brat-y of First-Class Copyright Novels Publ
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Copyrighted in 1881 by BRADLI an Anna:

 

 

32.50 a year. Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y.. at Second Class Mall Rates. _ November 29. 1881.

No. 107} VOL. v.

PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST., N. Y. PRICE, 5 CENTS

 

 

I In] in dodging that great institution, but had bought his expe-
  l ] rience dearly once or twice. The Grandison was ostensibly and simply

' a dancing academy, where it. was supposed that only annual subscribers

_"‘— were allowed to introduce their friends, who paid eightpence for

B Y F. W. R OB INS ON- the privilege on quadrille nights, which were three a week in the
-———- winter season, and well attended as a rule. Smiles did his best to keep
CHAPTER I. the Grandison a select establishment, it must be asserted. Din-eputa-

bility in silks and satins had haunted its way thither, and been told po-

Tm‘ GMNDISON ROOIS' liter that it could not be admitted on any pretense whatever; and the

T831 were rooms that had seen better days and known better com- fast man—that is, the man who had come for a lark, and failing in his
pony. Time had been when society patronized the Grandison Rooms, lark, had gone in for a row—had been quickly pitched into the street
and folk whom the world knew, and whom Court Guides recognized, or handed over to the policeman at the first sign of his over-stepping the
came to classical concerts and evening conversaziones here. and drove V bounds of that propriety for which the Grandison aimed to be distin—
away again weary and depressed. When fashion dril‘ted further west, % guished. There was no dancing in hats~ or bonnets at the Grandison;
and larger rooms in more brilliant thoroughfares took all the shine that , no smoking allowed sure in the gentlemen's room up stain “ in in r. -
was left from the Grandison, the neighborhood became shady and ‘ port said card-playing had been seen at times !or a lliilr' ll'<)l"‘
dubious by degrees, and the poor old stucco edifice in Frisk Street, than nominal stakes. There was no boisterous tun, .-.l~rill laughter
Swim, grew more shady and dubious to match. Eve'ybody came to or unseemly actions; nothing save the light and air) ll.rl:.ti« n.
pilot who speculated in the Grandison. because nobody would come to patent to all (lancng \‘llt-ps, high or low. and a trim 111(11-
wc everybody’s entertainment, no math-rot what its merits might coir evident at the lv‘rmdnon, where life was distraction and reac
~i~t. Dioramas collapsed by scores at the Gl‘umlisoll Rooms. which were ; tion from a (in) ‘5 hard labor. The academy was considered a
the h0mc,or rather the family vault, of dioramas for many long-suffering proper place by its Ilahl'turs, who behaved themselves ct‘editably.
)cnrs, concluding with thetragic episode ol'a bankrupt exhibitor blowing danced vigorously, and perspired much for eightpence, going sll'adll}
his brains out one morning over through the programme with a
the, grand piano which a relent- _ , V, 7 . flXctl intention to him» their
lcs“ lessee had impounded. Pi'i— " ' V ' money’s Will‘ilv. Mn. ol' the
rate tln-atricals had a turn at Cremorne :md Argyle types,
the (lrandison Rooms, and failed Scouts from the grand army of
to secure an audience; an organ- prowlers, dropped in now and
builucr lost his money and his then. but voted the whole thing
bend over them; a furniture slow,and went away again as
emporium sprang to light here, from a place of entertainment
and went suddenly out again, beyond their comprehension.

u i: ll all the furniture of the de« There were tWostrangers r m-
po itory; flrally, a man who zled in this way in the month of
final been a publican, and had April of two years ago. At—
rcutious in the ballet, started tracted by the noise from the
tlr- Grandison as a dancing open windows, they had pallhtd
acml- my, and, to the amaw in the street to listen, had asked
mcnt ol' the neighbors, held his a few questions of the aho.
ground for years, and in the rigines, had gone in laughing
fflCt' of much scandal and ill re- and jesting at, their adventure,
port and enmity, existed after and were no“ standing at the
ill.» own small fashion upon the door 01 the shabby ball-room
profits ot‘ his speculation. The looking curioust and critically
(-ll'mdison Rooms became some- at the dancers, who u-gardul
thing more than the shadow of them as intently in their turn.

a name again, although society “ Swans," whispered the girls,
had turned its back on them and “Stuck-ups." muttered the
forever. Knowing clerks about men, whose attention had been
town, lively young Jews and arrested.

Jewesses with Saturday even- “An Odd lot this, Frank,”
ings to themselves, skittish mil- commented the elder stranger—
liners and dreasmakers from a grave, almost stern-looking
the large establishments in the man of five and twenty.
vicinitv, the drapers’ young " Wait a moment or two,
men, the French hair-dressers Dudley," was the reply of a
and French waiters and cooks hundmme young fellow, faintly
for which Soho is famous. all flushed with wine, for he and his
knew the Grandlson, spent their friend had been dining heavily;
hardly earned money there. and “this is a novelty and "mums
kicked up their heels to a me.”

wheezy band of tour which “Giddy folk are e a si ly
played danCe music in a little amused,” said the ottur, senten-
gullery. The Grandison had no tiously.

(l'lllcillg ilOGIlSE‘, but evaded “ I am not gitllly."

the law with a cleverness that , 7 7 ,  V7 7 “You are young. and life le-
rt'flected credit on Smiles. the ‘ ' ‘: ' ‘ v — —-  »» - wi'llcrw you"

Proprietor, who, report said, THE END HA1) com-t. AND THEY HAD sun (moo BYE. HE WAS “ “'1th im‘ "NY a“! “5km
had not always been success- NEVER TO MEET Him AGAIN. Frank.

 

 

   
 

POOR ZEPH.

 

“The working classes in their best clothes."

“ Respectable .9“

“I should say so—most of them," added Dud-
ley, with a reserve.

“ The girls are tolerable, but the men are dread-
ful," muttered the younger man, still proceeding
with his criticism.

“ Ah, yes,” said Dudley, wearily, “ that's the
general rule. How long do you think of remain-
i r :1!)

“ A quarter of an hour or so, if you don’t mind.

This is what the world would call a spree, Dudley."

“ I don’t quite see it. I will go into that ante-
room and wait for you," said Dudley, wearily. “It
may be possible to get seltzer there.” -

“Stop and see the dancing," urged the other,
greatly interested in the scene. “By Jove, they
are enjoying themselves at this crib. Dowager
Lady Bareblades should see this, old boy !"

Dudley laughed, but strolled toward the apart-
ment on the other side of the staircase and away
from the ball-room. It was a refreshment-room
of humble pretensions, with low long tables on
which were biscuits and oranges, with a counter
at the extremity where coffee and lemonade were
in reserve. There was a lovers’ quarrel going on
at the table next to Dudley, and Dudley, a student
of human nature, sat and observed this after or-
derin his sherry and seltzer of a dilapidated wait-
er. e lovers were at high words; the course of
true love had not run smoothly that particular
evening; there had been flirtation at work, and
jealousy had been the consequence, and now the
weaker vessel was “catching it."

“ I told you yesterday not to dance with him,"
muttered the man, angrily.

“ What was Ito do ?”

“ Wait for me."

“I did wait till the last minute—I was not go'-
in to lose my dance," said the girl, sharply.
“ ou should have made haste if you wanted me
for your partner.”

“I couldn't come before the vernor let me
oil," cried the aggrieved man. “gnar- the use
of talking such foolery as that l"

“Foolery!” exclaimed the girl.

“ Yes, foolery. What else do you call it i" was
the blunt rejoiner.

“Very well, Ben. You don‘t dance with me any
more tar-night.”

“ Oh! I can find plenty of other girls, if that's
your ame,” he said.

“ d them," cried the girl, “ and welcome."

“ Dannie—I will, too. I won’t be served like
this. I’ll go and dance my hardest ;" and Ben
sprang up like a bomb-shell."

“ (lo—and joy go with you,” said the girl,
saucily.

Dear a beetle-browed, unnmiable young man
with a pasty complexion, marched away from his
lady-love and passed into the balhroom without

a backward glance at her whom he had taken in P0“

task. Dudley regarded the irl attentively after
her lovc'a departure. Had a e gone too far with
her humble but irritable swain, and was she sorry
for it? There was a thoughtful expression ou‘her'
face for an instant and then she pleas-
mtly and unaflectedly to herself, as at a jest that
Housed her. ‘ ‘
“ You don't seem very deeply distressed at that
wring man’s desertion of you," remarked Dudley,
- idenly. The words escaped him hefOre he had
.une to think—even if he had been disposed to
mink of the matter at all. There was no impro-
priety in addressing a young woman at a dancing
mtabliahment—there was no harm n'laht—andshe

was an inquisitive man, and interested. The y,

turned toward the speaker, somewhat  _ V at
his sudden aaiutatlou, but not embarrassed by it.
An urgent need for formal introductions at the.

rGrandison on a quadrille night had bill!  "

clearly apparent.
“ Distressed i" not I, indeed," she said, with a
toes of her head.

“ He‘s very angry," remarked Dudley, with mock
solemnity. '

“ He‘ll cool down quick enou h. I’ve known
my gentleman before to-night," s replied, with
another toes of her head.

“ Used to his little tempers, then ?"

