover who was faithful to her through
years of absence, who looked forward as she did to
the hour when they should look in each other’s face
and clasp bands, who had ke.t his heart free for
her unfettered by any other ove, as she did here
for him. 

To-morrow they were to meet. A strange thrill
ran through her as she thought of it, even to her
finger-tips. To—morrowl

She rose and went to the mirror. She had always
been interested in her beauty: to-night she was s e
eially so.- Her blue eyes shone like stars. her go' en
hair fell in ripples to er waist. Her wrapper, open
at the throat, met her fair skin with folds of delicate

‘ lace; in her“cheeks a crimson color glowed like the

 

, new to here—1
‘ so dreamy and subdued. A sense 0 'ha

i the hall talking to a

i was festoone

l

rose, and she knew it would glow still dee or when
Reginald Roth’s eyes, ‘ested upon her fang to-mor-

row.

“ Will he be satisfied?” she asked, as a conscious
light'sparkled in her eyes and 8, ha py smile curved
her hps. Yes; he would he more t an satisfied.

Who hath not proved how feebly words essay
To fix one spark of Beauty’s heavenly ray?
Who doth not feel, until his failing sight
Faints into dimness with its own delight,

His changing cheek. his sinkin heart confess
The might, the majesty of love ness?

For the first time in her life there came to Beat-xix
Rutherford a consciousness of the power which her
wealth and beauty gave her; and a thrill of triumph
ran through her as she proudly contemplated her
own face, so fair, so exquisite] ovely.”

If she had known then that efore the end of the
coming summer this ift of beauty would wreck the
ha iness of a brave cart, she would have laid her

0 en head upon its pillow with far different feel-
ngs to-night. But she did not, and she fell asleep
to dream of roses red and white lying beneath her
feet—of glad sunny days, of dewy evenings laden
with the odor of flowers and, amid all, a strong
hand, whose touch filled her with ecstasy, holdin
hers; of dark, love-laden eyes telhn her _the ol .
old story inthis “golden summer ” 0 her life.

 

CHAPTER X.
was IT Love? .

Bum rose and dressed the next morning as one
in a beautiful dream. This new life was such .a
bright change from the calm quiet (18. s spent in
her grandmother’s house in rance. e dyoung
companionslii of her sisters was another eligh
eorgie so bright and uairiiimli‘lorence
ness too
intense for ex ression stole over her as s e fastened
the ribbon in er hair, and threw open the window
to the Ma morning. _
As she escende the staircase she saw Georgie in
entleman. She held her hat
by the strings and t eskirt of her morning-dress
over her arm, showing the pretty
petticoat and daint shoes. Her back was turned
to the staircase. S e did not see her sister. but an-

 

 

12 LORD ROTII’S SIN.

 

swered her companion's remarks with low rippling
laughter and bright words.

Beatrix paused on the bottom stair, and looked
at the two waiting for Georgie to turn. After a
moment, she stole a glance at Geor ie’s companion.
He was very handsome, rather pa e, but classical-
featured, with neither beard nor mustache to spoil
the exquisite contour of a faultless mouth and chin.
A very sunny smilel‘Blayed on his lips as he listened
to and answered 'ss Georgie. Curly nut—brown
hair fell loosely over the broad brow.

Beatrix looked at him with girlish interest, till
suddenly she became aware of an answering gaze
from two exceedingly bright gray eyes. Something
more than interest shone in them as they dwelt
upon the white-robed girl on the staircasc~surprise,
wonder and intense admiration.

Georgie, observing the direction of the gray eyes,
turned suddenly.

“Beatrix—at last!" Then with a smile she drop-
ped her dress, and introduced her companion to her
sister. “Beatrix—Mr. Noel. Mr. Noel—my sister.”

Fora brief moment the blue eyes met the keen
gray ones. Beatrix was not a coquette, but she felt
the ready crimson dee en in her cheeks as she met
the rapt admiration 0 the glance bent Upon her.
And in that moment some strange, indefinable feel-
ing crept into her heart—not joy, not pain, ditierent
from both, stronger than either.

Was it something plast. something to come that
toucthfd a chord of er inmost being at that in-
Stan

For Mr. Noel the only feeling was one of ra t
ecstasy, begun then, only to die with his deat .
It would kindle within him whenever his eyes fell
upon her: it would haunt him when she was not
near. In all the days that he saw her afterward—
and they were many——hc never forgot her as he saw
her now, with the May sunshine on her golden hair,
bound up with the black ribbon, and her white dress
fallin round her on the broad staircase.

He owed to the girls and turned away, opening
the door near him, and closing it as he entered the
room.

“ H’m i” said Georgie, kissing her sister, and
looking at her expressively. “ It’s a good thing that
you belong to Reginald Roth, or I can plain] see
that this would have been a case of love a first
sight, as the novel says.“

“Don’t be absurd! Who is he, Georgie?” asked
" Beatrix.

“ I wonder," continued Georgie, contemplatively,
“whether he was regarding you merely from an art
point of view. I’ve talked to that man scores of
times, but he never looked at me with such interest.
Certainly, I’m not the sort of person to at in a
painting, whereas you would do for anything from
Cleopatra to an Arcadian shepherdess.”

“You have not told me who he is,” repeated Bea-
' trix, in an amused tone.

“Mr. Noel, master of the Ickston School of Art.
He comes here to teach Flo', who, I believe, cherishes

an insane belief that he is a sort of divinity, to be v

worshiped next to his art. You will see him Eretty
often if you go with me to the Art Class at 10 ston;
but don’t fall in love with him ever so little. Now
come to breakfast. We have waited for you.”

Beatrix laughed merrily. It was but a short time
before the lightly-spoken warning echoed sadly in
both their hearts.

After breakfast, Georgie took Beatrix into the
garden. There was so much to see and admire—
from the 11 e tree on the. south lawn to the laurel
walk, who he Squire was wont to smoke his after-
dinner cigar as of old.

After a time, Georgie went in for the book she
was reading. Beatrix strolled through the siirub~
bery to a little iron gate leading out upon the high
road. V It was seldom used by the family. The
trees msrde grew thick and pleasant, the road out-
side stretched away between high, reen hedges.
Beatrix leaned upon the gate. and fefi into a pro—

 

 

found reverie. She had tied a lace handkerchief
Over her hair, knotting it beneath her chin; her
white dress made a break in the thick green around

her.

She was thinking of Reginald Roth. Now that
the meeting was so near she shrunk from it a little.
She wondered how he would look, what he would
say. She thought that he would be very satisfied
with her outward self. “ I will try to make him hke
me for myself. But so much de ends upon a first
impression,” thou ht Beatrix, Witha satisfied thrill.
She would have li ed to meet Reginald dressed in
the tender blue that suited her so well, With, per-
haps, a blue ribbon among her hair. But that was
impossible, as she was mourning for her aunt. She
decided u on white. Beatrix favored wlnte. Yes,
she woul wear a misty white crepe, and perhaps
she might venture upon the palest blush-rose just
for this one occasion. She was so anxious for Begi-
nald Roth to see her at her best.

She imagined how she‘ would walk forward to
meet him—not too eagerly or too hesitatingly, but
in the happy “just-between" way that she knew
suited her. I

“Beatrix!”

The word fell on her ears in a tone of glad sur-

rlse. She looked up quickly, to see a brown, glossy

orse nibbling the hedge by the gate, and 1118 rider
looking down at her.

There was no need to ask who it was. The broad-
built stately man, with dark eyes and hair, olive
skin, and square, determined face, answered Geor-
gie’s description exactly.

For a few minutes neither spoke. By tacit con-
sent the two looked in each other’s faces; then
Beatrix’s eyes, beaming with goy drooped, and.
with another thrill of triump , her heart said,
“Yes—Reginald is satisfied”.

In silence he laid his hand upon hers, as it lay on
the iron rail. and, lifting it to his lips, pressed at
chivalrous kiss upon it.

 

The long, happy day was ended. In the summer
twilight, as Beatrix stood alone in the window, Regi-
nald Roth came to her Slde.

“ Good-night, Beatrix.”

She turned her happyface to him. Already she .
1

Was learning to love m. Some impulse moved
him to take her in his arms, and draw the golden
head upon his breast.

“I have waited for you always,” he whispered,
low and tenderly. “I have dreamt of this hour,
Beatrix. From it I date the beginning of a new
life, of which every thought will be dedicated to
you. My heart tells me that I shall love you very
dearly, my beautiful, m promised bride—mine
from the first sweet breat that .you drew. I will
strive to be worthy of you, Beatrix. Do you think
you can love me dearest?” _

“ Yes,” she answered, quickly. It was a. true
answer then.

He‘went on s _ eaking fervently—-

‘.' From this our I live but for you, Beatrix. I
will hold our happiness my first and most sacred
charge. 'or your sake I will do or dare alight,
even to laying down my life. Heaven help me to
keep my vow!”

She lay still on his strong breast and heard the
words. Long before the summer was over they
Would come back to her; and she would remember
the vow, and how he kept it.

Once more alone, Beatrix o ned the window of
her dressing-room, and leans out to breathe the
balmy night air that floated up to her, laden with
delicate and fragrant perfume from the garden.
Overhead, the stars gleamed in a purple sky, and
afalr 81? a nightingale was pouring forth a flood of
me 0 .

“ng good he is! How brave and tender and
chivalrousl How I shall love him! I could not help

.1‘

 gamma.

 

 

  

 
 

   

 

til we we?

Th m , _ _ I
-there,'_her hands clasped on the he
pressed upon them
stretched out before

ea'wifirfi T?“
w; c urea,
' rides through leafy ladies with
Re mid; of 9.“ K3ch m the grounds of Rothcourt

into Icksto‘n-i—ilve miles
with Georgie at the School of Art, presided over by
Mr. Noel; of dream hours spent out of doors be
death the shadow o the lime-tree.

And then there entered into her thoughts the
memory of a proud, yet winning face, with deep
gray eyes, and a. wreath of nut-broWn hair—a mem-
ory that staid with her all night, strangely coloring
and brightening her dr

ioture gallery; of drives
latent—to take lessons

 

A NEW CHARACTER.

THE lime-tree cast a cool shade on the velvet turf
beneath it. The garden of. the Reedes was in all
the freshness of its June glory. I The green Venetian

, blinds were down in all the windows of the house
facing the south-east.

Beneath the . lime-tree were Reginald Roth and
Beatrix. He lay at her feet, and her white hands
toyed with his dark curls while he read aloud from

ages of Evangeline.

e's golden summer had begun, the cur-

tam was drawn up on her life's romance. She lived
in a glorious day-dream, drinking to her fill from

' of ambrosia that destiny held to her lips.

‘ ‘ , l uent eyes now
and t en to the exquisite ace that
,The starry eyes met his
was called up by his glance.

._, the touch of his hand on hers, no shy tremor made
her heart leap when he

, against his dark mustache;
was sure—what she loved Reginald Roth.

ie came across the lawn, and set.
as a brown and white butterfly

with a smile but no
no thrill answered to

 

pressed one white hand
yet she thought—nay,

tled herself muc
ht, at Beatrix’s side. ,
Don’t mind me," she said, graciously; "I’ll turn
on, that you may continue to be
at are you reading?"

y .
uite too melancholy for a June
3: It is sad", but I like it," answered Beatrix, dream-
“‘I don’t, to-da . Wh . the mornin isa
x itself, set to the igusic o the birds’ voices.

do an ht but dream.”
Who is negtling inyour

n..f.w,w«.. on,” w, H l ,

 

heart, Georgie?" asked
think there is some one?” asked

, 3’-
3“ Wtical4that is one reason for thinking
idle. Both of these frames of mind

00 ed straight at him with 8. ve obvious
erent.’ Then, her brown :5? es were
pening of t e dusky

f fresh-gathered roses, white
hued one into Bea-

Georgie,’ sharpl

y. and alitt
‘ . red in her oheek “ told talieesf'lye
' She held up clusters 0
- and crimson, and tossed
trix’s lap near to the dark hen .

d murmuredsoftly:

.“ Oh what are these roses n. h‘
 t in thy arland biog-€- t

Thesa roses white as snow 9"
rose from Beatrix's

hand ,
uhow  this saysto their? he asked.
" mm: 7* said she" rel  "  .
least thoukhhgillttangaksot a ‘

 

    
 

 
 
     

 

   

{needed deep as its crimson dye
han ,death, . ying in the dust, jc \
tensity”! ,. 1‘ i“. ."z  . l ,
His voiceWas Very low. Beatrix held up 
—-a ure white one. “ , _
“- nd this?” she asked, softly. '
" “ It is like you, I think, darling,” V 4 s
' “pure, bright and sweet. If a summer. 
' asses over it, it-will bandits head a while, 
lift it purer, sweeter for the rain, and bloom, , , 
. perfect end.” ' F I - 
There  slilence for a. few minutesrthen.
spo esu eny: . .. I
, d What do on sayto a picnic, Beattief? this
. just the west or for one." _ V _; .
[DH should like it, Georgie. Here com
are.’ _ . '
“I saw the carriage go round just no 
pect Mrs. Dare wants to see you, Beatrix,

Georgie. , I ,
With V leisurely steps Captain v. Dare on.
the lawn to the ime tree, in full View ’01
neath it. He could bear any eritioism. Q _
rymple’sson was stalwart and handsomer
He-bowed to the group and l.Fromaeded *
errand. “ Would Miss Ruthe 0rd 'Mcompasx
back to the house? His mother and sisters
for the pleasure of her compgnly for a little ;,
Miss Rutherford rose and o Reginaldfs 1 '
arm. The two went away together.  - ' ‘
“ I am sorry you’ve disturbed us, Captain-i
said Geor e, With a languishing look 1; tbs.
tleman, w o stood toying’ with a cluster oil, 7
within hlS reach.” “We were having such '
time discussing a picnic. " v ., :-
“I he I am to be invited,” he ohse
looldng down at the piquant face, widen ‘
ros er. , _
“ Certainly. It thereis no room lathe;
you can come after us with the basket "
dry reply. - ,.' 
‘Much ob ed. When is it tube? 1’!
my message id not include 'on." f . ’
‘He laid a detaining: han on .hershou
seated himself in the place Beattie had 
“ How delicious this is!“ ’ . ~ , ‘ "
“The position or the prospect?", asked
satirically. I 
“ Both. "I could stay here any length or.

be happy; i r r  ,
“Even if it rained l” questioned the lady
“ Even then. I have read somewhere a
poem about somebody sitting under treesi
rain. Must that work be finished in seah-
“ I am going in, Captain Dare; please giv

“slimy ' d t ed leaving th’
e s rung u an urn away ,
on thep groun A single word follow
“ Georgie!“ _ ; '
‘Slg, turned back, her face glowing. , f
‘ ome ' , :
She wavered an instant. and then, i ,_
lips in an arch smile she skimmed aeross
humming “ Comin’ through the Bye."f
Captain Dare lingered a little under,
and presently followed the graceful
footsteps, and a quiet smile on his lips

  

 

 

   
  

   

 
  

    
   
   
   
 
 
 
  
     
 

 
   
 

    
     
 
 
 
    
       

  

 
   
  
 
      
  
   
   
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
  
          
      
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
  
   
  
  
  

       

 

    

  

 

 

 
  

  

 

 
   

 

 

 
  
 
 
 
 

 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  

 

 

Mr. Noel was walking home to “reset

Reedes. Although the Squire’s carriage

m . . V .

Inks, on on his-w

often chose to w

He Went along with a firm, 1y 7

His walk, was asthoroughy . _ V _ _

alse‘about‘him., Theiresh Wind  ,

he removed the light strawhat he, were an,

breeze'lift the nut-brown curls from his.

Peg-ha _ in allvthestudies from

i ‘9 its '0 the Iokston school

an _ chalk, there was not
' n. the asters. ' j

 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I
l
1
l

 
 
  
 

 
  
 
 

14 LORD ROTH‘S SIN.

Coming along in the opposite direction was the l

Rothcourt carriage—the lumbering, old-fashioned
vehicle which had been in its glory twenty years
a go. In it Lord Roth sat alone. His eyes fell upon
the tall. erect figure and. uncovered head of the man
i alking on the turf at the roadside. As the carriage
1;:1 sscd, the brilliant gray eyes met his own. Then it
passed on.

Lord Roth leaned back. His lips, beneath the

heavy mustache, were pale as death. “It was but
a passing fancy,” he said to himself; “ but it seemed
as if her eyes were looking at me as they looked that
day.” ‘
“A passing fancy," he called it, but it left him
white and tremulous for hours after; and the first
filing he did on reaching home was to enter the
gloomy picture gallery—it was always gloomy, even
i.l June—and. drawing the curtain that vailed one
iii-the portraits, to gaze eagerly at the pictured
.ace.