“ I should think I was 1"

 

“ It might be wise to apologize," said Dudley,
dryly.

“Me apologize—to him! Me i" cried the girl,
taking his words m sober earnest, he spoke so se-
riously and looked so gravely at her. I’ll pay him
out for this presently, see if I don’t."

“ Ah! I’m afraid I shall not be here to see the
fun."

“ No—really," said the girl, amused that any one
should think of quitting the Grandison before the
last galop had been played and the fiddlers had
packed up their instruments. She regarded her
interrogator more attentively, and noticed that he
was better dressed and better gloved, and alto-
gether a different kind of being from the men who
came to Frisk Street. She saw, in fact, that this
was a swell, that he was in full dress, with a but-
ton~hole Worth three—and—six-pence in his light
coat, and with things in his shirt front that shone
like gold, and perhaps were made of it—-—who could
tell? She became suddenly reserved, as if con-
scious that he had been “ chafiing” her, and was
probably vexed with herself that in her excitement
and petulance she had not detected more quickly
his badinage. The sudden change of manner was
a. new surprise to Dudley, and added to his amuse-
ment; and then there gradually dawned on his
comprehension also the fact that the girl was sin-
gularly beautiful. It had not struck him earlier;
he had been interested in her manner rather than
in herself; but the fact was very patent to him
now that here, under other circumstances, was a
face that a painter might love to copy, a poet to
rave about, a. sculptor to immortalize in marble.
He was only five-and—twenty, and could appreciate
beautiful faces in women, for all the hard dry
studies which had kept him stern, and dull, and
steady, to that memorable date of his life.

He was interested now, or amused, or something.
He did not attempt to define his feelings, but the
sudden reserve exhibited by his companion puzzled
him, and even pleased him. In his own circle, and
when in high spirits, he had been told by fair
women once or twice that he was “ an vating
fellow," “a tease;" and he drifted into is teas-
ing mood as though this little girl was one of his
“ set,” and it was his business to “ draw her out "
and give life and color to her.

It was a matter of some dimculty, for his com-
panion only answered in monosyllables, and turn-
ed her head from him while she spoke. To an
inquiry, at last, if she would take any refresh-
ment, she answered “No,” with an asperity that
silenced him until the dance was over in the ball.
room, and the majority of the dancers came talk-
ing and laughing into the refreshment depart-
ment, and the man with whom the girl had had a
few words sat down at a table opposite and glow-
ered across at them. He had brought his partner
with him into the saloon, probably to pique the
young lady whom he had left there; but the ex-
'ment was a failure, and the sight of Dudley
by the side of the girl he had reproved was a blow
from which 'he did not quickly recover.

The girl beganto talk to Dudley with more ani- :

mation also, but her companion did not take it as
a compliment.th the game of life pretty clearly
in this instance,
fui at this juncture, nothi more.  ret-
tled away gliny enough, s d some 
at wflbhhia ocmpanion laughed merrily Milan:
ideally, and even clapped her hands, and 'the man
over the way looked as if lid would be gledto out
his throat. ‘ i '

~ “Zephi” he called oitdat Diast,  '

 and sit hm’." . m i, I”
, ank you .,waa m M u 
quite comfortable where I am.» A , -' - 

“ You had better lay there, thong";h“e3grantod
. , ,

MIL ‘ .- _

“I mean to, as'iongsas Ichoose,"  
back,  f ' ‘ 

Dudley began'to thinkhewahinthe‘way,and
hardly doing the correct in the ire
of the pale-faced man U ;h6‘wou have
said, “ t,” and gone away  not, the
jealous man irected public atteutltu to him by
some remark which did not reach his ears, but
which set half a dozen greasy-looking youths into
a roar of laughter.

and feeling that he  use.- '

After that Dudley resolved to

all whom it might concern that he was not to be
scoffed oil the premises. ‘

“ Your young man is getting jealous," he said
to the girl.

“ He’s not my young man," was the quick an'
swer.

“ Didn’t you tell me he was i"

“ You know I didn’t." V

“ Well, he’s next door to it," said Dudley; “ he
would be if you cared to have him.”

“ 0h ! that‘s another thing,“ said the 
laughing heartily again as she looked at Dudley,
who thought he had never encountered such deep

Yes, this was a very pretty youn woman; and she
was aware of the fact. She was 'iferent from any
young woman whom he had met before, too; he
wished this straightforward, blunt style of reply
was fashionable in his circle ; it would save adeal
of trouble and misunderstanding, and people would
jog along the better for it.
“What is he ?" he asked.

“ His father keeps a shop at the corner of Edwin
Street, you know.“

“ Ah, yes, a very good shop," said Dudley, as
though he had known the neighborhood and the

“ That’s a."

nose, and marry you, Zeph, and that’s the end of
the love story."

“Don’t call me Zeph, if you pioneeriald his
companion, with a sudden exhib tion of dignity
that would have discomflted most men. ' ,

“Why not ‘3" he replied innocentlyofartoc in-
nocently for Frisk Street. “ That is year's-e, is
it not ?"

“Youhave no'rlght tocall mebyitflfhls."

“And you won‘t either.”

“ Won‘t I?"

“ N 0, that you won‘t.”

“ We shall see."

There was a pause, and “fluid
thou htfully:

“ phisaveryoddname."

“I am sorry you don’t like it,” said leph, ia
the same pert tone—“ awfully sorry.”

“But I do like it." 0h "

“I dare say you do. , yea.

Zeph laughed merrily again, and be“ across
at Ben, who ground his teeth together and swore
profanely, and wondered what they M were
talking about, and cursed them both,
the man in the dress-coat and gloves, andwith a
fluical flower in his button-hole. Curse him!
Yes, certa'mly; with the greatest aatbfactienin
life.

“What is Zeph short for i" Dudley asked.

“I shan’t tell you."

“I wish you would,” he urged. “lam really
curious; upon my honor.” 

She seemed to give way, as his tone bean.
more earnest.

she answered.
more about it."
“Am I bothering you '”
“ Y”...
’44 fig]! I o away i"
“Ya, on are off to a
med, a little curiously, in tur'h'.

urns thinking about a. I enact quite cor-
.m I shall go." "

« My? 9 ' I
“ Yes, really "

“And now don't botha meaay

4 “You may have that."

ure for a moment, and then were mm
by her long lashes.
added, the instant afterward.
“You will not have it ?" he inquired.
“ No, thank on; I would rather W 
“You don’t ike flowers?" -- 
M Y“, 9'

it i"

 

remain and to make himself at home, and show to

replied.

“And Ben will presently come into the busi- .

“I don’t know any other." ,

especially

“Oh, no, thank you." the

blue eyes, and with so much liquid light in them. '~

“ He’s a plumber and gas-fitter," she replied. .

business all his life; “ and Ben helps his father 2" . .

.“Ohl well then, Zephyrina, if you rent know," _‘ .

" ‘- ‘l Ah! you haven’t taken allthat trouble to dress ,
‘ 1°? liothing. And that fine hm, toot" .

“May I y" and Zeph's eyes sparkled with plans. ‘

“ It doesn't matter to me what Bea likes,” she ‘

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I

  

. “There! he is of! with his young lady again."
“A pretty young lady she is! there isn’t ascrap
efa lady about her. I know her and her great
red hands. Just look at them."
“ They are a trifle red," observed Dudley.

‘1'“ Perhaps it’s the weather.”

“ Or the scrubbing-brush. I always thought
she was a servant,” said Zeph, almost vindictively.

“ Yes, you are jealous," Dudley remarked.

“ Upon my word and honor, I ain’t," said Zeph.

“ You know you are fond of little Benjamin,“
said Dudley, in so reproving and quaint a tone
that Zeph laughed merrily, and this time unaf-
fectedly.

“ I like your style,” she said, sarcastically, at
last.

“ leaning you dislike my impudence ?"

“ Perhaps I do. Why don’t you go to your
party ?” cried Zeph. “ Your swell friends will be
advertising for you presently.”

“ I am very comfortable here thank you."

“ You don‘t look it.”

“ I am waiting to see you dance,” said Dudley.

“ Don‘t know that I shall dance any more," was
the answer.

“ Why not i”

- Can't say. Perhaps because I can’t find any
partners while you sit here jawing to me.”

This was very frank, amazineg frank, but ex-
oessively inelegant. It jarred upon the suscepti-
bilities of Dudley, and he shuddered until he
caught sight of her face, fair, fresh, young, and

.1ull of the happiness of life’s beginning—a face

looking knooently out at the world yet, and know-

ing nothing and guessing but little of the world’s

temptations. Surely not eighteen years of age,

thh brightgirl, in whom his intereetwasnotgrow-

ing less, who puzzled him and bewildered him by
her originality and piquancy.

“Howdoyouknowlamnotgiing to ask you
to favor me with your hand for t is waltz l” asked
Dudley, in reply to her.

“Oh, yes; you arcane to dance."

“ What is to hinder me 1"

“ You are much too fine. You wouldn't like to
mix with all the people you see here."

“ You are very much mistaken."

“0h,Iknow,"saidZeph,laughi again. “We
havebadoneortwoofyougents ore,butthey
never dance.”

“ But I will, ifyou will acceptmeforapartner,"
said Dudley, positively.