. CHAPTER XII.
mu FIRST SHADOW ON THE HEART.
GEORGIE RUTHERFORD looked fascinating in a
white pique dress and a. sailor hat with Hack rib-
bons. She stood on the lawn drawing on her gloves.
Near her stood Beatrix, in white, too, but with a

 

black-lace “ s encer ” crossed on her bosom, and in ‘

her hand a re rose. .

“ I must say good-by to Flo,” she said, suddenly,
and passed indoors.

They were going to Rothcourt. . The pic-nic plan-
ned by Georgie was to take place in the grounds of
llothcourt. Beatrix knew t at Mr. Noel was with
her sister—they were'laughing and talking merrily
as she entered. _

“I am come to say good—by, Flo,",she said, cross-
ing the room, which was littered with books, draw-
ings mounted and unmounted, palettes and pencils.

“I ho e you will have a nice day, Beattie,”re-
turned lo. “Be sure to ask Reginald to show you
the picture of the old Lord Roth who was beheaded
for treason in Charles the Second’s reign. And, oh,
Beattie, Mr. Noel has been telling me about a poor
woman at Ickston who makes lace. She is in a con-
sum tion. and Mr. Noel thinks that you would help
her f you knew. She is very poor.”

Beatrix looked at the artist.

“I am interested in her because she is very poor
and very disagreeable,” he said, smiling. Beatrix
thought the smile was very beautiful. “Unfortu-
nateliv I have no necessity for lace,” he went on;
“ an she will accept help in no other way.”

“I understand,” rejoined Beatrix. “I will cer-
tainly hel ) her if I can, Nr. N giel.” Then she turned
again to lo—“Good-by, darhn .”

Yet, even as she said the his word, bending over
Florence, some strange impulse made her lift her
eyes again to the face of the man standing near.
Something in the brilliant depths of the eyes bent
upon her made her loxver her own quickly, while a
burning flush dyed her brow. She turned away with
a low “ Good-morning.” and went out. On Mr.
Noel’s lips lingered the faintest smile, as he turned
to his little pupil with some trifling direction con-
cerning her work. And on the carpet at his feet lay
the crimson rose, broken from its stem.

 

'The sunlight lay golden on the terrace in front of
Rothcourt. In the full light stood Lord Roth, Regi-
raid, and the Rutherfords. Scattered about .the
,1 rounds and over‘the lawn were the guests, in bright
("resses and fluttering ribbons, making an unusual
scene of brilliancy for the grounds of Rothcourt.

Lord Both had changed much in the years he had
spent abroad. His hair was almost snowy white;
1 is hands were unsteady. Standing at Squire Ruth-
erford’s side, the contrast between the two men was
strikina—the Squire’s golden locks were thick and
glossy, is step still elastic.

Beat rix had seen Lord Roth but once since her re-
turn. He seldom came abroad. His greeting of the

young girl was as deferential as if she had ‘heen a.
queen—and very like a queen she looked in her girlish
beauty, and with the innate dignity that was a. part
of her bearing.

They steed so in a little group—Beatrix, Reginald,
and his father. A magnificent peacock, enticed by
Reginald, came up to the terrace, and ate the bis-
cuit-crumbs from Beatrix’s hand. It was a (pretty
picture, seen from the lawn. Mrs. Rutherfor look-
ed at it. with a proud consciousness that other
people saw it too.

No one— least of all the-man at her side—dreamed
that there was a vnrue and mysterious feeling haunt-
ing the brain, bewildering the fancy, and disturbing
the repose of that apparently tranquil girl. Little
did Reginald imagine what was passing in the heart
of the fair girl who was to be his wife—~the mistress
of the old Hall—the future Lady Roth; but there
was a something within her rebelling and crying out
passionately against this public sealing of the com-
pact between herself and Lord Roth’s son.

She knew what her position at his side, on the
threshold of his home, meant to the eyes of all these
people. She knew that they looked upon her as the
future Lady Roth, and she hated the thought. She
was binding her fetters tightly, and she could not.

1 help herself. She hated herself, too, for this sudden

 

dislike that had risen within her against the fate
that her father had set his hopes upon for her, and
that her own hopes had been content to rest upon
till now. Why was she so suddenly dissatisfied?
What was the secret cause of the change that was
coming over her?

The Squire came up, linked his arm in Lord Roth‘s
and the two men strolled away together as they be
so often done before in the old days.

Beatrix turned to Reginald.

“Let us go somewhere—anywherel I do not want
to stay here, Reginald,” she said, impatiently; and,
throwin the crumbs carelessly upon the ground.
she laid er hand on his arm. Then she added, “ I
have lost my rose; will you find me another?”

He led her to arose-bed. It was a uiet and un-
disturbed spot. He gathered a super flower, and
stri ped it of its thorns.

“ love roses,” she said, fastening it where the
other had lain.

“You shall have plenty of beds devoted to them
when you come here, darling. I will plan a rose-
garden—a perfect wilderness of roses, Beatrix,
glhere we can sit together and read on such days as

is.

He spoke in such glad tones of the time when she
should live at Rothcourt. The words jarred pain-
fully on her.

“ There shall be a special seat in our rose-garden,
Beatrix. You shall sit there, the queen‘ amour,r the
roses—my queen—my rose—1n beautiful wife!”

How his voice lingered on t e fond words, as he
uttered these dreamy fancies of future happiness!

“I thought, when I first saw you, Beatrix—you
for whom I had waited and longed—that I could not
love you more than I did then. Yet, even in this
short time, my love has increased a. thousandfold.
I leve you as Arthur loved Guinevere—as Gabriel
loved Evangeline~as Jacob loved Rachel.”

The soft tones, full of impassioned tenderness, fell
upon her ears, lyet touched no answering chord with-
in her heart. e thought the drooping eyelids vailed
eyes too shy to meet his own.

“Do you think you could be true to me through

ears of absence, and perha . s suffering, Beatrix?

0 you think your love woul be strong enough to
hear you on through such suffering as Evangeline’s?”

He waited for an answer, bending down to her.

“ I think it would,” she whispered.

He took her in his arms and pressed hot, assion-
ate kisses on her lips, and even while he dir so her
heart cried out within her that she was a. traitress.

Yes, her love would live, strong, deep and warm

‘ in her heart, while she lived; it would bear hel‘

through all trials; but that love was not for the

x

‘ __ Admnli‘miu

 
   
 
 
  
 
  
   
  
 
  
  
  
  
 
  
 
  
  
 
  
 
   
  
 
   
  
  
   
 
  
   
   
 
  
  
   
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
  
 

* ~.__..:.

«room at the Beetles, feeling remarkably cross an
, sarcastic unaccount other headache, when Captain
:g'Dare was announced. Georgie returned his greet-
ing, and then prepared to leave the room and seek
, her father. captain Dare interposed laughingly.

' '~ ‘.,‘No," he sai , i‘myyisit’isto you.”
_.., Georgie sat down‘with a stormy face.
\ “glow did you knowrkth t I had not gone to 101:.
stun?” she asked. or L ‘ . .
J “ Iv drove my sisters over, and met your carriage
_ greturrdug. Your coachman kindly informed me
that‘nulvaeatnx was gone, and that she would re-

"lh Mr Roth."

3
3

p " Georgie looked severely indifferent.

= 'j “ I have come to ask for your congratulations—”

. ufie paused. leoked keenly at the averted face, and
observed the sudden flash of interest in it.

Wand, through the sudden death of my cousin.”
‘  paused again.
“Jam hep “y to hear it," said Georgie.
Georgie, t is no use to beat about the bush— .1
 going to Ireland soon, and I mean to take you
with me. You must know that I love you very
nearly. And I believe, in spite of your coolness,
{that you return my love. Now, Georgie, confess."
 “I have nothing to confess. Release my hands,
iffou please.” said Georgie, crossly.

’ ‘1 can not be put off so, dear-4t is a serious mat-
rto me. Iam anxious to get to Ireland. I will

 

notng alone. How soon can you be ready?"
' ' tam e was certainly in earnest.
ever!’

' “You don’t mean that,” he said. gravely.

He heldher hands inmly. The color rose under
the olive skin at the last words, and the lips took a
softer curve. Wise, yet wily Frank Dare seized-the
, py. moment. He drew the little figure closer to
' _, ‘ and kissed the hot cheek.

mili’iil you marry me in a month’s time, Georgie?”
r sorgie flashed up. . ‘
 _E ant-not sure that I shall marry at all, and, if I

K‘ ‘i shall not marry before Beatrix!”

v 3’12: 1” Captain Dare paused to consider.

1 esides,”_connnued Georgie, “I am very often

? eeable and ill tempered—worse than you can
 -‘ ;- I bang doors and scold; I love my freedom,
13d resent the slightest interference with my whims
‘ p \ wishes. , Do you think you could be happy with

 a" mom; isi d d ‘ l i'"

 - 9 _ our, so on e on upon in rep
Well. yes,” vouchsafed) Miss Georgie. y
,. dihen am very sure that I love your imperfec-
tions more than I shall ever love any other woman’s
virtues, my own little Georgie!"

_~ . CHAPTER XIV.
7 , 'rnn Barnum smear.
.- lineman Rom drove his mail phaeton into Ick-
stun that, morning, on some trifling business. Enter-
i ' "the town, he met figure Rutherford’s coachman
 id be empt ' ca ago. Mr. Roth stopped to
inhuman whit er he was 0mg. '
“froth stables, sir. Iain callfo Miss Ruther-
fordat c School of Art, to take or home, at
twelve? . ‘ ,
 Rutherford only—not Miss Georgina?”
Ho, sir' only Miss Rutherford.”
Well 150m, you may drive home at once; I will
V for Miss Rutherford and bring her home my-
self," said Mr. Roth. _
,_;It;wa3' a. common thin for Miss RutherfOrd to
ditto with Mr. Roth. For tooktheorderasamat-
tenor course; and obeyed it.
At the School of Art Reginald alighted. ‘ He
sanitize tell Beatrix‘pf his intention. The room
’ strap and he looked round for a moment. She
at work at her. easel. ‘

Mains, where her easel stood, and went

 onrtliewrtain. when a man}: voice

 

 

d

‘ '  'Léinuoitorn’islsim;

Georgie Rutherford sat on a sofa in the drawing:

~ xiii have come very unexpectedly into an estate in ‘

He knew the recess, , .fl

 

 

‘gehind it, speaking in ‘a low, grieved whisper, struck

is ear. . : ' ,

“ Dare I hope for ardent” it said. -

There was no rep Reginald raised the curtain

softly. Beatrix stood with bent head over the easel.

1 Her olden, rip ling hair swept the canvas and hid

l her see from t 9 master, who stood at her side.

1 He bent forward and lifted the hair~the golden,
'ripplin hair every thread of which was worth 2.
kmng to the man looking on-and drew it back
from the blushing, downcast face.

“Will you—can you to ve me and forgetit? I have
, been mad. Believe me, could not help it," pleaded

the low musical voice that was full of passion.

9 Still she made no answer,_but stretched out her

hand in silence. He took 1t, and bending down,

pressed his 1i s upon it. . ,
As one wit horrible nightmare upon him, fil-

nald Roth dropped the curtain and went out. 9

mounted the phaeton. took the reins from the

groom, and gave the horses their heads.

Afterward, looking back on that hour, he never
could remember whether it rained or shone. -He
only knew that he was borne through the little
town and out upon the high road at a mad pace.
The groom seated behind, grew uneasy~his mas-

, gain . The wind
blew in is face fresh and cool but his rain seemed
on fire“ the blood coursed through his veins like
molten lead, his heart was throbbingm , .

Had he dreamed of this thing or was it rue that
the woman he loved with such 11nd adoration was
false—that Beatrix—with whom he had associated
all that was pure and erfect and beautiful—loved
this man, yet suffers another to hold her in his '
arms and call her his own, and that other himself?
‘ When did she ever blush and tremble at his touch
as she had done a moment since at that of his rival?
Had she not laid her head on his breast, and lifted
her face for his kisses without the bloom on her
perfect cheek growing caper?)

He asked himself these questions in his anguish,
and sternl laid bare the truth to his own gaze—the

serous place that the horses were

had not loved him; she had let him love her more ,
than his own life—she had accepted his worshi and
homage—and all the time her heart had been ull of
another man‘s image. He groaned in agony. Her
compressed his white lips with pain. Why was this =
thing come upon him? What had he done that he 4
was crushed and made desolate for life? ,
“ Heaven help me! This is more than Ivcan bear!"

1 he cried in his heart. “I ma be'blind—I may be
mad; but from this hour I wil never see her again
-—the sight of her face would kill me!" ’
Then from that noble. suffering heart another ,
voice spoke and pleaded for her. 

“ Perhaps it is not her fault that he loves her. * -
How can she help being so fair that men lose them
selves and become dazzled before her beauty? If 
this man has dared to love her, that does not prove ' :1
her false to me. Did she not say but yesterday that '-
her love for me was strong enough to withstand
any temptation of time or absence? Perhaps I have
been too hasty—too swift to condemn her. If I love
{ her so, ought I not to trust her full —-to believe in
5 her truth against all the world? as, I have been
1 mad and salons." ' r , \

So was e tossed to and fro by distracting doubts:
and fears and hopes. ’ '

CHAPTER XV. , ,

m mom-womb yrsrroa. .

r ' Burma: sat alone in her dressing-room; the

shine floodinghthrough the rose-colored curtains, fa
upon her as s e sat. U n her cheeks burned a h
ush, upon her; brows y a shadow—a shadow
some untold pain; ‘ ,~  , 

A few moments agoGeo 9 had left her.
pouring into her sister's  be sweet star! of

 

  
   
   
 
 
 

 

 

ter was evidently reckless and insensible to the dam , I I

bitter tru 11 that bowed him to the dust. No, she '- "

 

 

 

 

ha. ‘fiove. Beatrix had listened. attentively, had «
w‘lgggered her words of hislympathy, had kissed
Georgia’s glow‘ cheek, w- e a l the time her own
brain was dizzy, or own heart aching beneath the
weight of suffering~forduri the long watches of
the past night, as she Ia awa e and restless, there
' had come to her the ful consciousness of what she
 was doing—of what she had done. She was acting‘
' a base and sinful part—so base that Beatrix Rather» .
ford hid her proud eyes from the daylight, and
moaned in her pain as she confessed it to herself.
In those moments of bliss when she had first
learned that the man for whom she had been false
to her afflanced husband returned her love, she had ,
given herself u to the delirious joy that the knowl-
edge awakens in her heart. forgetful of all else.
With calmer thoughts came the full sense of her
error..
She aced the sunny room again and again. t . 'ng
-to dec do upon the right course to pursue. T ere
was but one~she must break her engagement with
Reginald Roth! ' For the rest—what?
r She dared not face the future-«she put it out of
her thoughts; for the present this was enough-she
must dissolve her engagement with Reginald

o .

Even this decision brought some comfort—poor
comfort, truly, yet it was etter than battling with
a chaos of doubts, and he elessl sealing her fate
for life. She felt feverish, er pu see throbbed, her
cheeks were burning. If she could o somewhere—-
do something to get away for a brief time—away
from Georgie and her parents, whose loving eyes
would soon discern the change in her face. She cast

. about in her mind for an excuse, and almost without
an short one presented itself to her.
The lace-woman for whom “ he ” had solicited her

Beatrix had already been once to see her—a

 

aid!
strange woman, with something foreign in her words
and looks, but accomplished in her art. Beatrix
had commissioned her to make a qfuantity of lace,
more from a wish to aid her than rom an neces-
sity for it. The thought entered her min that it

Would be a good excuse for a long, solitary drive, to

go and see whether the lace was finished.

She rungthe bell and ordered the pony-carriage:
then shgxput a black lace shawl over her white dress,
tied av round. the brim other small coquettish
, hat and waited in a fever of impatience.

_ 'l‘_ e o e was announced. She glided down-
stairs, and across the hall. Fortunately she met no
one. A groom held the reins, and was waiting to
accomlpany his young mistress. I

I s all not want on, Russell; I am going alone."
e man dehvere the reins and whip to her, and
She drove QWEY. talgmg a circuitous route to Ick—
ston. She did not Wish to meet any one. The Dare
girls might be ridi or driving on the high-road;
eatrix dreaded an nterview with them just now,
engrossed as she knew they were with Frank‘s en~
hominid; to Georgie. It ‘was a long' drive, but it
no Migue her. The air cooled her cheeks and
cagmgdlher throbbing pulses. .
ace-Woman occupied the attic of D r

intermarriage: “rs moms 0‘53

. * ' . . as
tered it. The quiet little town was 53232311“ early
hour in the afternoon. As she drove
of Art, the quickening throbs of her
color With a rush into her face.

i

999
a?