Out came her favorite word again in her eur-

u  ,9!

is Y "Inf."

u n____

“ Will you have me or not?” he said, impe-
tiently.

 “ Yes, I don’t mind."

“ Come along, then.”

Dudley had taken of! his overcoat, pitched it in-
to a corner, and was now moving down the room
with Zeph on his arm. At the door his friend
Frank was standing, and he pushed him lightly

suds-
“ Out of the way, you wall-flower!” he ex-

, claimed.

“ By Jove i—whac—Dudley l“ cried his friend,

. and before Frank had recovered from his astonish-

ment, Dudley and Zeph were whirling round the
ball-room together at a double-quick speed. It was
a wild wait: while it lasted, but before they were
tired the music had ceased.
' “ Bother,” said Zeph, “ how soon."

“ Never mind, we’ll in for the next, whatever
it is,” said Dudley, rash y. “ Is it a bargain?”

“ I don't mind," answered Zeph, very My.

She was in h spirits now, and secretly proud
of her partner, 0 h be was not vain enough to
guess that for himse f. They promenaded in the
ball~room with the other couples and Zeph laughed
and nodded to her various acquaintances, and ex-
changed “ good-evuiings " and “ how d'ye do’s ”
with some of the most extraordinary specimens of
mankind whom Dudley thought he had ever seen
in his life.

“ Do you come here very often 2” he asked, sud-
denl and almost sadly.

“ wice a week sometimes—always on a Satur-
day,” replied Zeph. “ I can get out beston that
day, of course.”

“ “'hy of course ?"

“ Because business closes earlier, to he sure.”

“ May I ask u but your business is ?"

“I am just out of my apprenticeship tothe mil-
linery," Zeph answered, frankly. “ Are you very
much shocked ?"

“ Not at all.
milliners ‘2"

“ Ah ! what indeed ?”

“ Have you a father and mother 9”

“Well, you are a cure for questions ! I have a
father. The mother," she added, becoming sud-
denly grave, “is dead."

“ I am sorry I asked,” said Dudley, very ear-
nestly. “ You must not mind what I say."

“ I don’t much. Still, mother has not been dead
so long, that" And here she came to a full
stop, and dashed something quickly from her
93'

What would the world be without

 

es.
“This is not a bad-sized room,” Dudley hastened
to say, after an awkward silence.

“ No—and they are taking their places for the
next dance "

“ What dance is it ?”

“The Lanciers."

“ Oh, Lord 1” muttered Dudley.

Still the Lanciers it was, and he fought bravely
throu h it, and laughed, and talked, and made
himse agreeable to the members of his particu-
lar set of eight, and was called “old chap ” and
“mate " by one or two friendly souls of his own
sex, and clasped vigorously at “ corners ” by
agile young beings of the opposite sex, and en-
joyed his dance with Zeph as well as it was pos.
sible under the circumstances. He was more in-
terested than ever in this little girl; she seemed
above the rest of her class here, too , and
pretty, and pure, to run the gauntlet of all these
grimy young Hebrews and Christian cads without
gloves, these leering, nowling, queer-looki beasts
who called her Zeph—he heard half a of
them address her by her Christian name.

“ You let your favorites call you Zeph, I see.”

“ Yes—when they know me.”

“Perhaps I shall be a favorite some day," he
said, lightly.

“ I don‘t think that's very likely,” she answered,
lightly too.

“ Why not i”

“ Well, the coolness of you i" shesaid “ That’s
as? one. You won’t come here again, I know

“ There's no telling what may happen,” was
Dudley’s reply. “But I don‘t think I shall come
very often."

“ No, I suppose not.”

“I wish you did not come.”

“ Why not i" asked the girl, very much surprised

now.

“ You in ht do better than come here,” said
Dudley. “ You will pardon me for saying this on
so early an acquaintance; but these rooms are
hardly a'fit place for a young girl.”

“ It's respectable—you can’t say a word against
it !" she said, indignantly. “There's more gents
here than you."

“I should be sorry to think ill of the Grandi-
son; butnyou come alone.”

“ Very often. I find plenty of friends when I
get here.”

“And plenty of friends to see you home i" he
asked, meaningly.
a“alien puts me in an omnibus generally—that's

“ Lucky Ben E”

They went back into the refreshment-room,
where Zeph condescended, on this occasion, to take
a glass of port~wine (far ruddier than the cherry
that logwood decoction was) at her partner’s ex-
pense, and to sit with him at the table again at
which he had first made her acquaintance. Here
Frank came up, looking almost angry at his
friend‘s neglect of him, and altogether puzzled by
his friend’s new style of behavior.

“Is it not time we started?" he asked, queru~
lously.

“I am ready when you are.”

“ Oh, I have been ready this hour and a half,"
said Frank, strolling over towards the door.

“ An hour and a half,’ said Dudley, looking at
his watch; “ so it is! How times flies when a

 

  

fellow is happy i"

 

  

He put on his overcoat again, standing and r

lookin down at the ' ht face ,of the ' with
whomghe had danced.brig ' pd

“ Will you have this flower now,” he asked.
“ ‘in memory of' etc?"

“ Thank you.”

He took it from his button-hole and placed it
in her hand, and she looked up at him half arch-
ly, half thoughtfully.

“ Good-night, little Zeph," he said.

“ Good-night, sir.” ,

“ When I see you again I shall ask you to dance
with me,” he said, lightly.

“ Ah ! when you do," she answered.

“ Perhaps you don‘t want to see me again?"

Strange feeling! but his heart was beating more
rapidly than its wont, as if in doubt about her
answer.

“ Oh, you haven’t made yourself particularly
disagreeable,” she said, with her old sauciness ap-
parent.

“ Not like Ben l"

“ No, not a bit like Ben,” she repeated, laugh.-
ingly.

“ And you will not beverysorry to see me again,
perhaps 1’"

“N—no,” with afl‘ected hesitation, “not very,
I think. But I can exist without you—by an of.

ort. '

He laughed himself at her manner; men the
impulse came to him to tempt this light little mil-
[iner into a promise. She was very pretty, she at-
tracted him, and he was not his old steady, grave
self that night. I

“I fancy I can’t exist well without you,” hesaid,
inalowtone. “Ishould like to see you again,
just for half an hour‘s chat, when you come rem
business some evening. May I?"

She looked up at him with surprise in her 
and a flickering color on her cheeks.

“ Will you meet me," he urged, “ thb day week,
at the corner of the street, for halfmnheurl—
only a few minutes, if you like; but please come.”

She did not answer at once.

“You are laughing at me,” she said, looking
down.

“ No, I am not.”

H  ’I’

“Really; Iaminearnest. Willyoueomel"

“Yes, I think I will,” she murmured. “What
time ?"

“Eight.” .

“Very well." ,

“ ank you, Zeal. Good-nigh
“Good-night," s responded; and loagafterhe
had gone away, proud of his small conquest—such
as it was—over this vain, pretty, poor little work-
girl, Zeph sat there, thinking of all that he had
said, and all that she had promised in return.

 

CHAPTER II.
a canvas ran".

Dorm Gaxr and his friend Frank Amoore
went away laughing from the Grandison Booms.
They left, as they came, with ajest,and Frank
Amoore, a good-tempered fellow in his way, forgot
zpeedily how long he had been kept waiting by is

rien

“You have been going it, Dudley,” he said.
“By Jove, I never saw yoqenter into the spirit of
a thing of use kind before.” I

“ It was the champagne we had at
Frank.” .-

“It was the pretty little woman with the big
eyes, you hypocrite," cried Frank. .

“ Yes—she is pretty," said Dudley. “I was in-
terested in a quarrel between her and her sweet-
heart, and so drifted into conversation Ifteflard."

“And to two dances after that. “I shall never
forget those Lanciers," said Frank, with a roar
that awoke the echoes of the street, “and you
arm~in-arm with three carpenters, each '
at his vis-a-eis before turning to places.

a scene out of a play." ,

“It was droll," remarked Dudley, thoughtfully. ‘

“ What would the Batebladea say 7” exclaimed
Frank. “What Wollld Geraldine think, of her
cavalier behaving in this extraordinary tuition at
an eightpenny hop 2"

dinner,

It was

 
    
   
  
   
 
 
 
 
   
  
   
  
  
    
   
 
 
  
    
   
  
 
 
  
     
  
 
    
  
   
  
      
       
         
       
     
       
       
     
       
 

 

    
       
       
 

    
       
 
 

    

  

  

 

 

r 0012 2151011. ’

 

 

“ She would laugh at all eooentricities.”
“ Then I may tell her, Dud 1’”

“Certainly you may.”

But Frank Amoore did not mention their adven-
ture when the two young men arrived at the resi-
dence of the Dowager Countess Bareblades, and
Dudley seemed quickly to forget it in the fascina-
Lions of high-bred women and the excitement of a
soiree (laments, with more Champagne at supper.
Hc forgot his promise tomeet this Zeph on the
following Tuesday—possibly forgot Zcph alto-
gether. At all events, he did not tell Frank how
far his flirtation had extended, and Frisk Street to
the younger man lay a long way off next day, and
was as remote as the antipodes by that day week.

And Dudley Grey 1 Well, when Tuesday'came,
he remembered his appointment; he thought
about it at the club, at his chambers in Clement’s
Inn, at the hospital where Frank was resident
surgeon, and where he called to see Frank that
morning, as briefs were scarce with him, but
where he never mentioned the name of the girl
that was upon his mind, despite the faint eflorts
that he made toshake her from it. At his club
again after dinner he thou ht even more, and this
time seriously, of the s ation, shrugging his
shoulders at the idea which tumbled him.

“ I don’t mean her any harm, Heaven knows; I
wouldn’t do her any harm for the world," he said
to himself; “to: I wonder if she'll bethere."

After wandan for five more minutes over his
cola, he indul in another little soliloqny.

“I might do an impressionable girl like Zeph
some good by ad her to give up that dancing
3.. To be sure I might ;” and full of this noble
resolVe, Dudley Grey set forth in search of Zeph,
the milliner. -

’ ms was at the corner of Frisk Street ten minutes
before the time appointed; he was always a
 man, but he never remembered being
soiMeh before his time as‘ on this occasion. He
unist‘havelwalked fast, or miscaiculated his dis.
tance, and those ten minutes in advance of the
appOintment’ became terribly wearisome, and ex-
hausted all the distractions of the murky street
wherein he lingered. It was a dreadful street.
When it was striking eight, and there was no sign
bf the girl whom he had come to meet, he wished
fervently he had named another and more respect-
able thoroughfare. People stared at him too
much; the shops were commonplace, and the con-
tents of their wmdows devoid of interest, a we-

man at the fried fish establishment opposite came 1

1e  to inspect him thoroughly , the green-
 boy winked at him, as though be guessed
the ‘reason for his lingenng on the curbstones;
welnen with baskets of laundry-work ran against
him at odd comers; the policeman passed him
half a dozen times, and took him in from top to
roe on each occasion; he felt hot and uncomfort-
able, and angry and out of place. By a quarter
past eight, he was miserable and abject; at half
past eight, he was anxious; when it was a quarter
to nine he was savage; as it was striking nine by
soliqu clock in the distance, he turned away
with sonic very bad words on the tip of his
was“, and marched of! to his club in an unamia—
ble mood.

in; was a fool. He should have known better
than to trust to the word of a silly little milliner,
and let her have the laugh of him—— aps tell
her ffiendt and acquaintances how she “ sold"
the “ swell” who came to the Grandlson last Tues.
day, and tried to trick her into an apppointment
with him. Yes, that was it; for as he turned out
of m Street he rah against the thick-set pasty.

' faced individual of the name of Ben, who smiled

maliciously, and looked after him until he was out
of sight. That was the joke and he had been the
victim of it. So be it. Such is life, when a man
goeseat of hits in search of adventure, or ex-
citement, or to o anybody a good or a bad turn.
ll e had at himself out of his way purely for the
girl's ea e—to be a; friend and counsellor to her—
and this is how he had been rewarded for his pain 1
Yes, it was a good ' e, but he would keep it to
hinfif. He was that he had not said any-
thi ‘ nf‘the to Frank Amoore. Frank
wo 'hfl seen the joke too clearly, and laughed
unr. ' it. ‘

V, 'vFor days afterward, however, the non-fulfill-
ment of Zeph's promise perplexed as well as vexed

 

the man. Why did she not come, after all?
She surely meant to come when he had asked her.
Was she afraid of him ? Did she see harm in
him, or fear harm to herself? Did she think
he would not be there, or was she going out
with “ pasty-face,” or was she ill, or had she been
unavoidably detained? He was a vain man in
his quiet way—not very vain, not even known
to be a vain man by his friends; but the idea
occurred to him more than once that it was a re—
markable thing that Zeph had not kept her word.
lie was surely an improvement on the Grandison
cads; for what she knew he might have fallen
desperately in love with her at first sight; he was
a gentleman, and she was losing a chance by not
coming to meet him. -

All these thoughts for two or three days, crossed
by the reflection that Zeph was very pretty and
naive and original—“ quite acharacter," and he
was fond of studying character—and then she
melted away from the foreground of his medita-
tions, and he drifted slowly into his own world,
where Geraldine was, and where he was consid-
ered a very clever fellow, who would make a name
for himself one of these fine days.

An advertisement in the newspapers took him
back to his old thought. This was in the begin-
ning of June, when he had almost forgotten Zeph
and the Grandison Rooms. He read it over atten-
tively, and laughed hearty at a new project which
its perusal suggested. Frank Amoore entering
his chambers at that moment found him on the
broad grin.

“What the deuce are you laughing at ?” he
asked, unceremoniously.

“Do you remember the Grandison last April,
Frank 2'”

H To be sure.”

“ Look here, then. Here is the concluding
chapter of that little comedy.”

Frank took the paper from his friend’s hands,
and read :

“Tm: (inasmsoa Gamma Paul—Mr. Smiles
begs to inform his friends and patrons that the
annual garden party of the subscribers to the
Grandison Rooms, Frisk Street, Soho, is fixed for
the 10th inst, at Keston Common, near Bromley.
Ahall will take place in the Grandison Rooms on
the evening of the same day, and form the con.
eluding night of the season. For tickets and full
particulars apply to the principal, at the rooms
from 7 till 10 r. M." -

“What a Wind-up to the festivities of Frisk
Street, Dudley !” said Frank. “Fancy meeting all
thosc people in the broad daylight l"

“ i could not fancy that at all,” replied Dudley.

And yet on the 10th inst., on a bright summer
day in June, it occurred to the oddly constructed
mind of Dudley Grey, barrister at law, that he
would take the train from Ludgate Hill and run
down to Bromley for half an hour’s fresh air.
He was not in love with Zeph; she would have
completely died out of his recollection had it not
been for the advertisement concerning the gar-
den party. He had no thought of reviving the
flirtation of a couple of months back, even of
speaking to her, unless she recognized him and
put herself out of the way to say a word to him;
he was simply curious to learn if that quaint girl
were one of the party. Then he was writing a
book too—though that was a secret to the world at
present; and' surely a medley of humanity, such as
a garden party of this description would he, should
give him character and incident to study. He had
heard from the men who wrote books that they
mixed with all kinds of people, on all kinds of co-
casions, and he must do the same thing, sans me-
monie, if he wished to put real life into the pages
of his novel. So business as well as curiosity took
Dudley Grey to Keaton, and if he had another rea'
son he kept it to himself.

He walked leisurely from Bromley to the Com-
mon, hesitating when he had reached that pictur-
esque bit of landscape, and feeling half disposed
to walk on swiftly into the heart of green Surrey
until it was time to make for the nearest railway
station and home. Then the sound of voices was
borne to him on the summer wind, merry laugh.
ter and light music; and when he was standing
on the bridge dividing ‘the two lower lakes of
Keston, he could see the garden party in ful. force
on the higher ground, and be a witness to the

 

enjoyment of the scene, without approaching it
too closely. If he had had an idea of intruding
upon the company, be abandoned it at once; he
was quite content to lounge away an hour in the
distance, listening to the far-off music, and watch-
ing what seemed from his solitary standpoint
the general happiness of the community. He
would have been glad to catch a glimpse of Zeph,
to see how she looked in her holiday dress and
in the sunshine that glowed upon the landscape;
but, after all, he was not particularly anxious
about it. She was a nice little woman who would
look well in anything, and he only hoped that
she had found a better companion for herself
than “ pasty-face” that day. lie smoked a cigar,
and leaned against the railing of the bridge, and
droppcd off into a dreamy state, half torpor and
half reverie, until the rippling laughter of two
girls who were running through the bracken on
the further bank turned his attention in a new
direction. One was tall and the other stout, and
both were young. They were concealing them-
selves from their lovers, perhaps, or glad to get
from the crowd for a while and they came on
swiftly through the ferns and grass and round
the bend of the water’s edge toward the barrister.

“Come along, Zeph; here’s a little peace and
quietness this way," Dudley heard the taller young
woman say. “.We have had enough of Ben an
Charlie for the next half hour,” .

“I should think we had," answered Zeph; and
then the girl with whom he had danced at the
Grandison Rooms tripped along in white muslin
like a fairy, and, followed by her companion,
passed Dudley on the bridge. Both girls looked
at Dudley as they hurried by—it was a habit .of
the Grandison girls to look about thema little-—
and the taller girl laughed, not too moth-sly,”-
hapa, at the grave, handsome lounger. Zeph
glanced at Dudley, and tripped by in utter igno.
rance of her old partner, and he let her pass him,
and then suddenly and impulsively cried:

U  l”

The girls stopped, and the younger and prettier
looked shyly from under the radiance of a hat, all
maize and white silk trimming, at the gentleman
who had addressed her thus familiarly.

“I have not the honor,” she said, very modestly
and quietly, “I—I do not remember you, really.”

“It’s the gentleman’s fun," said I the other,
laughing loudly; “he heard me call you Zeph.
Didn’t you, now ?” ~ '

“ Oh, no i” answered Dudley. “ I have met this
young lady before, only her memory is at fault it
little, and partners are numerous at the Grandisou."

Zeph regarded him more intently, and then
clapped her hands softly together after an old
habit of hers, and smiled, half in surprise and half
in recognition of him. .