 

eart sent the

reached Derby Lodge she was tran By’ the time She '

. lazuli:

l, boy was comm down the s qm ' ‘

, cans. She called higm as he page“ carrying milk-
~to hold her ponies. Then she Walked u

,tive“front garden" and rung the be the rim‘
trying to subdue a little thrill edit 13; weigh);

I Vmihty of meeting Mr. Noel flash across her

i - .. an _. who occasion '0: herllrstvisit to
" .deoth had accompanied her,

. and them—.3- :
recollection l—they  encountered. the

 

 

 
    
 

 

Lon, , ease;  T4

_ Mrs. Flaherty

1 Beatrix spent some time admiring and comm

musingiy’. . , ,_ y ,
W; “His remiss? I do not understands..m¢.
6d. and asked him ‘ t _  marge gently. , t ,

 although
Defbflzod e» Yes
ten?” the woman questioned. ea erly.
, ‘in any way ’ he would, serve men—fin
Rhine», ‘ it '  ‘ V "  ; -..

artist in the gloomy hail. But that was-mordthm
a ggekdago, and~ ,d' th   ' kit _  

e oor opene wi a crea 1 noise. Miss
Rutherford found herself face to ‘ ace With 
Noel’s neat landl y, Mrs. Flaherty. ’ ' 

“ The poor sowl is betther today, though
mon thrying to a body's timper, .ma’am,”; 
Mrs. Flaherty, in answer to Beatrix’s inquiry. , 

“Iwill go up and see her,” said she,» u'ietlys’j ‘

s dumphng form precede her up, tit
three flights of stairs leading to the attic. .; Em
topmost stair the landlady stopped. ‘ j ‘ '-

‘Perhaps you won’t mind going- iu alone-my.» ,
l’ or the poor crathure is just asobstreperou’s as 
be. and .can’t bear the sight of me, though 
knows I've nivera thought but kindness in inyhgrt
for her,” whispered Mrs. Flaherty, ener eticall ,"

Miss Rutherford smiled and turned t e has: ,7,  got
the attic door. Before her was a clean  icon:
fortable room, bare of furniture, save for theses:
bed and a rickety rocking-chair. A small ~ ,‘ «w
the sunlight shamed, burned in a tmy store. i _
it, with a gay-colored shawl twisted about _ '
ders, sat the lace—woman- She lifted 
her visitor entered, and a spasm of pain passed 
her haggard face. ,  r ‘

"I am come to see you again, as I promised,
said Beatrix, gently. “ I am sorry to see you seen;

“ You need not be ~sorry. I am not ill, the“
they all say so," she answered, raising a pair of
gry eyes to the girl’s face.  ‘ i},  )

‘Are you not? Ithought—” .  l . ,

“ You thought I was dfiing? You are m .  .
the are all mistaken. ut time will  I. f ,
wil prove." . -  ' _  ' '

Beatrix was silent; the fierce and agonized to?!
jarred upon her. She felt herself powerless ;
with this half-crazed Creature, whom she had 36
need Mr. Noel to befriend. Suddenly she ‘ ’ r ‘
the lace, and asked for it. It was not}; ‘

    
  
   
   
   
  
 
 
 
  
   
 
  
   
  
    
    
 
 
   
    
  
  
   
    
   
     
    
   
 

upon its beauty. She also drew the tacituxgn  ’
to speak of other thin --trivial thingswneyaltotaohé
ing upon herself or or former life, aboutwfifi
Beatrix felt constrained to wonder. ' _
The afternoon sunlight fell ugon the two, _ “  _
with ineffable glory the fade ._ ‘ z 
woman and the radiantly lovely girl whom 
one bright object in the bare, whitede :'_ '
She rose at length to go. , . f , .
“I wish you would let "me send you schist   .
tempt you to eat “ she said, in her sweet»? f
every tone of whic fell on the poor worn , '
dew on a parched and wasted land. ' ~ g ', .
The wistful eyes for once lost their  ..
“ Thank you," she answered, wearily. Then 
a sudden impulse, she asked: “Is he waiting  ‘
stairs for you?" i 1 1 \ ‘ 
“He? Who?" questioned Beatrix, in: at.
wonder. ' ’ ' * . '
“The man

The color died from ad 
light dimmed, in her eyes, as the woman’ ,. , 4
words bared her sorrow to the daylight. ' Bier: 
trembled a little, but she answered, bought .z}
“Mr. Roth is not waiting for me; Icarus 7 W 1 V
The hauteur was lost upon her gsmgficl‘gi at
am unconsc oneness was upon er a .l 
drg’l‘el him not to tor-get his promise," she

 

 

 

you are oin

.4
S
9
8
E
g
8
El
‘3;
in.
E

, , you not? Hg said {£1347 if avast;th 
eerVe mein any way, ewou . can; .1‘w any
was here with you thatday—you heard him  i

on haveforgotten. ‘ _ :3,  v.
, , 'had.foi‘gotten,’1 replied Beatrix" “ V
“But! have not. ' .Do you. think he  - _
 i 5-

“ '

 

 
  

 

 
 

 as _.

 

 

 

 surehe'hes not forgotten—«Mr. Roth‘ds very
, "d-g” Miss Rutherfordsaid, in unsteedy'tones.

“She got away at last.» The drive home eemed a

ongtorturez-rr Just as shelled longed to get away
from her home, so now she longed to reach it.

'In the. hall she met her mother. Mrs. Rutherford
entered upon; a detailed account of the afternoon’s

" Mrs.- Dnre and‘the girls had paid a visit of
,‘tatic congratulations concerning Frank and
turgid. Beatrix listened patiently, and contributed
hen mile to the general satisfaction.

v f‘How well Beattie looks!” said Mrs. Rutherford,
Wplacentlv, rejoining Georgie in the drawing-
more after Beatrix was gone u. stairs.

And‘Beatrix had looked her oor, and fallen u on
lightness by a. couch where, with her face hid en,
the spent part'of her cart-ache in bitter tears!

CHAPTER XVI.

: , . x , has. museum’s oossm
finafimlmn'rr had set Mr. Noel’s tea service,
"ado  tea, placed the steaming urn upon the
 and cut the spongecako, sun'eflino its mellow
I head with conscious pride. She ad> even gath-
mdg‘lresh flowers-—roses, heartsease, and migno~
Whom-her little varden, and placed themu on '

table. The good. ady had «tenders t in er 3
Wfor thesyoung artist who occu is her best
'j , .w As Mrs. Flaherty gave the tab e-cloth a. final
nothing, asuddeu thought struck her.

Wonder what’s become of that little ivory but- ;
knife he used to be so fond of,” she mused. cast— ,
 contemplative glance round the apartment,

‘ then proceeding to turn out the ‘drawers of the
Mentor in search of the butter-knife. It was not
“the first drawer. nor in the second. In the third
, gli‘laherty lighted upon something that save her ,
greater shock thaniif she had sprung a gold mine. 5
 woman’s head in watercolors—exquisitely

 perfectly finished. The blue eyes looked
 1 tinto her own as she took the portrait in her

and recognized it.
M thatiis not, Miss Rutherford as I livel‘ In his
wiser, With his gloves and things! Poor fellow!
digit! leve with her. Sure that’sa thousand pities
fiddth rich, going to be Lady Roth, tool Sure

)1 ,

  
 
  
   
 
  
  
 
 
   
   
 
 
  
  
 
 
   
   
   
 
 
  
  
  
  
    
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
  
   
 
 
  
     
  
  
 

 

hereplaced the drawing and sat down in Mr.
oel’soosy-chairfo try to devise some means of .
,v .‘ that gentleman’s ill-advised passion.
Rf. » oel, entering the room some halt~hour later, i
essmazed to flu ' Mrs. Flaherty in his arm—chair ‘
% asleep. He went to the window and, stood by ‘
 elaboratevflower-stand. His face wore a. tired ,
welfare??in expression in thefull light of the July
_ i  e’ stood so a long time, in a halfeswoer, E
’, fbittorgeverie, till Mrs. Flaherty awoke and .
 fort _a.torrent of lamentations and apologies
shaving so inopportunely “forgotten herself ” and
 ‘ d l he urn to get off the boll~ She waited
in m'with‘ eager solicitude, and Secretly mourned ‘
thew” so indifferent to the charms of lemon- ‘
,. .g;Asshefilled hissecond cup of tea. she plum ed
  subject that lay so sore a burden at or i
 Rutherford came here one-(la last week, ;'
 Mr. Roth.” She noted thesth change of ,
color and compression of the lips; then she wont on. t
“Euro I'feltso strange at seeing them both so grand ;
when it seems like yesterday that they was .‘
’ ngs nlaying to. other.” i
ve you knowu Rutherford so long?" he

  

   
 

 
 

 
 

  

 I
; .. yes, sir,.thongh I don’t suppose she remem- l
_  Ame, I’ve knows them ever since they could g
who I washousemaid at the Hall before I married ;
 Ji'laherty and Mimi’s cousin Rachel was nurse, i
promoter like it, to Master Reginald. 1 remem- =

" the‘d ‘ as Beattie and Master Reginald was/i

     
 

 

 fired: 1w as» . is. The uire was al-
’ ' N%’.his."m$nd"atter the c risteninghe

      
 

 

Bo N hadtheohfldreuinthedrawing-room. ‘

; 'come here—win
-—the fair face but was only meant for him, yet has '

l H



and made up a plan . toilmarry’ them‘ to ‘esctf'tther.§ " ~ " ’

Rachel held Master Reginald, so’sheiknew all abOut »

it. I’ve heard her say how them‘two gentlemen
signed a paper, and made a. great to do with their
nonsense.” , ‘

She looked at her bearer. He was leaning his
arms on the table and listening intently. _ . r

“ So, you see sir, those two have belonged to each
other always,’ continued Mrs. herty with well-
assumed innocence. “But afterward Miss Boattie
Went to France, and his Lordship took her Lady-
ship and Master Reginald abroad, and the. Hall was
shut up. Rachel went too—she was ward to Lady

1 Both. The meant to come back in a year or two,

but things urned out deferent.” '

“ Then they did not return for a longer period i"
said Mr. Noel, absorbed. I

“ Lady Roth never returned, sir, nor my husband’s
cousin Rachel. The news came that the cor lady
was dead in Italy, and that Lord th was

‘ going to live abroad till his son came of age. The

next we heard was that Rachel had married some
foreign man, and sent money home for her old
mother to come out with the child and live with

her.
“ The child?”
“Yes, sir—Rachel’s boy. Rachel was a widow;
when she went out with the Roths. She left her.
only child in the care of her mother. Afterward,

& when she married the foreigner, she sent for them,

and they went out to Italy. And never a tale or
tiding came over the sea to tell what became of
them all. My lord and Mr. Reginald returned to
Rothbury in the spring, a little time before Miss
Beattie came home. I card the was a very beauti-
ful young lady; and sure enough, when I saw her
face the other day, I knew it was the truth. I’ve
heard they are to be married soon;‘in the autumn,
folks say. No more tea, sir? Then I’ll take the pot
away.

She athered the things together on the tray, and
carrie it out, making a hustle, and feigning not to
see the rigid face turned to the Wll’ldOW’.

“ I hove done it," the old lady said, triumphantly
to herself. "It‘s a hard blow for the poor clear,
but it’s better he should know she has belonged to
somebody else all her life.”

He set on where she had left him, his head bowed
on his hands. ‘ .

“Shehas belonged to him always~she will b
his wife. His wife—and I love her sol
did I not die before I saw her face

drawn my very senses from me, and made my life

course—that I would have sacrificed my life to

$5193, find the memory of which will haunt me
e

 

CHAPTER XVII. . 

A. women’s REMORSE. ‘ ~-
REGINALD ROTH had shut himself in his private
room at Rothcourt, and there in the solitude he
stood face to face with his unexpected trial. ‘
Long and fiercely he battled With his sore heart.
asking himself what he oughtto do—whether it
would be right to release Brain): at once from the
ties that bound her to himself, or whether he should
hide the fatal knowledge he had acquired in his
own heart, and allow their relations to each other
to continue as meg stood at present, unless Beatrix.
herself dissolved t em. He concluded that the let»?
tor was the only course open to himfor the present.-
e shrunk from the idea. of openl taxing her with
:llierl falsehood. Suppose, otters ,. blinded b .
ea. ousy, , - V
false? At the bottom of his heart there lay 9. din
hope that it might be so; and, in spite of the.  '
deuce of his own eyes, in spite ofwhathls better:
judgment told him, the hope lived on. r. >  ,1
He had set himself a dihlcult task.  
daily in her home, to film,

5‘
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’3'
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:5
6"
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5'
5.
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have ' to see Beatrix
hoursin her societyeto touch her bend  t

'i,

Why did I '

     
       
     
   
   
     
  
   
    
    
    
 
     
    
    
     
   
  
      
        
       
    
  
  

 
 

    

.  ’ ‘- were new $139 "A

 

   
    
   
  
  
  
  
  
    
   
  
  
   
   
   
   
   
    
   
 
   
   
 
  
   
    
     
   
   
  
   
  

. Beeline .

lodged in her sister’s face with the courage of de-
» gain will not be a secret long," she said. “ I have
5 broken my en agement With Reginald Roth—J think
“There broken is heart, tool Do not look at me so
'_ oil shall go mad! , I am the most sinful and misera-
lewoman that ever lived. You will all hate me,
5 but not so fiercely as I hate myself. "

_ “Gen 9 heard the bitter words with mingled an-

 ger an astonishment.

" “ Broken your engagement with Reginald!” she
- exclaimed. “You must be mad, Beatrix—I cannot
, believeltl" I

  “All the world will know it soon," was the sad

v ruled? ,If so. that can soon be mended. Reginald is
' ‘e noblest man living—he will not be angry long.”
H“ He is too noble, too good for me. He is not an-
grylbut we parted forever, ’f Beatrix said. mourn-
_ n ,, . ..

“Tera was a pause, which was broken by the
angergirl. .
9‘ {cannot understand it. What W111 papa. say?"
Beatrix lifted her face in sudden terror. and then
he knelt before her sister. I
ill-dare not tell him,” she whispered.
_ " e, for Heaven’s sake. help me! Tell them all.
 ask them to send me'away until our marriage
hy‘ds overtl could notlive throu h t. Let me go
fl aywith my misery. Oh, that had never come
among yous-that I had never been born l”
V, Georgia’s tears were flowing fast as she looked at
the miserable girl whom bu two months ago she

, “Letme go, Beatrix,” she said, risin ; “ I must
‘  to realize what has happened. ould that I
amid go to sleep and wake up to find it all a. dream 17’
She. turned away, and then paused to ask, suddenly:
‘ . on have not told me w y you have done this,
Beatrixemay I know?”
Beatrix Went to her sister and clasped her neck.
Idsten,”,she said~“ I will tell it to on.”
«a bent her head to catch the ow and ago-

 

. is r.

“11‘ path? Beatrix, to own dear sister!” was her

it! exclamation. A 'l the severlt was gone from

er. tuna, her resentment was swa owed u _

earn ' 'on. She stroked the golden hair ovmgly.
‘2 068' Reginald know?” she questioned, after a

, ‘iYes, 1 He had a right to know; I told him all. I
have acted wrong all through. I allowed Reginald
 'of- on to think that I would be his wife, {at
{br'some-t me I have known that it could never e.
my sister, what have I not suffered Slnce the
1am knowledge of my secret came to me 2”

There was no answer, save an increased tender-
ea‘sihthetouch of Georgie’s hand as it rested on
"i " ’ V‘Bhair.

~ »“.«I)ear Georgie. you must tell our arents for me.
Do not ask tor their pity or for veness. I dare
r 11.017  for either. As them to let me go away
' {are .10, time, till they have almost forgotten me
undmy ault, and you are married. Then I Will
* comeback, but oh, so humble, Georgie! I will tr

. your place to them; they can never be prou
me again, but perhaps they will

 
  
   
   
  

 
 

'3‘

    
  
 

 

  
 

tine!
afflict-ewes such weary agony in the tone that
Georgi wept bitterly.

~ f‘Mypoor darling sister!" was all she could say.
That: she driedher tears, and with gentle firmness
 to bed. “

   
    

 
   

    v  
  i  "gn’llllméringo‘gllffim «flotsam: m E:-
  ions {.1me in the be

som 1'

y

nothingérom me? it told you my secret, you know, "
'~ . j Beatr’ix rose to her feet with sudden strength; She

‘%hat possessed you. Beatrix? Have you quar- ¥

' tones, broke upon his meditations.

“ Oh, I wait, sir?”

had deemed the most favored of fortune’s children; .

‘ possessed him as the su .
*mind of how his father would receive this news.

>
r
l
l

I

in he? spoken in a strange language might fall.

not be ashamed ‘
thatwas not dense enough to hide the tempest

, i Lord Roth in a hoarse whisper. "
i , “I have said.” -

 

library at the Hall. till one ill-rated evening-when

a few words from Reginald at an end to itiorev-e‘r. ,,
It was a sultry night and eglnald had been pac- 1

ing the terrace since dinner. thinking of hiswrecle «

,ed happiness. His heart was hea enou h, both

for Beatrix’s sake and his own. ce t .6 day,
when he had seen Beatrix and the young artist to-

ether, until this last week,»he had been in a va e;
ewildering dream, ho ing, doubting, fearing}.1 en
had come the fearf awakening. Now 6 was ,

learning to bear his trial—not merely to endure it
but to face it like the brave, strong, noble man he
was. , .
He was ponderingl in his mind whether this lesson,
would not come to im easier awa from Rothcourt
——easierto Beatrix too. It woul not be right for
her to leave her home so soon after her return, yet
one of them must go to avoid the constant meet-
ings, the chance encounters that would henceforth
be so painful for both. es, he would go away.
His going would make no difference to any one. The
intercourse between himself and Lord Roth was so
slight that the latter would scarcely miss him. ’
The voice of his father, speak n in querulous
0rd Roth stood
just within the open window; Reginald paused just
without to reply. ,
“When is. it to be? How much longer am Ito

“ To wait? For what, my lord?" asked the young
man dreamily. ' , ,
“F‘or your marriage. sir. Have I not told on
that this delay is fraught with peril-«that, un ess
Miss Rutherford’s money, or money from some
other uarter, is soon in your hands, we—the Roths
ofblllot court—shall be beggars?” he answered, irri-
ta y. a '
It struck Reginald now for thefirst time that.
he had for otten even to tell his father oi" Beatrix‘s
refusal. 6 had known it since esterda» ,yet he
had not uttered it save to his own cart. ow too

for the first time. a feelingi of something like res
den thought entered his

 

 

He was not one tovflinch from any task, or to be
mastered by any trouble, so he drew a hard breath
and met this one face to face. . a . . ‘
“ The marriage will never take place." he said.
quietly; " Miss Rutherford has reaected me.” ‘
The words fell upon the other’s earsas Words

< an; we. tun-Mm .l ‘

 

" Ido not understand you, sir," he said, coldly.
Reginald repeated firmly: _ I a I 
 Miss Rutherford has refused to become my 
m e." 4 I l

“Refused-—-refusedl“ echoedeord Roth, with a - 
long pause between the words. “She does not 
dare to refuse l" 

“You forget, my lord," the younger man said.-
calmly, “that there was nothing binding in the
compact, that you and Mr. Rutherford made be;
tween us.” A,

“I cannot understand,” he muttered; then cono'
temptnously, “It must be, sir. I tell you—~11: iavnoth .
m u awomans w 1m. in reason oes a; ,

.g b t i 11' W1 t d he,
give for this tem orary insanity i"

Reginald met t e angry gaze calmly.

“That is between herself and me, my lord,” he
replied, haughtin and turned away. A sharp im“
perative command recalled him. “ '.

“Come back. sir.”

They stood face to face in the summer twilig

 
      
     
   
    
   
   
 
 
   
 

    
    
 

  

h.


 

angry passions upon the cou enance of the one
the calm endurance of the 0th . ’  .
‘ “ ok in my face and answer me solemnly as bl?
fore heaven. Is this thing falso or true 381‘

 
    
 
 
  

  
   
 
    

A momentof silence like the lull before 14339: L
ing of the tempest, and then the other. 8 eke.» 
' Twenty years 1- hsve waited, ton. j 1 

 

     

  

 

 

cometo pass: for it! h . sacrificedm' h
{aimed my hands-with simborne up age.
and poverty and subterfuges to exist trom day to
day: and now you let a woman’s whim lay my
hopes, my plans, In ver life all in the dust! This
same. terms! I might

have known that I. could not gather figs of thorns.
Go now from my presence—9.1115 at an end between
us—your face goads m e to madness. Go, and take
my bitterest curse With you to the ends or the

earth.’ .

 With folded arms Reginald leaned against the
.. stone pillar and listened. The suppressed agony
and bitter hatred 1n the tone thrilled through his
whole being. Some of the words struck him as
strange. Soon~—very soon—their meaning lay be-

, fore him and he understood. ,

He turned and walked away in silence—anywhere
——over the lawn~among the shrubs. .A new pain
was at his heart, another agony to do battle with.

“When has he ever regarded me, his son save as

the instrument of his own schemes—the blind tool
by means of which his plans were to be wrought
out?” he cried out, in his hot anger and misery.
“ Can I recall one tender word or look such as a fa-
ther gives to son, man to man? I believe, if my
blood would buy the gold he covets, he would see it
shed greedily~my base blood, he sald~he, my fa-
ther! Does he forget that I too am a man and his
equal, though not held by him in greater honor
than the servants under his roof :7” _

He walked rapidly to and fro, crushing the turf
with his impetuous steps, his teeth set as he spoke
his thoughts aloud.

“Yes, it will be best so. I-will take Carlo and
leave Rothcourt-I will travel—go to German and

ive lessons in my own language, music, or eaven
nows what, for a living. Anywhere will be better
than here——any work preferable to the shame of this
.false existence. I shall be better away from it».
away from her. As for the rest, I shall never need
' a meal if Carlo is my companion.”
.So he thought and planned. But he would not go
away from Rothcourt this very hour, as he meant
to do~no, not just yet.

Lord Roth stood where Reginald had left him.
_ The wrath, the mad ipassion that had but now pos-
sessedhim was subs ding, the high tension of nerve
.‘was relaxing, and in lace of it came a gloomy de<
; ' pair almost as terri le. As Reginald‘s last steps
5' died away. the elder man threw up his arms—and it
‘ was well there was no eye to gaze on his face.
“So near—so near; and I have lost—lot all!“
 FVith a loud and bitter cry, he fell forward upon his
.‘ ace.

 

   
   
  
   

    
     
    
 
   
   
     

  

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIX.
~ - ASTRANGE CALL. '
Loan Rom was not dead. Reginald’s old Italian
‘ SGWant, assing round the grounds to the rear of
the house, heard the cry and the heavy fall, and
' ran to the terrace, whence the sound seemed to
, proceed. The twilight was thick now. .He ered
» about among the plants and pillars; and , he
" lite ed in at the, drawiny-room window an sawv
‘Wlt m it the dark heap. lie rung the bell violently,
, and, before any one could answer the summons, he
had raised the fallen head, and loosened the fasten.
s at the throat. ‘-
he old nobleman was not. dead, but nearly so.
_ Lord Roth had burnt a blood-vessel. His whole
— countenance was transformed almost be ond re~
cognition. Carlo Maxim was a sha‘ an expert
man. He had been almost everyw ere, seen al-
most everything, had on ed in yarious trades,
and knocked about the worl from his Infancy: fie
WWI" knew his arentage,-never owned a birth-
?gfiij, never, till 3.1m threw him in Reginald Roth's

 

   
   
   
  
   
   
   
  
   

n hr“ this“ New are at.“
 a 9g. n _ reg no 10118 pl up
Singularxnedwofimo

., , 05013.
st debt ‘

  
    

  
   

 

ennui-sedans was WWEBQB‘SS: seeding noises: 

 

 
  
  

u‘setfi'li Reginald, had said that he ' '
never need a meal it Carlo flighsrwas"
wanderer. ' ‘ ., g g ' .
His keen e es read at once the danger a
cause. He spatched one of the servants
ston for the doctor, and another for Mr.  ,
the rest, he took matters into his own hands (1
mana ed well. ‘ - =  '
Re mald came into the room, upon the threshold
of w ich he and his father had gamed but half-an
hour before. He was shocked eerily, and’look
with pity and with awe at the alteredgface 
man whose last words to him had been a curse.
They waited in restless impatience for the doctor.
He came at last, and afterward, spoke to Lord _Rpth’, V
son with courteous sympathy; “ His lordshiper
in considerable danger, and would continue so , , ,
some days. The issue could not at resent he 
seen: rrlieanwhile his lordship must ,‘keptperiectly
ranui.’ ‘  
Reginald heard and attended the issue. He must
wait until his father was out of danger ‘ 
lethhRoghfioulit’. d b ht th Sqd '11 ” hi
0 o ow ng a to e ' ’3
and Georgie to Rgthcouurai. ~They wig-‘8 ‘ I
shocked—most of all, at the change in the 
man’s face since they had seen him last on y’two»
days ago. Even while he answered their in niriea
in the grave way habitual to him, he was won sting
whether the knew all whether Beatrix was he ' py
again, or sti lwhite and sad as he had seen her; ’ t'
-—-whether she had thought of him since theyhad
parted. It seemed a lifetime to him since then ,
After the ladies had hidden him akind .
the Squire fingered.
“Heaven, is 'm witness that I am'truly - A
for this, Reggy,’ he said, laying one hand on. ’
young man’s shoulder, and looking with * ’
eyes into his sad face. ' , w ‘
Reginald met the look. It moved him 3
Mr. Rutherford knew all. > ' .
“ My bofiv, we have looked forward to italic,
-—your fa her and I. We gave you to each ‘
the beginning Re . We should not have
lained if death ha intervened, or even if - "
ad said at the first that the arran ement _
never be. But for a girl’s whim to reaku
Elan we had nursed for twenty yearsishard tcj
eaven alone knows what she has done it t
has deceived us all as I never dreamed a d
of mine could have done; am an old man, my _
but Iam sorel disap ointed; I have not. 
her—I cannot o ive, er,” he added, steruly
Re inald turn awe  '
“ on must forgive ' trix,” he said, earnestly.
“I forgave her when she-told me all.” * j
“ Is it so little to you?” the Squire asked, hastfly
almost angrily. , ~ , _
He repented the words before th . were ,
uttered. Never, never, in all the years 9 coin , ,6
he merger. the look 0n the young man’s fa as
turn it to him. ' i , ‘ ‘ ,
“It is so much to me,” he answered slowly
assionately, “that I count all other grief as ,
Big in com arisen. It is so much to me that,
ain of it W1 1 last wh'le I live. But her} imp '
s counted before all hat this world engine 7‘
To purchase that, I we d reckon no sacrifice
great; sol have forgiven her.” '
“Forgive me 000. ’ the 39
held Out his hand, while , g g ,.
eyes. “What a «noble re ow he is}, Whatxa ,, 
heart the girl has thrown away: Heaven tarsus
her-I cannot!" he added to himself, and 
hardened his heart against the girl who'had‘ teen
mad enough to reject Reginald 39th . _ ‘ V _ ' 
Them came, a time when Lord was 
nounced out or, danger—es much out or danger”
he would ever be. One thread of the strong ii!”
was. snapped forever; so he lay‘in dream ’ _, .

 
 
 
 
 
       

     
   
   
  

  

  

   
 
 
   
   
  
  
 
 
 
 
    
 
   
 
   
 
  
  
    
 
 
 

 
 

 
 
  
    
  
   

  
     
 
 
    
  
 

  

     
   
   
   
 
      

 

  
  
 

 
 
      
  
 

 

     

‘ 1'» him wasrove‘r just now. [The not
its  beat very slowly, the scheming,
= -, brain Was quiet for atlme. . - ‘ ~
.nald lived on in dull monotonous routine.
arse of news floated from the outer world
in arms so tude. He‘hadheard that Frank Dare
i left England for Belfast, to' stay some weeks in
land,_so as to set his estate in order before he
firodghthis bride home. He had learned, too. that
.firs;‘~fim_andr the girls had gone to .spend the
remainder of the summer at the seas1de, taking
36de {Rutherford with them.
it seemed to him as if his life had stopped sud-
nly, yet» a sense of waiting for. something per-
:i‘aidedThis whole being. ' He had a dim rception of
. me great crisis being at hand. The st shadow
lo, the condo event was in the shape of a sealed
noteg’somew at oddly addressed, which the old
_ V ,_ j placed in his hands one afternoon. The con-
nts ran thugs--
"" omens}: Sm: Begging you will remember mak-
. promise to come to the poor crazed creature
thy, house, if ever she wanted {1011, I make bold to
' (1 her message, which I thong t on would never
wetland if I did not explain, an hogaing you will
dune the liberty taken by your faith ul servant,

_ y I MARY Mann.”
line a the’note lay a sli of paper upon which
easigritten, in large blacg ’

 Itcome H

   
  
    
  
   
      
  
   
    
   
  
  
    
   
   
  
  
   
   
    
    
    
   
 
  
  
 
 
  
      
  
   
  
 
  

~ did: not hesitate a moment; he remembered
mgromlse to the strange woman~he remembered

that eatrix’ had been interested in and kind to

. ' a min; the bell, and Carlo Marini answered it.

Bring my horse round," he said-“I am going
fakihonrf” '

 

CHAPTER XX.
. , . REVEALED AT LAST. -
miss Museum’s stran e ledger was sitting up-
»,  n her bed when Mr. th entered the top room
‘ ' Lodge upon that July evening. An old
‘12 ‘ ed shawl was wrap ed tightly round her
were; her gray but stil abundant hair was
elygzoonfined by a beautiful comb of foreign
“ .kimanship. As r. Both entered she leaned back
“ It her pillows with a composed expression
it‘d mat ' ’- n h
‘ u r you we eep your, romxse, s e
.“yfiitgdown—Jhaveastor to tel on. When
we told it, I shall have 1015 a. 9:00 friend and
4—” “She used, lookingt him wistfullfi.
 " yourf end always.” ginald put in, ind-
sh,"? she answered' “you are one who does
:a promise easily. I do notwva‘nt you to
e that you cannot keep. Wait until the

 
    
    
    
 

  

 
 
   
 

   

 

  

 lay silent for a while, with a far-away
yher e es as they rested on the stri of sky

etlgi window. Tlée silelrlice sated so
that us.» an to won or w en so. on y
.ved  r headgand began t6 speak, looking

  

. gory be as twenty years or more ago.
{is}. are yory tron
, your lace, whichis much changed
' t 7 . I can guess ourtrouble—it is about
“ be'a‘utitul dung ady t at you love. You think
is no r' of so deep as yours, I suppose—that
ll the world there has never been so sad 9. heart
our, own. But there are stories in the hearts of
men and women that you would weep to hear,
we man though on are. I am going to tell on

i

  

 
 
   
 

air

    
 

   

ache-e story 0 men’s and women’s heartac es, v

am. passions and wild jealousies. and sufferings
‘ ended betore you were born.

. time I speak of I was a young women—~17

tauioid one now, although I may seem so to

thosedaml was mad enough to love

i as did have license impose,

 
 
  
 

 

 
  
     

 

i
. )‘

 

l ,

characters, the 5 age i

led about something, Mr. Roth, I 3
since I ‘

> end needed comfort. ’ :5 I

  
   
  

 

able  myself and gum; but! Was. 3100!. ,r
tang 11am; m eyes were blinded. by;my-”love and
fell . loved 0rd Roth.” , . '  ' -‘ *’
S ewent on speaking rapidly. and didnot‘heed
the astonished look in her hearer’e eyes. V
. “ I loved in vain. Although Iforgot that he was a ‘- .
entlemanand I a farmer’s daughter, he did not. I
on’t think he knew my secret, for he had no
thoucrht save for his cousin, Charlotte Bernev. She
was to be his wife, and her wealth was to lift the
Roths from the agovorty and ruin into which their
extravagance h led them, She never became his
wife. T ere was a. misunderstanding between them,
and Lord Roth married another lady—Miss Noel-—
, in haste and anger. He married her because she
, was rich, and because he wanted an heir to keepihe
,roperty in his own branch of the family. He never
oved his wife, and, when he found one. day that the
fortune she was to have had was lost by the ruin of
her father, I think he hated her.
“I was married too, then, but I was a widow be
fore my son was born. Soon after that Lord Roth '
‘ was ven the heir he had longed for—«a son was
, born 0 Lady Roth. Iasked to be allowed to nurse
the little heir. and I went to live at Rothcourt for
, that )urpose. it was agreed between Lord Roth
5 and quire Rutherford that the little heir should
. marry hthe squire’s daughter when thetwo were old
enou .
, “ A out three or four years after Lady Roth was
' so delicate that the family went‘ abroad for her
, health. I only of the servants went too. I left my
own child at home with my mother, forI thought
to return after a year or two. We went to a beauti-
ful place a few miles from Naples. Lady Roth did
, not get better. I knew why, and—«Heaven forgive
j me for it l-1 was lad that her heart was broken for
I

love of the man w 0 had almost broken mine. She
knew her husband hated her, and she worshiped
1 him. I tried to increase her misery b every care-
' less word and act of his I could recal .. I told her
. that Lord Both had loved his cousin, and _my heart
: beat for 0y when I heard that Charlotte Berney
[ was in spice. .I wanted Lady Ellen to see them
; together—to see how her husband loved his cousin;
; I wanted her to suffer because she had married the
‘: man I loved. .
| "‘I had my desn'e. Her face as it looked in those
days has haunted me night and day ever (since. I
» knew the an ulsh that was wasting her very life
away yet I ld not repent thatI had added to it..
May heaven forgive me for all she suffered then!
“There was a young Neapolitan~a fisheiman-a I
who lived near us. 1 got act uainted with him, and
I grew to like him. I liked win) at first because he
, was exceedingly beautiful, and I worshiped beauty
1 -—I liked him afterward because/he had a true and
good heart, and laid it at m feet. When he asked
. me to m him, I said ‘ es.’ f the Roths had
. been going ack to England I should have said
‘ No,’ and returned to my mother and my child. As ‘
' they were “liker to remain for years abroad, I f '
thought 412 would be ‘ood for me to have a home of
m own. so I sent or my mother to come out and
b Ing the clnld with her, to live with me and Antonio
n . ,

Lew, . 