“I know i" she cried; “I know new. It was
nearly two months ago—one Tuesday night. You
danced a waltz with me."

“And the Lanciers afterward," added Dudley.

“ Of course; I remember everything."

“Everything—you are quite sure ?" he said,
meaningly.

I Zeph blushed very much, and looked away from
lim. ‘

faced him again, and added, “ Do you live about
here, in this beautiful part of the world?"

“ Oh, no; I am a true Londoner,” lie: muted-

“ How strange you should be at Keaton tan-day l”

“ Not at all.’

“ We have a garden party here from the Grandi.
son,” she said.

“ Yes. I should not have come had I not seen
the advertisement in ,the newspaper,” he replied,
very coolly.

it But, you» "

“ Haven’t joined the party. Well-no—not at
present. It is hardly likely that I shall,” be ad-
ded; “a is getting we, and you will be soon so-
ing homeward.”

 

u Yes; but '1,“ did you come all this way it???” , 4 i

asked the curious girl. ~ R

Dudley did not answer at once, and hqwas sur-
prised to find that Zeph’s comrmwered
quickly for him, and very much u), g V . purpose.
There was no heating about the h with Carry
Saunders. She was six-and-twenty,had danced for

“I have not forgotten,” she said. Then lb.

  
 

t.‘ ,{‘<,:‘

 

.Iéotvuswaaxri I , ‘ 1  ’ .
.1 I A 1 f U. ,'

   
 

~a4-.. f’v" " 2 ‘t;

POOR ZEPH.

 

 

yeiirs at the Grandison, and knew human life to!-
erabiy well. 0

“ What’s the good of asking that silly question,
Zeph ‘2” she cried, half indignantly. “ You know all
about it as well as he does. You have planned
this between you. You can’t do me; I ain't a
fool! But you might have said you were going to
meet the entleman here, though.”

“ I ha: no appointment with the gentleman.
Really."

“ Upon my honor she had not,” added Dudley,
in her defense. '

“Ah! tell that to the marines,” said the skeptic-
al young woman. “ i know. I see it all. Well,"
with ahother burst of laughter, “ I won't tell Ben
a word about it, only don’t be long away, Zeph, or
there will he the fat in the fire, and no mistake.”

And away scuttled Carry Saunders from them,
heeding not Zeph’s entreaty for her to remain.
Zeph turnedquickly to Dudley and said:

“I will bid you good~day; must go after her."
“ I will not detain you more than a minute.“
“I must go," said Zeph, in evident confusion.
“ You are afraid of me, then ?” he asked.

“Oh, no l It takes a great deal to frighten
me,” she said, with her old crispness; “ but I
would rather go, please.” _

Dudley was annoyed at the girl's anxiety to be
unit of him. The vanity that was at the bottom
of his heart was piqued considerably, and he said:

“You might spare me a few minutes’ sober con-
versation, young lady, after my coming all this way
in search of you."

“In search of rue—really ? You i" and the
blue eyes opened wider and wider in their aston-
ishment, and the fair cheeks took a deeper tinge
of crimson into them.

“ Yes. I thought I should like to see you again,”
he confessed.

“But I might not have been here, after all. It
was a chance. Father did not like my coming.”

“ He is a wiser father than I thought he was,"
said Dudley, dryly; “ but you have a will of your
own ‘2”

“ Yes, I have.”

' “ And there was an attraction here that you
could not withstand."

“Perhaps there was—perhaps there wasn‘t,"

said she, saucil .

“ Ben the he oved ?”

“Ben, indeed !“ and the maize and white hat was
tossed to and fro with a disparaging movement that
would have seriously wounded the‘ feelings of the
absent plumber.

'f Well, have you enjoyed the holiday ?" inquired
Dudl y.

“ ery much. I work too hard not to enjoy be.

' ing out in the country."

“ You are going to the ball in the evening ?”

“Of course I am."

“ You‘ll kill yourself with pleasure, and there‘ll
be an end of yOu,” Dudly remarked.

“ I don’t care to live very long,” was the strange
hswerfi‘ I don’t want to grow old."

“ Why not ?”

" Nobody will care for me when I am old.”

“ Ben will, if you treat 'Ben well," said Dudley.

Zeph stamped her foot impatiently at this further
introduction of Ben‘s name into the discourse, and
almost frowned when Dudley laughed at her vehe-
mence.

“ I wish you would not talk of Ben," she cried:
“ he has nothing to do with you."

i“ No; Heaven be praised l"

“ And I haVen’t time to stay any longer."

“ Thank you for staying at all, Zeph. May I
say/Zeph ?” he asked. '

“ No, you .mayn’t. It‘s like your impudence.”

“ You are not angry because I came all this way
to see you i” he inquired. -

“ You never did." '

“I did, indeed.”

“ I ought to be very much flattened," she said,
looking down. “ What did you want to see me
for t"

“Whatdoeaamangoout of his wayto see.

.  pretty girl for, as a rule i" asked Dudley.

‘ I an’t may," she arawyhemd,“dd with‘ her blue eyes
N - men are crea urea. '
“mlmndtoaskyouaquestion.”
‘Mm‘askod‘meadoaaaalreadyfi'

 

“ One more will make it a baker’s dozen, then,
Zeph.” .

“ What is it ?”

“ Why did you not come to meet me at the cor-
ner of Frisk Street on the Tuesday following the
night I saw you at the Grandison ‘3” he inquired.

“ Were you there?” she asked, curiously.

it Yes.”

“ Really, now 1‘"

“ Really.“ '

She blushed, looked down, laughed, looked up
at him again with a full, steady light in her eyes,
and said :

ii Yes-VI

“ Why did I not meet you ?"

“Because I thought afterward it was not right.”

“ You did think of it again?"

“Oh, yes; for days. And then I made up my
mind I would not come,” she said.

“ Good girl—prudent Zeph,” replied Dudley.
“ Keep as wise as that, child, to the end of your
days, and you will be safe from all danger."

“ You are a nice one to preach i" said Zeph,
laughing. “Did you wait long for me ‘3"

“ An hour."

“ Poor man i" said she, with mook commiseration;
“I wish I had said ‘No’ to you at the Grandi-
son."

“It is of no consequence,” replied Dudley.

“ But it was a dull, miserable night, wasn’t
it ?"

“ It was. But I saw Ben, and he made faces at
me."

“He never told me he had seen you," she said,
laughing. “I am sorry you waited for me, but it
would not have been right to come."

“All was for the best, I dare say.
did not even know me this afternoon."

“ Not at first. Who would have dreamed of
your being in this part of the world ?"

“There is no telling where I may turn up,"
he replied; “I am not accountable for my ac-
tions.”

“ Oh, good gracious !"-—with a pretty exhibition
of feigned alarm—“ let me get away from you at
once." _

“Perhaps I may look in at the Grandison this
evening."

“I wish you " .

Then she stopped, and he said, earnestly:

“ Go on."

“ No, thank you; I'd rather not."

“You should always finish your sentences," he
said, reprovingly.

“ Oh, should I i'"

“ And if you'll only say that you would not be
particularly sorry to see me at the ball, it is more
than possible that I shall come creeping in at a late
hour to say good-night to you."

“ How kind of you i" she cried, ironically ; “ but
I, sha’n’t say anything of the sort."

“ Very well."

“ There‘s the rooms," she said, half pettishly,
half flippuntly, “and if you want to see me, you
know where to find me. And if you don't—why,
you can do the other thing."

“Admirany argued,” he said, coolly; “I will
reflect upon the position.“

“ Good-afternoon, then."

“ Good-afternoon.” »

He extended his hand, and she placed hers with-
in it, and looked at him shyly again. For an in-
stant the thought crossed him that he would at-.
tempt to kiss her, and then something in her look
told him it would be a failure, and then he should
ofl'end her. It was not likely he should ever see
her again, he thought; here was the end of a
funny and singular kind of flirtation; he would
not hurt her feelings by any eccentricity of con-
duct. -

“Good-bye," he said.

“ Good-bye, sir," answered Zeph.

She went away among the bracken toward the
,revelers, looking back once at him and waving her
hand in return to his salutation before she disup.
peared among the trees. _

“ She's a curious girl," he-soliloquized, “ a nice
'rl certainly, and above her class altogether.
0w many a man would hunt that poor girl to

death—ea a moral death, if possible. What black-
deviluhere are inthis world, tom sure!

Why, you

 

 

 

on may for one-of them, if he were good~iookingi

and clever and young, to talkxthls semi-fast little
coach out of her honest sphere into wmg before
she knew where she was! Poor little Zeph—good-
bye to you i I wonder what Geraldine would think
of Dudley Grey talking to a pretty shop-girl on
Keston Common! I wonder what this world of
starch and decorum would say about the matter
altogether l“

 

CHAPTER III.
snitss’s sssarrr.‘

'I'na ball at the Grandison Remus was a brilliant
success. Mr. Smiles finished his season in a blaze
of triumph. There was hardly standing-room
among the crowd of patrons who flocked in to say '
good-bye to Smilw till next September. All the
ladies and gentlemen who had been toKeston, and
all the ladies and gentlemen whose various busi-
nesses had not permitted them to go to Keston, wen-
there on that particular evening to do honor tothe
proprietor, to wish him joy, to congratulate him
on pecuniary results, and to stand treat in “ sherry
wine," until the world to Smiles, on that festive
occasion, was steeped in sherry wine to the top-
most brim.