, our. ,2  m.m‘ it

 
       
   
   
  
  
 
     
      

     
  

“One day trouble came to Lord Roth—money 4

: difllcuities~and Miss Barney offered'tohelp him. I. ,
think her kindness showed Lord Rothall that he had ";
lost, and made him mad. He forgot himself, and J
fell at her feet in a moment of uncontrollable pas-
sion. I heard all that they said: I heardhim cry
out that he loved her—~that his lite without her was
intolerable. She was very calm, and behaved as
grandl as it was her wont to do, always. , ‘

“La yEilen heard too. If Ihad wondered

   
 

      
   
    
 

at her ~
patience before, i thought she was a saint when she 
entered the room after Miss Berney had left, and '
tried to comfort her husband. She was‘willi "to
forgive him—«to shut her eyes to the wrong he, rad.

' greats-4a

 
  
 
        
 
  

done her; she only saw that he was in

 
 

v-J

  
  

 
    
  
     
           
  

 
 
  

* unerose up and  ,

tauntsyhis upbraidings .nieroedhei‘ ve heart.

saw the manage her {one as she left him-rand for

the first time are was something more than agony.

' If he had known what heyvas 0mg 1 think even
he would have held his axon-in check.

“ That day little Mas er Reginald had not seemed
very well. He came to me as I was packing up my
things—I was 0mg for a fortni ht’s holiday to
Antonio‘s frien s in Na lee-fiend
child’s face was flushed. t at his e es were unusually
brilliant. I thought that he loved as if he were

oin tobe ill, and that I had better put ofi my

all ay. I went to Lad Roth. She was in her
chamber. I knew what ad happened; so I pre~
tended not to notice her strange expression as she
stood by a writing-table in the darkened chamber.

“She answere me in a hard, sharp tone such as I
had never heard her use before. She said she would
see to Reggy herself—the child had a sh ht cold—

I was not to delay :11 visit to Na les. 0 I went.
~What possessed me cannot tell, ut I returned in
three or four days. Antonio was an because I

was so restless and ill at ease in Nap es. I let him
have no peace till he brought me back to Mar ellina
—_I felt sure that something had happened. hen I
reached home, I learned that lady Both had fled

\ with the child, and that no tidings could be athered
of how or when or whither she ad gone. do not
remember the events of the next few hours. I was
as one insane. It seemed to me that I was guilty of
having helped to bring this misery on them.

“As I opened a box I found a letter with Lord
Roth’s name on the cover; I knew that it was left
there by her. She did not want him to havethe
knowledge of he: flight too soon' so she left the
letter for me to give him when returned from
Na lea. She told him in the letter that she had
sai ed in a. little barque called, the Eloisa—~Antonio‘s
father was captain and owner of it. She told him
she was going to Marseilles, and then to Paris: that
although they might never be more than stran are

~ again, she forgave him the wrong he had done er,
* and would restore the child to him either then or at
any future time if he should desire it. I stayed
while he read the letter, and I saw the Wild joy in his
eyes when he cried out: ‘Thank Heaven, have

‘ found my son!’

“‘Hls son! Even then. after his sin against his
patient wife, and. her noble offer of pardon, he
thought only of his son. _I told you that I believed

' he hated her; he was punished for that too—bitterly.

‘ The letter came into his hands sooner than Lady

Roth expected. He told me he should start at once

by the land route for Marseilles. He would arrive

before the bargue came in—«he would bring them
both home again, his wife and child.

  He said t at to _me; there was no one else with

im just then, and It was a relief to him to speak.
VIIe. wrote a note telling his cousin. Miss Berney.

I “hither and why he was gone; he left it with me
, ~ ad started immediate] -—never doubting that Lady
{5" th would return to h s roof if he desired her to do

so. When had t
his lightest wordgemeek lady, ever dared to oppose

‘ “He wank—full of confident '
weeks later, he came back, the 313211??? shimself-m
, , alonel He said no word—we did not wish him to
tell us the fearful tale. The news had come before
he returnedrto the Berneys at‘Nanles—to us serv-
ants at the Villa on'the bay of Mergcllina~to Antonio
Old Mariotta’s son. The bar-qua Eloisa had toun.
dered in a storm on! Cape Corso. and every son} had
V I rlshed. Even now, at this distance of years
dare notrecall m agony. Lad '

 

 

   
 
     
  
   
   
   
       
   
  
    

Roth
and I caused her eath~in my cart I fggstgat
ewes her murderer. Antonio looked to me for com-

" , Ort, and wondered that I could not give it. He w “
 distressed—histressed that his father should

- “foundnobetter gravetllan the ocaan for his
 and that the shi wreck should have put
% intone our marriage. .~ , ‘

:hltterwordefhi? highway; megs.- ‘_’ w

,. matter-amiss:er

was to have can Antonio’s upon his father‘s 
heme

noticed that the '

_ ing my situation. , She was his est

 

~ comforts. Sometimes in thosgflam 1. 
I ' $81.35. Why, it Lord Roth wanted an heirne m'

Voyage was may? ‘ 

  
  
 

      

   

» n.» 1.

x

ymeans of its profits he was te-have  a. f
for me. Now it mightbe years before 
make one, for'he was very poor.. We must ~trait-
and Antonio was very sorrowful. 7 . g , g,

‘fLo‘rd Roth dismissed all his servants,  8‘3
up the villa on the bay of Mergelhna in: g ,  ‘
I told you Lhad sent for m mother and 
son; and amid all this con union and sorrow W'
arrived. I was in great trouble; I had * no home 
them, and very llttle money. Poor AntoniQrWSS.
1lgilil‘oliéen-hearizedeorl my lEekefiuLord Both weal;

e erne s in up es. iss emeywaseng g, f-
be married to an Italian entleman of rank. 
Lord Roth asked her to o somethin for me,

  

  
       
      
  
   
   
  
   
   
   
  
     
    
    
   
    
    
  
    
   
   
   
    
   
  
  
   
  
   
  
  
    
 
 
 
 
 
      
    
      
      
 
  
  
 
   
 
   
  
  
    
    
  
  
 
   
 
 

through. She came to me and altered to ,

as her maid—she liked my ways, she said. ' had 
alternative, and I agreed. I went to Naples.‘ 11mph”
9. little lod ing for my mother and child in the 
It was her for my poor mother, but she never,
braided me. Miss ,Berney was very d1 to 
gave me many presents for my child, and. she 
to take him up in herarms when my mother. , , ' 
him to see me, and et ' She was busyjuet W

0..

 

him.
with her tr'oussezm. wondered sometimes whom
she regretted that she was engaged now that "
Roth was free. If she did she never showed it. '-:
“One do. she came to me as I was sewi ‘ . ' j,
shut the c amber door locked it, and 
beside me. I cannot tell you the words she, '
At flrstI was so stunned that I could on] lock _
her face, as one turned to stone. ' Lord R0 mt, _ “
my son, to take and kee for his own in planerofigtlte
oor little drowned chil . It was to be a secret 
nown to us three. My son was the same  V _
as his own. As yet no news of his loss had read: if
En land. I did not k’now then wh he was so 
ve my child; I know now. e oflered to “
me a sum of money large encugh to enabie‘, '
establish Antonio in business and 
once. ' , . '7 a - .
“ I could give her no reply then; I asked  "
to consxder, and she left me. The night passed, " f
my thoughts were still in a. chaos.   ';
slee less, I walked the room till dawn, 
0011 d not decide. . ‘» *
“Then Lord Roth came to me. ~ , ,
the table at my side and 1pleaded. How in ‘
would have throbbed in t

more than he could bear.
dowry sufficient to make up for Antonio’s'lod’s,»
looked in his haggard face, and at the gray. f .,
that had lately appeared so thickly above
gemplgsio bHow cguld I  ‘ Noi’ to him? Redd;
epe rlngtistrou can mis . u',
“ I told him that I would do as he shied .: 
my hand and kissed it when he thanked 
told me that this secret must never pastas
save to Antonio, who would keep it foamy; 1
was to give my‘child up entirelyuneyento»
anyclai'mu on immanyway.  '   I 
‘ Well. I ides they asked. A dagoortwo,
Miss Betsey was married. Lord thy-w
Rome. takingnmy boy with him, and as}.ng
to attend .h . I saw him go' I’held/hlml-to ‘
heart dose~—close-—-for, on! I (ll love himjser,  .
I went to Antonio’s home taking my mot j  'y
me. The money I had rem Lord‘Roth'gam

 

he did not marry again, instead of talkie thesis
of a stranger. I forgotfat that time a a com:
with the Squire’s‘iittle 'dau hter, in En landij i' ' I
memheredit afterward an saw the f g “
Lord Roth was acting; hut I could not take hack.

word. I saw in the newspapers the notion * j
en’sdeath: itmgireu outthat shoal

 

 

  
 

 

 

 

      
  
   
    
    
      
  
    
    
    
  
 
  
    
  
  
 
   
 
  

 

 rd Roth left Rome later on. I sawMiss Ber-
[eye-Lady Santucci~whenl went to Naples one
 She told me that he was traveling from place
toplece, and that the child was well and happy.
The darling boy. n

 

It” was the last I, heard of m
time my mother died. No other e ildren were born
tome; and when Antonio died I was alone once
mere ina tetra e land.
,.  cam here. I was so altered that, of
thosewho had been my 'rlhood’s friends, not one
1finew me. I heard that t e marriage of the uire’s
an hter with Lord Roth’s son was settled. 0 one
_ t. 0rd Roth—not even the Squire—knew of the

 Roth one night a few weeks ago. I prayed on

gilt“? was to deceive a good gentleman and a high-
. ‘ young lady. But he was furious with wrath.
 held me to my vow—he dared me to lay bare the
fleet seVenteen years ago. His anger was terrible,
venito me,,who had known him for almost a life-
a; 1 have tried to die with the terrible secret in

in heart, but I cannot—I cannot!”

 

twisting. but her hearer had neither moved nor
, ' en; ' ow as her wailing cry broke the monotony
voice. he rose to his feet. She could not see
 in the dim twilight; she wondered at the
 of his voice. a .
‘N‘ofyoujconld not die and let so dark a sm be
‘ with, you. Now, answer me before Heaven——

fthestillness, before the solemn-spoken answer

_ ifrpmth’e mouth of the dying woman, their very
7 ' 4 was-heard.

are my son—Oliver Kenn!"

 

CHAPTER XXI.
wan snonnn an no!

 clearer to him now—the lndiflerence of
nilBoth’ toward him~the distance between two
 as'father and son, had lived beneath the same
Myer. were, so far apart. “Base bloodi” Yes,
’ tenderstood it now, still it did not seem so_very
thongs a thing to him. After he had known it for
‘ .fi’ounit, seemed as if a dim consciousness of this,
something like it, had been always in his life. He
' had back upon the past few months, and tried to
 " e himself that it was a reality and not a
' . He wondered that so infamous a lie could
havelived without discovery—that he himself had
; ‘ [before men as Lord Roth’s son, and yet no
.had'pierced the deceit, or read his true name
all hintery Written on his face. Why had he not
Wilthimselfi 'Why had he not had an inward con-
fineness that his whole emstence was a falsehood,
«Mellow: lie? This was the strangest thing of all,
_ t he himself should have been so blind, so do-
 Adrian Rutherford, too, who would have
 the chief victim of this deceit—why had he not
ed...ont, “this is not your son," to Lord Roth,
When,‘i‘after seventeen ears' absence, he had once
 Welcomed his 0 (1 friend back again, and
iced in the face of the man who was to marry his
' Then he considered that this

 
 
  
  
 
  

 

  
 
 

 

 
   
  
 
  
 

  
  
    
    
  

s

  

idenot seem o strang
‘20 in.’ the dark, stalwart man the child whom
my . d known when only three or four years old?
 Both had foreseen all this. He had laid his

, , " and Worked them out skillfully. He had been
ieny'near' Winning a golden harvest as the fruit of
' slag-hatter Beatrix’s having proved true to
' ;,, If, he would hgvgt 3231 fit A girlll’js trot}; 112%:
’  '  an ween m an I
it ogphis’ sin: ' "
"Yell; he could be f
discerned  at thetime.
 anther should

   
  
     
 
  
 

 
 

 

lad now of her decision which
He was glad and
be. ’ 

 
 
 
 

    

foy‘knees that he would not let it be—this marriage, ?

e. How should any one .

I Ihnddered at the'lle. No mention was could never have been his wife, eveh’ifshe had re:  
turned his love. He thought of all this as he returned ‘. *
. I . ght. Only once . ‘
did the consciousness of his own wron rise uprin all: . - '

of the poor little: heir. That silence was a lie, ,

e. “I could not rest and see its eflfects. I went to 1

home from Iekston‘in the summer in

its bitter cruelty before him. He pu lit away—he ‘
could not face it yet. Even his brave heart quailed,
and his brain grew dizz , as he reflected upon his
fate—his hopes blasted, is prospects ruined, his life '
a wreck, not by any deed or wrong-doing of his
own.

He was sure of one thing—that it was his duty to
set the wrong right in the world’s eyes. He had
been the instrument in Lord Roth’s hands for fulflll-
ing this marriage contract. Now that the marriage
was dissolved b Beatrix, and that he had no tie to
bind him to t e man whom he had believed his
father, the only course open to him was to leave the

‘ home to which he had no ri ht

5?  woman had paused at times while telling her ‘

g .

He looked wistful] at the stately portals of Both-
court as they loome up before him in the darkness»
There was no light but the faint light of the stars;
the sweet breeze of the summer night came sighing
through the trees and fanned his burning 'brow. For
a moment he bent his head low above his horse’s
neck, with a weight of sorrow that tried his strength

. to the utmost.

Carlo Marini took his horse, and spoke a few re.
spectful yet familiar words to the young master;
and his hearer answered quietly, assing on throu h
the hall and into the room which e used habitual y.
There was a shaded lamp lighted, and beside it on

~ the table the book that he had left 0 on before he

 

started. His paper-cutter lay upon he page. He
looked at it and stood lost in thought. It seemed a
life-time since he had left it there. Was he the
same person who had used that ivory cutter only too
day? Not to himself, but in others’eyes the same.
Only a moment back his old servant had spoken to
him as usual; he could not see the great change. '
That was hidden with all its bitterness in his own
heart. A long interval elapsed, during which, with
a calm immovable stare, he looked at the various
things about him. Then his resolve was sternlyx
taken. He would leave Rothcourt forever. He
would find some work which would take him away
to a new life in another country. He would begin
his life over again—a life just and holy in the eyes
of Heaven, and honest in the eyes of men. Of the
years that were past, and of this summer begun
with such fond dreams, and ending with such unut-
terable sorrow, only a dreamy memory should re-
main in the da 8 to come.

Havin put is hand to the low, there was no
turning ack with him. He too up the newspaper

' and ran his eye eagerly down the advertisement col-
, umns, pausing now and then in his search. He

threw it down presently and took up another. A‘ .
very short search sufficed. A. little way down one of
the columns an advertisement told of an agent
wanted for a Brazilian mercantile company. He
drew his writing materials toward him, wrote an an-
swer. and then sealed and directed it.

“ To-morrow,” he said, “I will tell him.”

Lord Roth lay back in his easy-chair, and looked
out at the full s lender of the July morning. _I-Ie
was very feeble, t is sickness had taken something
more than strength from him. .

A firm, stead step crossing the ante—room tell
u on his ears. e knew the step and did not turn
h a head at once, although some one presently stood
beside him. He looked round after a time with a a
trivial, fretful remark upon his 1i 5. Something in
the young man’s face riveted his a tention. The sad
but stern gaze thatmet his told its own tale. Lord
Roth read it arifiht. ' ’

“ She has to d you?” he gasped, with white

ips. -
“Yes, she has told me,” came the steady answer.
_ Lord Roth covered his face and moaned aloud.
The other—turning hiseyes to the sunshineyithout
“am Silent! . fl .4 ' 5" ’

 

 

 
  
    

 

 

 

   

 
   

 
 
 

  
   
   
   
    
  
   
  
   
 

a:  a ' sh
r~~ man. ‘i‘But you will not tell it, will you?” he added,
 1n a. pleading whis r—«the once proud haughty
v‘ tone was gone. “ on. not lay bare my sin-just
- eti- Ian: low enouh‘ in the dust, Heaven knows.
 £0 not let all the wor d see my shame. I cannot see
. Philip Ha hton’s triumphant. exultation when he
v; learns it. e will have my home and my name,
" thou h I swore that he‘never should; do not let me
. see his triumph; wait till I am dead-wait! It '
I not be lo . Spare rue—have mercy on me!”
Y He lifte supplicatmg hands to the ounger man,
whose stern face showed no signs of eviating from
his purpose, whatever it might be—showed no soft.
ening as the tones of piteous agony fell upon his

ears.

It seemed to Oliver Kenn himself that he was very
hard, very merciless in his strength. Yesterday he
had turned a deaf ear to the rayer for to veness
of the woman calling herse his mother. e had
not heeded her outstretched hands when she cried
after him as he left her. N ow he looked on the face
of the miserable man whose pride was in the dust,
and made answer itiles': E:

“ Mr. Rutherfor must now it, and all the world
must know it. It is time this lie was ended."

“Adrian Rutherford! Great Heaven! it was for

- his gold I did this thin . He shall not know it—I
say he shall not!" crie Lord Roth, Wildly, the old
ungovernable wrath, the mad passions rising above
the feebleness and pain. “ Oliver Kenn, the day he
knows it I shall die. ’ _

Oliver Kenn looked down at the agonized face,
with a mixture of scorn and pity in his own.

“Thro h your own act of sin and folly you lost
the son w 0 should bestanding where I stand now,”
he answered, bitter ; ~‘“ and, not, accepting his
death as the just punishment of‘that sin, €you sought
to work out our own ends b commi ting ayet

deeper sin. on would have 3 0d by‘and seen me

marry Beatrix Rutherford -—nay, urged the marriage ‘

by every means in your power—she and her father
believing me to be _ .
Would have let me eke the inheritance that Will be-
long ot right to your cousin, Philip Haughton, after
your deat You would have made my whole_liie a
glaring lie, a wanton deceit' and yet you look in my

ace and ask me to keep the sin hidden from the
world. I dare not. Beatrix Rutherford is banished
by her father because he is dis leased that she re-
fused Lord Roth’s son; she will e forgiven and wel-
comed back when it is known that the rejected
sui or is Oliver Kenn."

“ hen let it be knownl” came the fierce and
dogged repl% “ Let it be so! Publish it on the
housetopsl ell them all—Adrian Rutherford, my
Oldest friend—~Philip Haughton. m bitterest enemg
. ~all the world! Let them come, say, to triump

, and rejoice and to despise me! I am right] pun-
 ished. But they will not find their triump com-
~ ' etc. Something will be found wanting!’ He Set

 is teeth and clutched the arms or his chair, vin-
$513,?“ 995510” and despair gleamingin his sunken

*'  1 “ Something wanting!” the words rung in Oliver's
‘ ‘ears long after he had left Lord Both, and was pac
' . Iffihis room in sure perplexity.
’ I v 3 had read the meanin of the words in the sul-
>‘-$u,bitt6rness of the tone which the had been
amtered-«they were but a regatition o the words
8when just“ before—~“ The p y Philip Haughton
0W8 it I shall die!" ‘
t” 98, he knew Lord Roth well enough to believe
' _ 1mthe was uite ca able of carrying his threat into
gecution. %e we d die by his own hand rather
all meet the scorn and contempt which would rise

- learned hissin. The sinhis ride had led him
fibula traits of that sin his Ipride could never
 CharlotteBerne had been content to live

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‘ Rutherford’s,his old familiar friend. He 

our rightful son and heir. You '

 

an or the falsehood for love '

  
 
  
 
 
   
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
   
 
  
 
  
 
   
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
    
    
  
  

others ’M-»nim’was not sodeopm'f'   1d

and, knowing it, would choose deathrather 
“at”? 'i h had d th  d 
. ver enn w o rea ‘ eprou ; _.
man's character day by day, knew this-End was,
e lexed. He was surethat it would be ‘ _ 
or ' to keep the secret for his own as  ; to V
Beatrix’s sake. Yet, should he reveal it,  a
conse uence Lord Roth kept his terrible th ' tit
seeme to him that the erring man‘s death wouldhefi
another weiglht upon his shoulders, already bonehea-
neath their urden. He was in great , ‘ 4
an: 031d 8631;; mfigans of 8mg 81%,, 
yan passe,r1n n 'r ‘.
nor rest to his roubled mind.
born and died, and he scarcel heeded itsfiighta
But the evening brought him strange" learn“
light where he had least looked for it. , chance
word, overheard in a chance manner, placede‘
thread in his hand which he wasto followup to
penetrate a mystery. There was another sacndf
another ainto beborne, but fin the» 
rest 01w ch he'had dreamed woul com ‘ r  {2. ‘

 

 

   

 

CHAPTER XXII.
run PRECIOUS cnoss.
Tm: supper was over in the servants‘ room‘
Rothcourt, and the butler Carlo Marini, and .
maids were gathered in a ttle group by theeth
window togossip. ‘. v , :
Oliver Kenn had been smoking on them
and afterwardme had wandered round to the stables;
finally he had come to the back of the house, lath
listless we of one who has nmsettled planuif
tion. He hrew his cigar away and sat downrnpsh
an old garden chair. The voices of the so , 
talking y the open window came distinctly'tog
ears. For a time he paid no heed to .  ,
he heard a name uttered in Carla‘s voice that g j
mafintm' 1d thi in Carl W
you co 3 warm even , c
that you hover round the fire?” as ed one 
maids laufihing.  
“Cold? am always cold since I lay eight-andi
forty hours lashed to a spar in the sea—eight—and’
forty hours.” repeated Carlo, pleasantly. {lot with
dolorous tones. “I don’t think I’ve rea ' 
warm, even in the dog-days, since then; I  ‘
partly petrified me.” :
There was a. chorus of quiet laughter, and than
the butler said, curiously: - '
“ That was when you went for a sailor, Carlo‘l”. -
“Yes-I ’have never been since, you may» de-
pend; that gale cured me of my fancy for that pres
ession ” said the Italian. He apnoke E lish 
than his own tongue, lending t e wor aesrtaln:
sprightliness quite his own. ‘ ‘ -‘ , I .
“Then you were shipwrecked? Do tell use
it, Carlo,” put in the pretty housemaid,’ 

“There is ve little to tell " answered?“ T
Marini, warmilililg a hands. “It wasn’t in tho-Al
lantic even—o ' y ‘ “ _
Corsica. Our arquc was the Eloisa, bound

V

They all perished, eve _ _
water eight-and-forty , _   r’ /
fri ate picked me up and carried me of! 
When we started from Mar elhna. we had a. lad 
board and a little child. 6 child got v ‘ 5a.:
ter two days’ sail, and the skipper thoughti
die; so we put in at a little sea-coast town, w N
there was a convent and left them ashore—the- up»
ther and child—or they would have tions down ago
with the barque. That was more. a seventeen
ears ago-I have never been warm sin MW

g
g
a.

 

'ons onthe sea, I hate it cordially!” 4 ~
Hi3 hem Started “Wide . y, for a dark figure“;
 the doorway. and t e voxce Q; the, J, I; _

/

 

 

93

master, sounding strange in that part of the house, I _

addressed the story-teller:
“ Carlo. come With me. I want you.”
The Italian left the stove he loved, and followed
his master through the assages leading from that
part of the house to he other.

stood face to face with Carlo Marini.

“ I want to know all that
that voyage you took in the loisa—more than sev-
enteen years a o,” be said slowly.

A strange 11g it gleamed in the black eyes of the
Italian as he strove to read the expression in his
master’s face.

“I was one of the crew signer ”——he addressed
the youn man in this way in moments of forgetful-
ness; “t e barque belonged to a Neapolitan trader,
an old man named Marietta Alfieri—he took charge
of her himself. I had known him for some time
but had never sailed with him before, though I had
been to sea four or five ears then. Before we sailed
from the bay of Merge lina—the bay is a few miles
along the coast from Naples—a lad joined us, with
a little boy. She came on board in he evening. We
wondered a little at such a passenger’s joining the
barque, but, as she seemed to know Marietta, we did
not trouble ourselves—for the reason that sailors
get accustomed to strange things. We ut off at
break of day, and sailed with a fair wind, or two or
three days kee ing 'ust beyond the coast-line; we
were to round a e rso and so on to Marseilles.
Just after we h sighted Civita Vecchia, the little
child, who had been ailing since we sailed, got very

' bad? I don’t this]: his mother knew, but I did, when
I went into Marlotta’s cabin and looked at him, that
he was sickening for fever. I think Marietta Alfieri
knew it too. He told the lady that she must take

1 her child ashore."

The Italian aused for a moment, casting a curious
glance at his carer, who stood immovable, betray-
g no sign of more than ordinary interest.

‘ Go on,” he said steadily. His firm lips were
pressed tightly together; there were hard lines, tell-
ing of strong endurance, about his forehead and eyes.
Carlo Marini saw it all and marveled.

“Marietta Alfleri knew the Mediterrane‘n coast-

solitary bay, called, after the convent that stands
on a hill looking down upon it, Santa Croce. Just

after nightfall oneeveninfiiwe dropped into thelittle 1

ariotta told the lady that 1 carelessly.

bay and put out a boat.
the would receive her at the convent with the sick
chi d, and that she would be able to procure a
doctor’s assistance. I was sent ashore in charge
of the boat and her—it was but a little way. She
sat in the stern, with the child wrapped in a cloak
in her lap. I was a rough fellow, signer, but I
was sorry for her and the poor little sick child.

and left it, while I accompanied her u to the con-
vent on the hill, for I could not leave er so. She
had avlittle bundle of things With her: so I took the
child in my arms. and we went together through
the deserted street that lay in the shadow of the
hill. As we drew near to the convent gate I gave her

back the boy—he seemed in a heavy sleep, onl just .
She thanked me, an gave '

moaning now and then.
me some money, with a little gold crucifix that she
took from her throat—to keep in remembrance of
‘ my kindness to her child, she said. I put the bundle
down. and pulled the reat bell of the convent; and
then I left herufor dared not stay—I knew the
skipper would be impatient for my return. I did
net fear that they would turn her away from the
gates of Santa Croce. I never heard of her again.
he barque perished of! Cape Corso, in a gale, with
old Marietta Alderi and all the crew but me-Iuwas
a strong man then, sir, and I lived after being eight-
and-forty hours in the water.”
Elegy; you the crucifix now?” asked Oliver Kenn,
qme . ,

LORD ROTH‘S SIN.

- roll over them again.
‘ seaweed lay on the sand, liftin

f low voice speaking of a.

’J. .
a.

" It has lain on my‘breast ever since, sir, " replied

- the old man.

“He did not tell that through many days of want
and poverty he had kept the little gold relic with

When he had .1 loving reverence, almost as part of himself.

reached the library. Oliver Kenn closed the door and j

“I want on to lend it to me for a little while,
Carlo. I Will hold it as a sacred charge, and return

,9
on can tell concerning. : it soon.

For no one {else would Carlo Marin! have cut the
black ribbon that bound it to his threat. He laid
the giittering cross in his master’s hand, and respect~
fullv went out of the room.

When the closin door had left him alone, Oliver
Kenn took the gel crucifix to the table, held it close
to the light of the lamp, and bent his keen gaze upon
it.

He scanned it closely. Yes, there it was, the first
link of a great myste to be followed up, or, if he
willed it, to be left in o livion forever.

Three initials in old Roman capitals were on the
back of the crucifix that had been given to Carlo
Marini by a woman standing in the nightfall with
a little child at the convent gates of Santa Croce,
waiting for them to be opened that she might
find a refuge~three initials, “ E. N. R.”

 

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE MEETING ON THE SANDS.

THE tide was going out, leaving the yellow sands
and the brown rocks listening in the July sun.
Amen the rocks were ittle ools wherein tin fish
nestle and waited for the bi 0ws to come bee and
Pink and white and brown
up feathery sprays
to the sunshine. In a nook, s eltercd by the cliff
from sun and wind, yet open to the sea in front, sat

' two girls, one readin , the other with idle hands

folded in her la , an her face turned toward the
ebbing tide. If er hands were idle her thoughts
were busy. Presently the reader stopped and looked
at her companion; an amused smile )roke over her

, face, the smile ending in a laugh; the light rippling
. sound made the other turn with a quick start.

“ Beattie, you were not listening—where were your

1 , 3’
'line by heart. A little north of Civita Vecchia is a i thought“

“Over the water just then, Sybil, in the old cha-
teau where I lived With aunt Margaret,” answered
Beatrix, slowly.

“Was it so pleasant a life?" asked Sybil Dare,

“ I thought so then. When I first came home and

7 looked back, I Wondered that I could have been so

happy at the chateau. N ow I regret the loss of that
sweet and aceful life that was so free from the
troubles o the world and wild emotions of the
heart, like a calm autumn day after the radiant

. - I,
When we had reached the beach I drew the boat up “ Spmng and the zlowmg summer ave assed'

She spoke dreamily, half to herse f. Sybil Dare
Raid scarcely any heed to the speech—it was a little

eyond her. In silence she read to the end of the
chapter that she was interested in; then she closed
the book and jumped up.

“I shall go and call for mamma and the girls at
the reading-room, Beattie. Are you coming?" '

“Presently. I am rather tired, Sybil, but I Will
come and meet you.”

Sybil Dare went off, treading the shingle with the -
elastic step of youth and health. Ilcr sun-shade
was held before her face, so she did not see a en-
tleman who was leaning idly against the gunwa e 9
a pleasure-boat. He saw her, and something faml ‘
iar about the slight figure made him look after her-
One glance was sufficient—a moment afterward he
turned to that part of the jutting rocks which she
had just left.

Beatrix was leanin back against the brown rock.
still idle. Her thoug ts were busy again—not at the
old chateau now, but under the lime-tree at the
Reedes; hearing, not the lash of the waves, but 3'

ove that should live calm

 

LORD ROTE’S SIN.

..._.__Q

and sweet through aworld's tempest 01' pain and
suffering, to arise unhurt and bloom to a perfect

Oh, the joy that flashed out of them, the radiant
ladness of the blush that rose swiftly to her fore-
ead as she sprung to her feet!

“ Mr. Noel! You here?”

“ Yes," was the quiet answer- “ I am spending my j

summer holiday amon the me 5.”

He did not tell her 1: at he had chosen this little
seaside place onlyr With the object of seeing her per— ‘

haps once or tvvice—onliy]y seeing her, not to speak
or to touch her hand. T is chance meeting was full
of bitter sweetness for both. Both knew it too well.
Yet for the time they cast out the bitterness with
the tide: It would return by-and-b . tossing and
leaping in great waves toward them, fin
far out—almost, not quite out of sight. Beatrix
lookedat the handsome face, the sunn gray evesq
the nut-brown hair beside her, and was a py.
summer breezes tossed her long, unbound
ner flushed and happy face and downcast eyes,
hiding their gladness as with a vail.

“ Here is a letter for you,” said Sybil, meeting

Beatrix on the hotel staircase, and placing it in her

,hand. “I won‘t tell of you, but you are very
naughty, Beattie.”

Beatrix looked up startled at Sybil‘s smiling face.

“ Yes, I know, dear, but I won’t tell,” and, with a
reassuring kiss, Miss Sybil Dare floated down the
staircase.

The Dares knew of Miss Rutherford’s broken en-
gagement and a backward glance this morning had
shown 1§Jylnl a tall figure entering the little cove
where iss Rutherford sat alone. When, after a
prolonged absence, during which she missed lunch-
eon, Beatrix returned, flushed and happy-looking,
Sybil “put this and that together" wit a girls
quick intuition, and leaped to a conclusion.

Full of other thoughts, Beatrix put the letter in
her pocket, and forgot it till the evening, whenua
chance remark of Mrs. Dares reminded her of it.
The handwriting was Georgie’s. _ _

“ I wonder what Georgie has to write about again
~I had a letter from her the day before yesterday,"
she said, carelessly, as she broke the sea .

It contained but a few words, and Beatrix read
them with shocked surprise. Lord Roth was dead.