Little Zeph was the belle of the hall; every-
body acknowledged that fact without a mprmur.
She wore a new dress for the occasion, too—not
the book-muslin of the afternoon‘s garden party,
but a smart gray merino, triinmed with singlet,
and a new pair of the best lavender kid Me.
with scarlet satin bows at the wrists. She came
early, and danced till late; she was snapped  by
eligible partners: there was a corn-chandler and ‘
seedsman, who had a shop in the Tottenham Court
Road, and was doing well, and had only six grown-
up girls to take care of, who was so'extraordinari-
ly attentive to Zeph that it was seen very quickly
by perceptive contemporaries that “Budds was
caught,” and it was Zeph‘s fault if she did not
“ hook " him before the evening was over. Budds
was a friend of Smiles, and a cut above the Grand-
ison folks, take them in the lump. He had gone
to Keaton to oblige Smiles, and had come to the
ball to oblige Smiles, and drank a quantity of had
sherry to oblige Smiles, and fallen in love, head over
ears, with Zeph (‘arrington before he knew where
he was, or what marvels lqve and sherry together
could effect.

Zeph danced and laughed with the corn~chand-
ler, but kept him at a respectful distance, although
Ben, with whom she danced'also, took her to task
in his usual jealous fashion, and said she was"en-
couraging Old Budds, and that if Old Budds did
not behave himself better, he‘d be found welter-
ing in his gore before the evening was over. Zeph
laughed, and called him “a jealous pate,” and “ a
disagreeable fellow,” and flitted from one partner
to the other—a being full of light and life, whom
that long day’s holiday had brightened rather than
fatigued. If she had been very closely watched,
one might have imagined that she was a 'rifle too
restless and gay, and that, as the hours giided by,
she glanced several times during the dances toward
the entrance doors, as if half-expectant to find a
friend there, and half disappointed to miss him
among the crowd.

It was twelve o’clook when she caught sight of
him, and felt her cheeks burning strangely. He
had come, then; he had kept his word; he had
taken the trouble to find his way to the Grandiaen
especially to see her! She affected not to- be ‘
aware of his presence during the dance, and only
as she passed through the room afterward, leaning ',
on the arm of her partner—it was Budds again,
hot and short of breath and reeking—did she look
up, with as pretty an air of surprise as a West
End belle of half a dozen seasons might have done
under similar circumstances.

“ Good-evening,” said he, very calmly and grave-
ly, as he stopped her and her partner, and shook
hands with Zeph ; “I hepe you have enjoyedyoor
dance ?” J ’-

“ Very much, indeed, thank you." 

“i am in time for my waltz, I hope—thank you. .V ~

7-will you take my arm 9" he said, in .- breath, “
and befOre Zeph could mum.“ re-~ 
cover {mm the Mimi-n into M50 all-d been
thrown, Dudley Grey had Nib as prior
into the refreshment-room, ensconced her at 0-6

 

 

 

 

 

POOR ZEI'H.

 

of the tables, and was regarding her very thought-
fully.

“ What makes you look at me like that P" Zeph
asked, half frightened at his long and steady stare
at her.

“I am only wondering why you come here and
mix with these people.”

“ They are very nice people," said she, quickly
on defense again.

“ You are so much too good for the men here,
and so different from the women !” he said.

“ Oh, it’s very fine to tell me that nonsense.”

“ Upon my honor I mean it,” he said, earnestly;
“ I have been thinking seriously about it”

“ How good of you i"

“ And when you think seriously, too, if you ever
are troubled by a serious thought, Zeph,” he
added, “I hope you will arrive at the same con-
clusion."

“I don’t come here to think," said Zeph, “ but
to dance and enjoy myself. I have enough time
for troublesome thoughts over my work, and in
my dull home."

“ Is your home dull ?"

“ Yes, very.”

“I am sorry for that. I am— Who the
devil's this i" he muttered.

He had known who it was before the impious
exclamation escaped him. He had recognized Ben
before that sulky young man had 'sed him,
and dropped his lower jaw on his chest in his
astonishment at seeing him.

“Zeph,” Ben said, huskily, “ it's our dance. I
could not make out where you had got to."

“Don’t dance,” whispered Dudley; “ I want to
speak to you before I go.”

Zeph hesitated, colored, looked at the table, and
then at Ben.

“I am very tired, Ben," she said; “you must
let me of this dance, please."

“ That ain't fair, that ain’t."

“ You heard the lady tell you she was tired,”
said Dudley, in a haughty tone; andBen stared
at the speaker, and then ooked away from him

to Zeph.

“ She needn‘t come if she don’t like,” he growl-
ed forth.

“ Then I don’t like,” said Zeph, positively.

“ All right; that's English,” was Ben’s reply, as
he walked away with his hands in his pockets, and
his head thrown very much back.

. “I am afraid we were rather hard on Ben," said
Dudley, with mock gravity.

“He never will take ‘ No’ for an answer.”

“ You are very kind to give up a dance with
him to oblige me,” Dudley added.

“You need not flatter yourself I did that,” said
Zeph, standing her ground at every point still; “ I
don’t like dancing with Ben.”

“You will tell me next you don't like Ben him-
self.”

“ I can’t bear him—sometimes."

“ Ah! sometimes; but then the other times ?”

“He’s noth to me at any tillage," said) Zelp‘iy,
patbhl. “ atdoyoukeepta nga ut n
for? What—what do you want to say to me be-
fore you go?"

was silent at this appeal. He hardly
knew what he wanted to as , or knowing it, he
hardly dared to say it. On t e misty border-land
separati intentions from selfishness, irres-
olution, an this new wild fancy heating at his
11 he hesitated strangely.
1 “ on are making game of me 1” cried Zeph, in-
digaantly.

“ my honor I am not,” he replied. “ Why
shouldp‘lnI come here to ‘ make game’ of you ?”

“ I don’t know,” she answered; “ I can’t under-
stand you.”

“ It is easily seen why I come to this place. ’

“ No, it is not. Why 9"

She met his gaze steadily for a while, but her
blue eyes drooped at last.

“You ask me that question i” he said.

v « tofu."

te'hm you.» .

'0 It’s all very fine to tell me that,” replied Zeph,
laughinglsery loudly; “I wonder how many girls
you have s'aid'fiat' to in the last five years, new?”

“ Not to one."

“ Oh, you story-tellcr i" cried Zeph.

  

 

“ For what reason do you think I have come to
this den i?" he exclaimed.

“It’s not a den,” said Zeph, “and I don’t be-
lieve you come to see me, because"

“ Well, because ?”

“ I sh'n’t tell you," cried Zeph, coloring again ;
“ I have altered my mind.”

“ Did I not tell you this afternoon that you had
a very bad habit of cutting your sentences in half Y”
said Dudley. “Now please finish this one, for I
am very curious. Why did I not come here to see
you ?"

“ Well, then ”

“ Go on," he said, as she paused again.

“ You would have come a little earlier if you
wanted to talk to me," she condescended to ex-
plain.

“ I have been very busy this evening-I could
not get away,” he said; and Zeph shook her head
incredulously at his reply.

He could not tell her that he had made up his
mind not to see her again; that he had scoffed at
his own fancy, his own wild wish to meet her-—
his own bad taste almost—until Frank Amoorc
had looked him up at his chambers, and barred
the way, as it were, to the Grandison, and then he
had fretted and fumed until his friend had gone
and left him free to act. This was the result of
his freedom ; a mad plunge after a pretty face, an
insane desire for half an hour‘s flirtation with a
milliner—the forging of one more link in a chain
the heaviness of which he never dreamed of then.

Heaven alone knew what there was in this
half-taught, half-fearless girl to lure his sober self
to a tenth-rate dancing-room; but he felt there
was a spell upon him, and that it was beyond his
power to account for it. He was ashamed of be-
ing there; he was amazed at the company by
which he was surrounded. He was a man who
had mixed much in society, and had met hundreds
of pretty and clever women with whom he might
have flirted, had he cared to do so, and to whom
he had been pleasant and courteous only, and yet
this girl was a fascination despite himself and
herself. Ay, there was the rub; Zeph Carring-
ton did not encourage him. The flaunty, fast
style of the ordinary shop-girl was not there, only
a curious independent frankness that puzzled him,
that defied him, that looked down upon him and
his efforts to impress her, that seemed to say:
“ My world is as good as your world, and you don't
frighten me with the grandeur of the sphere from
which you have descended.” She piqued him by
her independence, but she drew him on almost
unwillingly toward her.

It was one o’clock, and the band was playing
its last galop.

“ Shall we wind up the evening with a dance ?”
he said, suddenly.

“ Just to show that you are not above present
company,” replied Zeph, archly, as she rose.

“ Just to render this night memorable to me,”
he said, in a tone that startled her, as she took
his arm and walked to the ball-room, at the door
of which she stopped.

“ Oh, my 1" she exclaimed, “I am afraid I prom-
ised Mr. Budds."