CHAPTER XXIV.
CLEW UPON CLEW.

IT was very sudden. Lord Roth’s servant, enter-
ing his chamber one. morning, had found him dead
in his bed—the anc1ent bed with its purple velvet
hangings, wherein many Roths had died, but none
80 suddenly or Silently as this one. In the secret
watches of the summer night death had entered the
chamber, laid an my hand on the troubled heart,
and stilled it forever.

The funeral had.taken place. Philip Haughton,
summoned from his COI‘mSh home. Squire Ruther-
ford and Oliver Kenn had followed as chief mourn.
ers-after them, all the Rothbury tenants in pro-

cession.
To the world Oliver Kenn was the resent Lord
Roth_1’hi1ip Haughton, courteous an olished as

of old, had acknowledged him as such: is cousin‘s
secret had never been revealed to him—the two who
only could have disclosed it had kept it well. Adrian
Rutherford, too, had addressed the oung man by
his dead friend‘s title. Oliver Kenn ad heard and
answered in his grave Way. He would kee. the
secret a little longer. He held one end of a t read
in his hand; when he had followed its windings to
the utmost limit, and read what he should find there,
then, and not till then, would he reveal all.

Phili Haughton returned to Cornwall upon the
day fo lowing the funeral. In the evenin, Oliver

enn
himself before the old-fashioned davennort.

t now it was ,

end. 1. 't.
A shadow fell at her feet, and she lifted her eyes. ' 1

'2?

held its keys in his hand;_yet he sat long, with a
thoughtful expression on his face, before he opened
What tale, what long-hidden mystery, would its
contents reveal to him? 1

He laced the ke in the lock, turned it slowly, V
and ii ted the lid. ere they all lay—papers, let-
ters, memoranda books—4n careless confusion, as
the. dead man had left them last. He handled them
reverently, laying some aside, arranging others in
neat piles, scanning all lest he might miss one that
contained a clew to what he sought. ‘

Hours passed, and his task was unfinished—when
it grew dark he lighted the lamp and continued his

' earch. It was nearly midnight when he closed the
- esk—he had re laced the papers and documents,

be i
air about ‘

 

entered Lord Roth’s private room, an seatIeId ,
e .

reserving onlyt ree. One was a tin slip of.blue
pa r carelessly written, and signed ‘ Adrian Ruth-
e 0rd,” containing a promise on the writer’s :-art
to give the estate called Free Chace, with a its
revenues to his daughter Beatrix on . e day she
married Lord Roth’s son‘ the Second, a ittle acket
of letters written in a gir ish hand to Regina] , Lord
Roth, and signed “ Ellen Noel ”-—fond, loving letters.
written during their brief courtship, and bearing a
date of two and twenty years ago; the third, an
other letter written in that same hand but dated
four years later. The last was signed " Ellen Roth,"
and on the outside was, “In the hands of Raclnd
Kenn, for my husband, Lord Roth.

 

The Squire was taking his after-dinner nan V Mn
a servant brought him a message. Young Lorri
Roth was in the library, and wished to see him in
private. He said nothing to his wife and Georgie,
but With unusual wisdom on his part, quietly rc-
paired to the library. v

“ You were Lord Roth’s friend, Mr. Rutherford. ”
saidrthe young man, slowly: “will you be mine

“My dear b0 ,” cried the S uire, surprised, “of
course I Will— always have een your friend as
well as your father’s."

“.I have some work to do, and I find that I cannot.
do it Without help—~such help as only a friend can
give- 1 am gomg to ask you to help me.”

“ f’ll do anything for you, Reggy,” said the Squire
im tuouslly.

_ e was a ways ready to plunge headlon into an
ditch if requested. It was his great faulgt‘, and mil
made him a few enemies but legions of friends.

“ Thank you,” was the answer, “but first I must
tell you what it is.” ‘

Two days later Oliver Kenn returned to Rothcourt
Hall from London, whither he had gone immediate-
ly after his interview with S uire Rutherford.
‘ Nova,” he thought, “ there is not ing for me but to
wai .

 

A little man, with keen brown eyes. crisp black
hair and whiskers, a gray overcoat, and carrying a
black leather bag, ali hted from the London express
as it stopped at the ittle station eight miles irom
Rothbury, on a wet afternoon early in August. He
gave the solitary porter a shilling to order a fly from

he inn, and then waited with exemplary patience
until it was ready.

“ Drive to Rothcourt Hall,” he said to the driver.

It was a long drive, and the ho: se took it leisure‘
1y, but the contents of the black bag furnished the
tenant of the fly with occupation until the vehicle
had stop led at the entrance to Rothcourt.

Olivur enn was in the library when Carlobrought
him in a card bearing the inscription, “Mr. George
Gower, Gray’s Inn.”

“ Ask the gentleman to walk in,” he said-

He rose to his feet his face becomin pale; the
hand he extended to his nest was trem ling. Mr.
George Gower cast 8. SW ft glance at the anxious
face; his own looked as if it were adamant.

“ I am glad. to see you,” said the young man. in a

._ yet

(

LORD ROTH’S BIN.

The artist’s face was very pale when he returned.

“ These are the only records of my parentage
thatI ossess.”

He id them upon the table—a packet of letters
and a worn morocco case—and then turned away to
the book-shelves, as if he could not bear to look on
while another handled the relics.

Oliver looked over the letters slowly. Yes—there
was one more revelation in the history he was un-
raveling. The letters were from Reginald, Lord
Roth, to Miss Ellen Noel, and the date they bore
Was of two-and-twenty years ago. Then he unfast-
ened the morocco case. Did he know whose face it
would reveal? Very long he looked at it—the beauti-
ful face, the dark, earnest eyes, the heavy mustache,
the curling hair—the face he long had known, but
ever with a shadow on its brow, and the curlin
hair turned white; the same face, however, for a

at. '

Mr. Noel turned sudden? . The movement roused
the other. He spoke slow y:

“ Your father?”

“ Yes—my father."

Then Oliver’s gaze went back to the miniature
and he whispered softly, as to himself, “Lor

And again the artist replied. ” Yes—Lord 30th",

, A long and painful silence followed. The buzzing
gnat came through the wide-open window and cir-

cled round the lamp. Still the two men looked in

I: each other’s faces in asilence so intense that each

- could hear his own heart beating while they waited
for the something each felt was near. At last Oliver

ginn spoke, in subdued, but earnest and deliberate

es:
“ And y‘ou knew that Lord Roth was your father
on e t the knowled e hidden and asserted

no 0 im to is name and in eritance ”

. “ I do not understand you. Are not the name and

inheritance yours? I have no right—no claim—-

no~
He stopped suddenly. A burning flush had dyed

the beautiful face, spreading even to the forehead.
Oliver looked and waited. The other, after along

D3936, said with deep emotion:

E“ M mother was not Lord Roth’s wife—she was
‘gn oel, not Lady Roth.”

BIOWSIIyou must be dreaming," said Oliver Kenn,
(

‘ reaming! Merciful Heaven! could I dream
Hpgn such a subJect?‘_’ was the passionate reply.
k my mother was 1118 wife, why did she die un-
erioan in a solitary convent far from her husband
giairing her child to be nurtured by charity. all
having only to those who tended her death-bed the
wine bi? which I am known? Your mother was his

fit 6 Lady Roth who died in Naples.”
m ere was still the_crimson flush on his face. The
rap{Hayes were flashing, and the words were spoken
Ver 0 y in a tone of mingled shame and anger. Oli-
now overed his eyes in silence. It was clear to him
pres-8i This man had been the victim of a false im-
0 e "3131- There was no reason for him to suppose
‘ thin S bse than he had. He had no single roof of
, Regign a1 elng otherWise. The few letters written by
. 0 he, ‘11 Roth to Ellen Noel contained no allusion
rent tgpglgrg‘agfi thley (inlylgiscourtséd idly of cur-
, wen eSiou nex "
« herb orfig‘: iEdifierent 1subjects. e able to mm
a enn—in t at brief interval—there
WE??? temptation. Shouldhe remain silenfgmlg
V881 (5’ yet too late. The secret was his alone,to re-
Then I: t00 hide. He hesitated but for a moment.
“ted fae looked steadily in the beautiful but humili~
loyed. 08 before him—the face of the man Beatrix
0
» You are und '
e ‘ era ve- great mistake ” he sa‘
% ugh-Sh ‘ Your mother,i¥llen Noel, was L’ord Emiliqu
fiOWDG left her husband’s home in Na les
ainst h to him, because of a sin he had comm tted
er. She was traveling to Paris. when her

V was seized with an illness. and she was com-

 

29

pelled to take refuge in the convent of which you
s eak. She had revealed only her maiden name to
t ose who had sheltered her, because she did not
wish to be traced, and for many other reasons. In
less than two days she took the fever from the child,
and, being very delicate, died—never recovering
consciousness, even at the last. After_her death a.
sum of money was found in her possesswn together
with the letters and miniature on have s own me.
She had been heard to call the c ild Reginald before
her own illness; therefore when he recovered, he
was baptized Reginald oel, and placed in the
school belonging to the convent. Later, the money
she had left secured his entrance into a Parisian
academy. You are that child. Do you under-
stand?"

“Who has told you these strange things?” asked
the other incredulously.

“ Some time back I found the beginnin of Ellen
Noel’s story, and I sent a solicitor—a ever and
trustworthy man—to find the rest for me. He went
to Santa. Croce. He learned whatI now tell you—
he saw the garments your mother were when she
died. Some of them are marked ‘Ellen Roth.’

-When the inmates of the convent saw that name

upon them as she la dead, they concluded as you
did—that Ellen Noe was a homeless, betrayed
woman, who had been wearing her betrayer’s name,
but had come thither to die in her own dishonored
name. If they did not tell you this, I suspect they
led you to believe it. Then the man whom I com-
missioned to find the hidden lie, traced you—the
child called Reginald Noel—step by step through
your life—it was not a very difficult task—until 6
found you here. The story of Lady Roth’s death in
Naples was a lie.”

_‘ But on? Who, then, are you?” came in the
still won ering tones, for it did not seem to the lis-
tener that it was his own story that he was hearing,
but the stor of some one else—a very absorbing
story—but sti not his—one that had nothin to do
with him at all. “How strange that my p ace in
the world should have been here i” he added, dream-
1 y.
“Not so very strange,” answered the other. “I
should have found you—traced you wherever you
were. The only difference would have been—” He
stopped abruptly.

‘ nd you i” repeated the artist.

“You shall know. I must go back to the begin-
ning, and tell you of the sin of the man late] dead
-—your father! Heaven knows that I woul have
buried it from my own sight, and from the world’s,
forever, in his grave, had it been possible.”

Then, in the stillness of the summer night, Lord
Roth’s son heard the sin and sorrow of the past.

 

Did Oliver Kenn give a thought in that hour to
himself? Did he know that he was acting the part
of a hero? Or, when riding home beneath the hush
of the stars at midni ht, and springing from his
saddle, to kneel upon he dew-dam earth, to how
his head and murmur-~“I have ept my vow; I
have brought her happiness very near to her, though
she does not know it yet; I have not held my own
life too dear—I am content to make it desolate for
her sake; Heaven knows it; perha s some day not
very far off she will know too ’——di one thought of
his own nobleness even then enter his mind?

No—neither then, nor at any time 9.31: or to come.
He had done the work given to Hi, Just as he
would have faced a legion in the battle-field, npbly,
bravely. And if. as he knelt alone with his grief, a
few tears, wrung from his suflermg heart, fell
among the grass and mingled with the dew upon its
blades, was that any ,dishonor to the manhood he
had beautlfled! '

 

   

 

 

cepted thisoourtesyxfrom the man who, was indebte ~. ' "
v mm memes» *' asst assess diminishing 
 115363118 “8311056 sfrgnse storieslthat do some- shelter during these last aw. Carlo Marini was to
“3 ms » “a?th t‘fimmong “’9’ everyday accompany him abroad. v e old'man' had begged
he sneak.“ omega b 0:; thnz‘éian 11501113530318? with tearsto share the altered fortunes of his was _' "
, 11131.9 1, fly 0.3 r0 k“ *1 SW16!” 9 Several ter. Perhaps Oliver thought that the old Italian’s “f, 1
 " some nown' Guy 3 “3'7 f9?" company would brighten his new life. '  .  '
new the true version, and even these 1'9an their . It was his last evening at Rothcourt. He had ‘ t '
vaondeffinhefimngenefifi 0f“191‘”!rommmeo ' been to the Reedes to take leave of the famil . ’
.9389? “mm” at the rand conga“ Of the m“ Georgie was out riding with Captain Dare. Beatriz:
“Egg gimme {3an “If f S “9.0: tRhisflsl’n 133% hi . i had not returned from the sea-side. He sat in the
my Geo no wgfgekh 913:9 fi 19" 0 i 5:751"! old library with folded arms, while sad thoughts
 z T3199, 0 9‘“ ,8 W 0 9 “tent 0 ' he were passing through his brain—~thoughts full of
lmrfflce'he had madei honored the man Who had pain and passion, regret and gladness for things
$0 nob .made it. I onored? They did m°r°- est—past to him forever. Georgie came in suds
 we hour When that man had come on] without warning .or announcement—ti:
“- “?llimm the. beginning 0f the Story! and to “51‘ bright, loving girl who reve ed him so intensely; '
his aid in unraveling the rest Adrian Rutherford He stood up, with a sad He, and held out his

fiestfhim [on a destal, and in his heart hands. .
hired him uhis 0| «impetuous fashion f“Dear friend, true friend!” he said, taking both

0 hers. ‘ .

H  ' '

 
  
   
    
    
  
   
   
   
   
     
   
   
 
   
    
   
    
  
 
      
  
  
    
    
  
  
     
  
    
   
  
   
    

i

 

‘Ef‘Yo‘ulmust forgive Beatrix when she returns ”
liver said to him “for perhags after all—” e

asgoing'to say, ' perhaps, of '

H '
ran, the marriage naldi she cned.

urn-Llanned i 11g 3 0 may take lace ” but be No Reginald now", he Sgidilgenqu' ~
 b8. 3%? to Ba it so big stow k d “d. alwa sReg-inald to me! 5 e cried, assmnate-
y dusufiaidmstead_u Fir. on see alien Sh d ly. It as almost broken my heart to now that
$3 “1%: loved m in mo 5’ ha v  e , a you are gomg; but} would not have youstay. You
~ . _,, _, 799 ° 00“ never V9 661? my are doing whatl is right and best. I am so proud of
- e- _ __ .» * ou—so rou ’
flagging; 'b3611 7%!“ W115? 1130?; 1111:“ £39“ V  He malde no rep There wasa deeply distressed
1  Y; ell? 0%, S e B 0“ v VP 9“ uexpressiouon his ace as he looked mo hers, slow-
 mafia; algoggumegaghfieggu :rgwi’ge Shglfggzg mg, sparkling, through the tears that she could not
 , . i , re ress. '
ou-i’idatgrian. Igutgtgfogl crlfidnimpgtuogsixy, as 113 a ‘ 1 thought, dear Reginald, that you would be 
the WW 2h orb. a"? ‘5 fivgman (more 1. brother some day; and I loved you—oh, quite as
“I “m Si! (135031“ have 813% “answered Oh, I fondly as if you were my own brothere—brave and ,
 on '3' h 9 hink it I!) elfi noble fellow that you are! I shall never meet on— y.
“W make me Very afippy ‘50 ‘2 or W an other man like you, but Iwould not have you stay
‘3‘.” may from you .' r ‘ here where your life has been solsad. Oh, cannot : r
:3 Qégsggggsgengawa from I firgive Beatrix 1Egben I think of it!” And she burst 
‘ - ‘1 . - - r ; to passiona e are. t l , 
 W110 8013,31qu and honore‘ him l”y “ Dear Georgie. this is the last time we shall ever ~ x
W :01”? witha like VOICE 0f dissellt- Young ‘ see one another on earth, undwill you. refuse 'W'hrlt _\
50W  Games“! flouglf‘t t0 preyent 011776? Ken“ ’ I ask you? I want you to forgive Beatrix—be tender
filmmgfié’ :‘gge a: fi‘ggoggénw}é?g§  ? and loving to her as you can be, dear, for my sake."
w L " ‘ ’
i 9. also the betterfor the presence oil-such amend}
 f filter was «firm; he never swervod from his
' use: He thought how truly impossible it would
ortlfim to. live near the woman whom he had

r-a
3
'4

The low musical tones, falling on her ear, calmed‘ ‘-
her strangely. “ I love her so dearly that my great ~
happiness will be in the knowledge that she is hap- »"
py. I shall think of you very often, dear G-eorg1e~~—‘ ‘
of the happy days we have spent together—of your: j ~-
home, and the dear old lime-tree. I think I shall I,
see it often in my dreams: 'I shallthink of the hours . ‘
'Iwe passggl genfeath it andhraostéf alliafteg Bfiatrix;
 ._ w l , u ear"e or'e~o. a urr
01:0 morning Oliver Kenn rode to Ickston to take ,bSh%¥;o¥ds%n§°wh s... - e » 3 . 30' r
. . ,r w V 3 mom-l“ It was'a'hard thin“, for She 'S e raised her heag‘ to look on the face that she‘-
weenie mother, although theyhad never been any— new saw for the last time. Vv
 leach other but strangers/ In the narrow “‘I hope you will be very happy,” he said; “and
M  encountered Mrs. Flaherty, whose eyes were 3 I think you win My heart is very gore at Farm,

 

mommy, and see her the wife of another,
wheiwmd forestall the end of the drama now,
 not yet come, .