“ Never mind that fellow. You will dance with
him all the rest of the year, perhaps," he said;
and then they were whirling round the room in a
galop, and Mr. Budds, after watching them fora
while with his thumb-nail between his teeth,
dashed at the brown sherry again, and overdid it
with four more glasses, and rendered life a blank
till the boy took the shutters of the shop down
next day, and found him on the parlor rug, with
his widowed head against the fender.

Long before that time Zeph Carrington and
Dudley Grey were standing in the street together,
and the revelers were streaming from the entrance
and going their various ways. Zeph was cloaked
and hooded, and Dudley hoped that she would not
catch cold.

“ Not 1," she said. “ Good-night.”

“ I am going your way," he said.

“No, thank you.” ~ ‘

“ Part of your way is my way," he said.

“ I would prefer it was not,” was her reply.

“ Are you going home alone ?” he in aired.

“i have notfar to go," she rep' . “I am
used to being alone. You must not come with me,
please,” she added. very firmly now.

 

 

 

“ Ben'is going your way, perhaps,” Dudley said,
severely. “ You would not say ‘No,’ to But."

“Ben knows father, who is sitting up forms.
Ben is a friend of mine." ‘

“ And I am not i”

“ Why, of course not."

“ But I may be presently.”

“Not very likely.”

“You will l0 give me a chance,” he urged;
“ you keep me at arms-length, and—and I long to
see you again.”

“ Oh i don’t say that,” she cried.

“ Will you meet me this time—cannot I see you
to-morrow ‘2"

it No."

“Next Saturday, now that this—place is to 
shut, thank God.”

Zeph laughed merrily, but did not reply.

“You are frightened of me; on can’t trust.
me," he said reproachfully.

“ I’m not easily frightened, and,” she added, “I
can trust you, I think.”

“ Well, promise to meet me here next Saturday,
for half an hour only if you like.”

“Oh! it isn’t right.”

“ Where is the harm ? I wouldn’t harm you for
the world,” he said.

“ I don‘t think you would—even if you could,”
Zeph added confidently.

“ Then you’ll meet me ?"

“ Very well, then. Yes.” '

“ And you will not break your word this time?"

It No."

“ Thank you ; it is a compact. Good-night.”

He left her and strode towards his chambers,
rejoici for a while. As he neared home his heart.
sank a ittle, and he thought over again that he
was acting like a fool and a villain. No, not a
villain. God forbid that! but undoubtedly v.7
like a fool. ‘

 

CHAPTER IV.
Lovr IN .1 FOREST.

Zsrn Came-ion kept her word on this occao
sion, and met Dudley Grey. It was the beginning of '
a new life to both of them, and yet of an old story
which happens every day. Flirtations of this
character spring up with each turn of the hand
upon the dial, and comedy, farce, burlesque, and
tragedy result therefrom—the tragedy most often,
judging by the paian horrors of our streets. This"
was the beiinning of a tragedy too, after its kind,
though neit er guessed at the shadows in advance,
and there was not a thought of evil at the heart of
man or woman. Each went forward alike blindly,
a little recklessly, thinking not of the morrow or
of the consequences of this ill-assorted acquaint
anceship. The woman was young, and vain, and
trusting, and the man was full of adventure and
without gulls. Neither had known what tempt»
tion was or what love was in real earnest, and

both came to be friends, and to keep their

strange friendship a secret froma world which
would not have believed in them for an instant.
Their first meeting was a stroll in the Mall till
dusk, and an early parting; their second was to
the theatre, where the proud Dudley Grey sat
quietly by the side of little Zeph at the hack of
the pit, where never a friend of his was likely to
discover him. Zeph would only go to the pit
with him, where she had been with her father,
and with Ben too, and which was quite good
enough for her, she said; and be admired her
frankness, and smiled at her intense enjoyment
of the play and players. The girl’s pleasure m
everything that appertained to the amusements
of life was a marvel to' one on whom public
amusements had palled somewhat. She was a
child in her love for the stage;for a while she
would forget her new friend in the mimic world
before her, turning only to him at the end of an
act with, “Isn’t it beautiful i” and wondering
sometimes at his gIOOmy. absent looks. By 0‘-
esshecametothink of him asafriend—mt
as friend who took her out a great deaii Iii
spent a greatdeal of money upon hes-rimm-

. mafia“; p , as a superior beiq,‘ w
but very us, in whom any , gee
might be p ‘ , Who was a swan-

anyone whom she had ever met, who was surely

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POOR ZEPII.

 

in love with her, and would tell her so on some
happy “outing” ther, and end the story by
asking her to be is wife. He was above her
sphere, she knew, but girls married out of their
sphere in books and plays, from which real life
was sketched, and she was pretty, and he was
fond of her. She was a lucky girl, she thought.
He did not ask any questions concerning her
father—a stolid, indifferent man, with a supreme
faith in Zeph’s being able to take care of herself.
Zeph earned her own living, and paid her share of
the rent, and Mr. Carrington was not at home too
much to notice what time his daughter spent away
from it; if he had, he would not have been curi-
ous; it was not his way. She was a shrewd, care-
ful little woman, was his Zeph, God bless her.
Ben Travers came and worried him about his
daughter; wanted to discover where she went
twice or thrice a week, and with whom, and he
told him to ask Zeph if he wished to know, which
he did, and was told, somewhat pertly, to mind his
own business—which he did, too, as well as a man
was able who had set his heart on having Zeph
for a wife.

And Dudley Grey—what were the feelings of
this eccentric individual, when Zeph Carrington
had become his companion and friend, and there
was aterrible pleasure in her society, a novelty
that time did not stale, an attraction that a close
intimacy did not tend to diminish? lie was
ashamed of his own weakness, but not of Zeph.

h was always well dressed, and looked a quiet
little lady; she was brisk and full of vivacity—
by degrees, as she became his friend, her faculties
of observation set much of her grammar right,
restored all her h’s to their rightful places, did
away with all the odd words and slangy phrases
common to shop life, shop companions, and the
back streets who-sin her life had been cast. He
would not have owned it to himself at that time,
he would still have considered it a silly flirtation,
but at the end of three months there was a‘
powerful and indomitable feeling in his heart
towan the girl he had picked up in a dancing-
room. He would not have called it love, but
it was. He would never let the world have the
laugh at him by say’mg that a milliner had up-
set all the sober calculations of his life, but
she had; he could not tell a single friend how she
stood between him and his studies, the bar he had
been «had to, the book he was writing, the friends
at Ma club, and, above all, the woman to whom he
was to be married. Yes, that was the tri-
al of this weakling, who meant no harm, but who
could not see his way clearly to any good now. If
it had not been for Geraldine de Courcy (niece and
possibly heiress to the Countess of Bareblades), a
woman whom he thought he had loved once, being
only two years older than himself, good-looking, and
with expectations—oh! if it had not been for Ger.

of whose existence poor Zeph was unaware!

He felt that he dared not tell the work-girl of the
heiress-—Zeph would ask too many questions, and
sift out too quickly the truth—forever away from
Zeph must be the story of that engagement, even
the knowledge of his own position in the world.
He was playing an unworthy part, and not always
with success. He liked Zeph to think him a poor
and struggling barrister, rather than a man with
some property of his own—all his great, grand
friends were kept in the backgronnd, away from
any conversation on which they might intrude, and
it was only now and then that a chance word
betrayed him, and rent the veil between Zeph Car-
n and his own world of which she knew so

but guessed more than he gave her credit for.

When it came upon him, late in the autumn,
that he was really in love with this girl, when her
work-life had become a torture to him, and he
writhed at her anecdotes of business, and of the
coarseness and tyranny of her employers, when
everything she said had power to move him, when
the fact of her meeting Ben in the streets or at

her home, irritated and maddened him, when he be-

came jealous of workmen and corn-chandlers, and
could think of nothing but this girl, when he
beam aware that there was love for him in her
hurt too, and that she seemed only happy in his
' y, the truth dismade him, though he tried
monument it with by.
i It was in lpplng Forest when that truth came
am to the foreground, is the dry autumn weath-

 

 

P

 

er, before the rain and cold and set in. They had
gone away together-it was Zeph’a last holiday,
the fourteenth day of the fortnight that Messrs.
Dapper, Dangler, and Smart had accorded to her.
It had been arranged that they should spend the
holiday in the country : Zeph had perfect faith in
her companion now, and would have gone to the
end of the world with him, and the woodland at
Snaresbrook and Fail-mead had been her idea of
England’s scenery, when her mother was alive,
and took her to the forest in a spring van along
with father, and a gallon stone jug, and a noisy
gang, who sang all the way there, and quarrelled
all the way home. Our young couple had talked
of a picnic together for weeks, but. Dudley had
only mustered up courage for the adventure at
last. Zeph had not seen any reason for consid-
eration or hesitation‘faith having been once
established between them, the “ proprieties,” the
usages of polite or impolite society, had never
troubled her again. Dudley was her “young
man,” who took her out and respected her when
she was out, and having placed confidence in him,
it was illimitable. She’did not know any rule that
should stop her going anywhere with Dudley Grey,
and she went to Epping Forest as she would have
gone to a play or concert, without a thought of the
etiquette that should govern the proceeding. That
Epping excursion was a day of wonderful happi-
ness to them both. To begin with, the Joy and
excitement of Zeph raised the spirits of Dudley
Grey—who had become overthoughtful of late days
—-and the world was very bright on that especial
occasion. They were boy and girl rather than man
and woman; the old forest echoed with their
laughter and with the music of Zeph‘s voice. Dud-
ley forgot Zeph was a milliner, with a father who
lived down a back street and went to a foundry
eve day; he forgot Geraldine dc Courcy, he for-
got e was engaged to be married—forgot every-
thing but his supreme satisfaction in Zeph’s so-
ciety, and that respect for Zeph which he had ever
scrupulously shown her.