   
       
    
     

   
 

 
 

g,
E:

      
    
    
      
  
  
    

 W911“. _ 7 " 'IfrOmsyou.” -'
0131’s“,  811$ said. beginning to CW9 I never “Heaven bless you always and always!" she cfiétl.~'

 
 

§’

13511 1a“ night that She “’35 my husmnd’fl passionately as she‘ kis°od his face~42he last kiss
sexism Rachel‘ and to think how I’ve called {her and ‘ ’ " _
 Bub‘ho‘w was I to know, and  any woman would ever leave there, I
vise ‘ ' ‘~ ‘
(alive:- 112er Mrs. Flaherty’s disengaged hand. CHAPTER xxvn,
 {onto take care of her for my sake. sax AND SHADE, » r _
‘f-yeu? don’t think she will live Ion . Ishall Ar home once more, and it is August. In the“
eel glad to know that she is in such kind ands, tor I drawizi‘firoom of the Reedes, Beatrix sat alone, and
yis'xgggamotherfl r _ ' idle. 'e had-been reading; but the book waslaid
,  ‘, batty ceased crying to stare, at the gen- asxde, and, with folded hands she leaned back In
, an, This wasastra aversion teher. the low cushioned chair. T ere was a pleasant _
was: Sure" on will for'my sake if I ask light in the room. The afternoon sunlight was,st
v {,i’? 116’ nt numgently. .“Gnod~by. Do not out b the closed Venetian blinds; a slight blew 3
law shall. - n  of your kind face. ” stole n at intervals, making the heated almospW

  

7—”

 
 
 
  
 

 

 

 
  
      
     
  

 
    

      
  

 
      
 
 
 
 

v i; he went‘cf the cod ladyina deliciouSI cool. ,r 4  l  
"91 mmflfi ,nzfl amazement‘. ' : Beatrixywas‘lookigg better, but 11 ’ face had 116*”
4' '  f  the bright, uncloud 100]: which it ad worn when
 was in? London. There were she returned, from France three months ago. ‘, Til

  
  
  
       
 
  

 

 
  

, nemato- Settle with the 1Wasadee :- sadder} Min-her blue dye
monument; _' JS‘FiI'lER’g-n cameos 'je lipa-ajmoigre thoughtful.“  re.“
fib’ ‘ ‘ ‘1 herihrev‘r.‘ Thesewerethetmoeeleitg 

   

LORD norms SIN. . ' 31

'-

 

pest " which had passed overherlife; yet she looked
better than before the tempest came. - 1

Into the shady room came Georgie, who hastened -'
to Beatrix’s side. a
. “ Beattie,” she said, very gravely, “Lord Roth is
in the library with papa,”

A scarlet flush rose in Beatrix’s face; her eyes
were bent upon her hands, which moved restlessly.
She had not seen Lord Roth since that golden day
under the cliff. He had returned from London only i
yesterday.

“And, Beattie, papa knows all now—the reason
why you acted as you did before you went away,”
Georgie said, slowly and tenderly. Had she not
promised to be tender to Beatrix?

Still no answer. The crimson had dyed even the
domicast brow.

Georgie bent and kissed it.

“.I wish you all ha piness, my darling sister,” she
thSpercd, and wen away.

Beatrix knew what was coming—what she had
missed in all the bright summer days lately gone.
This was the 10ve she had thought of, but never be-
fore realized. It was coming to her now—it was at
the threshold, and she waited. Her heart beat, her
pulses throbbed quicker. The perfect lips were
parted with the quick-drawn breath.

The moment came. He was at her side. No word
was spoken—n0 word was needed. She rose and 1
met him; the tender, loving arms embraced and
held her close to his heart—hisown—his bride. He
bent his stately head and kissed a golden tress that
lily loose upon his breast. Then he lifted the beau-
tiful face—in silence still—and sealed the compact
mtfide in that same room more than twenty years

e ore. '

 

. There were two weddings in the calm but glowin

autumnal mouth of October. None could tell which

of the two sister brides looked the lovelicr—Georgie,

with a damask color in her olive cheeks and her ;

hazel eyes lit with happiness, or Beatrix, upon

Ellipse golden head the orange wreath lay so grace-
y.

Adrian Rutherford’s face was graver than it was
Wont to be as he stood by his two fair daughters to
Clve them away. His thoughts were busy pondering
that old time, nearly one-and-twenty years ago,
rhen‘ he had, laughingly, and in the very idleness of

‘aDPmOSS, made the compact which lay at the bot-
tom of Lord Roth’s sin. If he had known then all
that he know now he was very sure that com act
WV ould never have been made. Rather woul he
t ave been contented to leave his little daughter’s fu-
"11‘0 _.ate in Heaven'shands, without plan or promise
On his own part.
“‘4 1"“;1e 0f the gravity s read to the faces of the
o brides as each thong it, in the midst of her hap-

Diness of the brave-heaited true fri and whom the ‘
Would’never see more. b y

 

THE EN D.

 

‘ Oliver Kenn well and truly.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
CONCLUSION.
-- ON the stately terrace of Rothcourt Hall happy

children play, knowing nothing of the sin and bit-
terness and remorse that had lived within the walls
of the home now so bright and beautiful, once so
sad and solemn. Not the heir to the old t1tle, but
the second of Beatrix’s sons is called Oliver. .

Lord Roth has not relinauished the pursuit he so
dearly loved and excelle in. At times beautiful
pictures find their way into the public exhibitions,
where they usually find ready purchasers; for the
simple subjects he chooses become, under his mas-
terly treatment, both grand and touching. And
Florence Rutherford has not lost her kind teacher,
for Beatrix’s husband dear] loves and is very proud
of his wife’s little sister, w 0 bids fair to equal her
master in enius.

Mrs. Fla 1erty kept the charge intrusted to her by
Rachel was not the
same fierce-tempered woman now that she had been
before the sin in which she had acted a art was
revealed, but a penitent, quiet, yet cheerfu person.
She lived a. year or more after that eventful sum-

; mer, Beatrix and her husband taking care that she

lacked for nothing that wealth could procure to
ease her last suffering months on earth.
Philip Hanghton never knew of his cousin’s sin.

1 He was drowned while boating, within a fortnight

of Lord Roth’s funeral. As he died unmarried,
young Lord Roth, as next of km, inherited his
property.

 

Far away in the grand and vast forest-land of '

Brazll, dwe s a man who often, when‘the toil and
heat are over, travels in thought over the great
western ocean which lies between him and his past.
As he lies with his face upturned to the starry
heavens, thin 8 around and about him fade away
It is not the o orous air of the tropical night that is
floating about him, but the glory of a summer
morning in June, sweet with the breath of myriads
of roses. It is not the dash of the waves on the
shore that he is listening to, but the sweet music of
a woman’s voice, whispering soft words in his ear;
and he is holding her close——close to his breast, in
bliss too deep for utterance.

Now it is twilight, and soft melodies float. in his
ears—music so sweet, so sad, that he could hstento‘

it forever; and a face shines upon him through‘thu
shadows—the face of a lovely woman in misty
white. Then comrs another memory—eyes weip-

ing, and avoice whiSpering to him the words tl:;.t

, are to part them. He hears them still, and oh, huw
5 plainly! He lifts the bowed form, and presses ins

ips to hers—“for the last time.” And With this:-
thought a. great pain surges through his desolate.
breast, and a silent longing gleams from his mourn 4

ful eyes, while he stretches his arms out full of
passionate despair.

' -
And now he hears again the great billows that

come toseing and seething toward him, and he sees
the wide waters that lie between him and that old
life and those vanished scenes.

 

 

‘ _

..

f   ; 3122;31:1us WWW“

 

 

THIRTY-TWO 00124 V0 PAGES.

1 A Bride of'n De 3 or.Th¢ Mystery of Winifred
' Leigh. B Mnry eed Crowell.
g The Girl “We; or,lThe True and the False. By
‘ ’ , 'Bnrtley T. Campbell. ‘
  Wm‘i It Love? or, Collegians and Sweethearts. By
"  Wm. Minn“ Turner, M. D. I
'24 Mien-led in llue‘te; or,AYouugG1r1’s Temptation.
 I B' Refit. \Vinwom; ,
\5 Wiin She Marry Him? or,The Masked Bride.
' . By Mrs. Mary Reed Croweil.
6 "is Lawful “'li'e; or, Myra, the Child 01 Adop-
- ', flora. 'Bv Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.
'4' A Fair Face; or, Out in the World. By Barney T.
' Campbell. I _
,8’ Alrigd‘Mar-rluge; or, The Iron wm. By Mary
 ‘ . A; [h - -
 ' '~ I " ‘ er of Eve or, Blinded by Love. By
,,  fihflwrtkeed ,CrnWeli. " /
' 10 The, Biro rem Betrothal; or,
I » . 33y Mfirfiiird? Hulxxnet.
” ~ v ‘ 1m 0 .or' or,
  cliffhlfihgr nf“ Alone in,the World,” elm, etc.
. 13 5 fialr oi;((a‘vray Eyes; or, The Emerald Necklace.
r, V. B ' Rose eunudy. I
' QEWféhmkt a Heart: nr, Walking on the Brink. By
‘ ‘ Colij‘reuiiss lnumhmu.

LOVe venue Hm.

Drive!) from Home.
‘1 ' Alone in the “I "rid: or. The Younw Manda \Vnrd.
4‘  By'the Autlmr o!" The Bride ohm Actor,” em, etc.

5 , the-flees; or,TheFurmer‘sSweethenrt. ’ 'ByCol.
gamma: lrxgralmm. ’ v r
‘I'fi*The fieeret Marriage; or, A Duohese in'Spite of
7 ‘ fl if F)’ SeruCinxmn. ’ _ ,
{guest Sister} or, The Rivalry of Harm.
V ' fury ReeniCrnweil., . ,
v 7 ‘ to Hem-t or, Fair Phyllis’s Love. By
- ‘ Arnhem; Snutlnvtirin. r ‘ -
1.9 Somatic!» new; an-Ahnoet Last. By Mrs. M. V.
"'“cinfi' “. ,
waxygmgfiiédgvor, A Dangerous Game. By Henriette
’1 m: cm .,. ._ ' . ’
3 fiybiiivhi'im; 013le Gambler’s Wife. By Mrs.
 , Arm .3. Mayhem. . ‘ v . . 
933%th flex- Son or, A True Knight. By Margaret
L . « 085 r. ~‘ v
2843ian .‘Azainet; 6“, The Winthmp Yridc. By,
' 2 Chem Aug-mm - ' '
fijfi Loyal Lorel'zlorfii'he Last of the Grimspethe
 ~ «7 ii); Ambwlhi Rom Wmfih. ‘_ ‘
25 The (YeuntrfinConsln; or, All it not Gold that
' " “ Galina”. By , Ie'Kenriedy. .
' idol; or, The Iii-Starred Marriage. By Mrs,
_ Reed Cruw'elk ‘

’ ' thin or. A Yulmg Giri’l .Gnod \Num/a. 3;
F ' "vi: AlMI‘l/‘mfleli (Rfiipb Rnyni)‘, ‘ 

28' ’eg'rraml Fnrever: or, W hy Did SlmMmy mm!
 .y‘Henr‘srtm Thacherey. , ' I r  I
 039313“ ,1?'eli.,t.he Orange Girl; er, the Lee: Herr.
 ‘3' Sim: vi 'ulme. ‘ V
I "B ' hurlutte Temple. By Mrs. Roman. L

‘1’ he Little "ch-em” er,Under.a Cloud. By Mrs,
" I  ‘Mm'y-M Denim". v ‘ r ‘ k
. ', $1.6m: Year; or,Wny.ShePropoeed. By'SaraCln’x-
' 831:5 ite cruel-self; or, Jeanette’s Reparation.

 By  R. Sherwood.

‘ r ‘ ‘ 4 liar Faeew A ller Fortune. 35‘ Eleanor Blaine. r

SrTm Cuban ielrem; ‘or' The Prisoner of Le Vim
3' ' tram). By Mrs. Mary .5. nison.

(«4

 

. . 701)! .a Sehoolmlntreee or Her Untold Secret.
'  ByyAmbelhiSuvthworth. 5 ’

 < The Wavefley Library is for sele
' , rem; by mailer! receipt of six cents each.

8'? The Will ed Messier: er or Rilkln ' All {or a
Heart. Bers‘. Mary Rfed draw/ell. ,“ '

88 Was She a Coquetth or,A Strange Courtship.

liy Henrietta 'l‘hm-kemy. -

89 (inc Woman’s Heart; or,'Saved from we Street.
By George S. Knime. . i

40 Lm'c‘Mad; or, Betrotherl, Married, Divorced and-—
By Wm. Meson Turner, M. . ’

41 For llerlicar Sake; or, Saved From Himlelf. By
Sam Clnxtou. -

42 The Bouquet Girl; or,AMillion of Money. By
Agile Peune. .

4:3 Man-1mm, the Prime Donna. By Arabella South-

WON .

44 The Eben Mask; or, ThmM3'aterious Guardian.
By Mrl. Marv Reed Crowell. ‘

45 Lucy Temple. Daughter of Chnrlotle.

46"1‘110: Three meters; or, The Mystery of Lord
Chelfonh. By A‘liee Fleming. '

4? The Creole Slater-H; 0r, The Myt’lery of the
Perrye. By Mrs. Anna E. Putter.

48 A Marriage ot‘Convenlcnvc . By Sam Clnxtnn.

49 ’i he Wife’s Secret; or, "l‘wixt Cup and Lip. ~liy
Col. Junn Lewis.

50 Sir Archer’s Bride: or, The Queen of Hearts.
By Arabella. Suntliwnrth.

51 Led Astrny. "By,0cmve;Feuillet.

~521l2meleee; ér, Twe Orphan Girls in New York. By
1:; ‘

lbert W._Axhe

53 The Maniac Erma; or,The Dcnd‘SecretofHollew
Ash Hall. ‘ By Margaret Blount. v -

‘54 Pit-dared: to Marry; or, In Love’- ‘Bondnfi 1137
ii.

Sara Chute I ‘ I

55 Cecil’s Deceit; or, The Diamond Legncy. By Mrs.

, . Jennie Davie Burton. ’

,56 Beatrice, the Beautiful 3‘ or, His Second Love.
By Arabella Southworih. I .

5'? Wlthout Mérey . By Hartley T. Campbell.

58 The Bumnet’a Secret; or, The Rival liul 'nSiam-a.
By Sam Clarion. r -

59 Arne! Hope, the Actress: er, the Romance of a
:uhy Ring. By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D.
60 A W ldnw’n Wiles; or, A Bitter Vengeance. By
1 Rachel Bernhardt. ‘ " _ r ‘
61 Did lie Love  By Bu iky T. Camph ll. ,
(i3 Almost in Ilia Power or. More Sinnud Again"
’ than Sinhing.‘ iiy'lzilliuu vejoy. ‘ . . fl .
63 She Rid Not Love Him. "By Arabella Scull»-
wor . _ I ‘
Bennie Rayner.
_ Mnsun Turner, M.
65 A Brave Girl} or, Sunelxlre at Last.
V Fleming. ‘ _ I .
66 Lord Roth’s Sin; or, Betrothed at the Cradle.
Genrgienn Dickens. Reedy Augnetfl5. .
6'? A “'10 ed “cart; or, the False and the True. By‘
Sam Claxum. Ready Sept. 1. fl. '
68 Ii lleart’n Mil-twee; or, Love at First Sight.
1 ' Arabella Southwonh. Ready Sept. 8.
69 The On] Dan later or. Brother a inn: L ' V.
By Allee¥leuiingg Re: y Sept. 15. m 1  0v.”
70 Whgl Married Him! 6r,the
By . urn. Glance. Ready Sept”.

Dale \Vork Girl. My Wm.’

By‘

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 g .fieadle and Adams, Publishers,

 

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