It was a bright, warm autumn day, with a re-
membrance of summer in it, and they had the great
green forest to themselves after they had wandered
out of the beaten track into the by-paths and
underwood. It was Arcadia, with the troubles and
responsibilities of life set back in that outer world
to which this odd pair no longer belonged. It was
a world set apart from “ bonnet building " and
“ cap trimming " to the one, from the dry study of
law-books to the other. It was a holiday, each
thought, to be marked by a white stone.

And then the picnic for two, provided by Dud-
ley, and brought to Epping in a bass basket. The
cold fowl, the slices of ham, the French rolls, the
salad, the Champagne, and the fun over the difli~
culties of disposing of all these, the jests and
laughter and bewildering joy in each other’s so-
ciety, constituted a happiness such as they never
had again in all their thoughtless lives.

It was five o’clock in the afternoon when they
talked of making their way to the railway sta-
tion, when Zeph looked up at the sky with sur-
prise.

“It will soon be dark, Dudley; let us get to-
ward home.”

“Let me finish my cigar, Zeph, and sing to me
again before we go,” he said.

She looked attentively at him.

“ Why, how sad you are, all of a sudden l”

“I am feeling sad,” he confessed, moumfully.

“Have I said anything to offend you? I—I
know I am sharp at times, and rude and saucy,
but you ought to understand me now. What is
it ?”

“ Nothing, Zeph,” he answered; “ only a fit of
the blues, from which Isui'fer occasionally. Will
you forgive me ?”

“ What have I to forgive i”

“ I don’t think it was quite fair of me to bring
you here," he confessed.

“ Why not '2”.

“ You are younger than I. People would say I
was a scamp and a villain—and that you were very
foolish.”

“I don’t care what people say,” " replied Zeph,
with the old toss of her pretty hes , “if it isn’t
the truth." -

“But these good folk can make what is false

 

look so like the truth that the world Judges in-
ternally harshly of the situation.”

“ l—l don’t quite understand,” she said, timidly;
“ you are so strange to-day !”

“ This is a day for me to remember for all time.
Has it been a happy day for you, Zeph ?”

“ Yes, she confessed, frankly ; “'oneof the hap-
piest of my life.”

“ It has been one of the happiest of mine, and
yet I wish it had never been.”

Zeph looked hard at him again.
manner was new to her.
misery, in his face.

“Tell me what you are thinking about.
this is a novelty to me. Dudley.”

“ Supposing this was the last day you and I
were ever to meet, would you be sorrory ?" he ask-
ed suddenly.

“ The last day—we were ever to meet !" she
echoed, and all the color died out from her face,
and left her white and cold and hard. '

“ Yes—would you be sorry?”

She did not answer for an instant; then one
said, very proudly and quietly.

“ Not if you wished it."

“ You could say ‘ Good bye’ willingly .9”

“More than willingly—if you could," she an-
swered, in the same sharp tone.

“ I never implied I could say this willingly,”
he remarked ; “ but it might be better for us both,
before ”

He did not finish the sentence, and she did not
ask him to do so. For a few more minutes they
sat together in silence; than he got up and offered
his hand to raise her. She did not take his hand,
but sprang to her feet without his mistance,
and they went on slowly together toward the high.
road.

“ You are quick to take ofiense, Zeph,” he said
at last.

“I am not offended,” she replied.

“ I think you are.”

“What have Ito be ofiended about .’" she in-
quired.

“Nothing,” he said; “and I did not mean to
give offense. I was thinking of you—and only of
you—not of myself, God knows.”

“ I have given up trying to comprehend you to-
day," said Zeph; “ please do not worry me by rid-
dies."

“ I am not fond of riddles, Zeph, but life has
become an enigma to me.” .

“Do you want me to understand that you are
tired of my company ?” she asked, very recenttfnlly
still ; “is that what you are driving at?” she added.
with her old phraseology coming to the front, as
she seemed to step suddenly toward her old life.

“ You are dearer to me to-day than you have
ever been," he burst forth with vehemencfi. and
then he was silent for her sake and his own.
Zeph anticipated that he would talk of love after
this, avow his attachment, and draw from hora
confession of the deep strong love she had for
him ; but he preferred to walk on moodilytobei ‘
frank and true and honest, as he should be. ll?
he really cared for her, he would surely speak
now—if he were not too grand and “stuck up ”
after all-—if he loved her as much as he had in-
duced her to believe from the attention which he
had paid her. He had led her by degrees to for-
get her own sphere and to neglect er friends;
he had given her a new existence and bri ht
hopes; he had sought her out and taken er
away from her “ set ;” he had taught her almost
by his manner to look down upon all the past
amusements of her life. He had rendered her a
prouder woman, she had thought even a hap-
pier, until this sudden turn had come, and she
had discovered there were clouds and doubts
about her, where she had looked for that eter;
nal sunshine which belongs never to this earth.
And yet those last words had brought the smiles
back to her lips and gladneesto her heart; he
could not hare been paving the way for a
tion or have. grown tired of her, to have said all
that so passionately and truthfully. He would peak
presently perhaps ; meanwhile she wastoomud &
girl to betray any-ofthat anxiety whichinhhoart
she naturally felt. For it had come to pass Min
the heart of hearts of poor Ze 
ley Grsyhad Home ‘hr.   a

His mournful
There was regret, even

All

 

 

 

 

weak fond woman warships with all her soul, and
is crushed to the earth when it falls.

She was clever at disguise, however. No man
was likely to gue88 the depth of her feelings with-
out betraying his own clearly to her. She was not
going to state that she was in love with Dudley
Grey, if Dudley Grey had only thought of-her as a
passing acquaintance and a pleasant companion
for the nonce—not she, indeed. '

“ We must not have our holidaysend in doubt
and discord, Zeph," he said; “ this shouldbe a fair
one to the end."

“It is your fault if it is anything else."

“Then it shall be my fault no longer."

He put his arm around her and kissed her light-
ly on the cheek, , and Zeph did not shrink away
from his caress. When a young man takes a girl
out for the day, he 1“ pm ill-god to kiss her once or
twice; that is the rule of the society of which Zeph
was a distinguished ornament; and if Ben had
kissed her in the days gone by, why not the man
who had superseded Ben, and raidered him by
comparison almost a monster in her eyes?

Dudley essayed his light vein Tin, and Zeph
accorded his eflorts by laughing at is jests. They
were seemingly a light-hearted couple as they
walked along the highroad in the twilight toward
the railway station. Suddenly the spirit of mis-
chief, or that teasing spirit that is allied to
it, and is natural in a woman anxious to test her
power over the object of her affections, led Zeph to
ear.

“I have had a letter today, Dudley—from a
gentleman." , '

“0h, indeed l" and Dudley, too far gone in
love to appreciate a joke, became very glum on
the instant. “ And what does the gentleman

« say i”
“ Ah,_thatls a secret!"
“I did not think you had a secret from me,"
he said, reproachfully; “ but if you don't care to
tell me, I will not force your confidence."
“Cannot you guess who would write a letter
to me ?”
fl  ?"
at No.”
“That ass of a corn~chandler in the Tottenham
Court Road ?" -
“Oh, no i" said Zeph, laughing at the severity
of his criticism on the widower.
“I don’t know any more of your friends,” he
said, severely.
“ Hr. Smiles, then."
“ Who the devil is Smiles ?" he asked, almost
ferociously.
“Why, the principal of the Grandison Rooms,
to be sure."
“ What does he want 2’"
“I’ll .show you the letter if you wish, said
Zeph, submissively; for Dudley Grey’s amiability
had all vanished.
“If it is not private and confidential,” he re-
plied, aareastically. ~
Zeph took a letter from her pocket and gave it
him, and he read it in the dim light of the dying
day as he walked on by her side. It was a print-
ed circular announcing Mr. Smile’s intention of
opening the Grandison Rooms the first week in
October, and of his renewed endeavors to promote
the comfort and pleasure of his patrons, and to
render his rooms a pattern of that respectability
and decorum for which they had been always dis-
tinguished while under his management. At the
‘bottom of the circular—and here was the sin and
:; evous oflense which, in the eyes of Dudley
., ray Mr. Smiles had committed—was written in
lead l: “I reckon upon you for the opening
night. I can promise you heaps of nice young
men for prtners. Don't fail to come next Satur-
day—E. 8."
, “I did not know the cad favored you with these
.‘ amiliar postscripts," Dudley said, coldly, as he re-
tumd the letter to her.
Zeph’s lip quivered, and her eyes brimmed
with‘tears, but she answered with the old quick-
nose:
Q “Yes, the cad does sometimes.”

“ .’e like his infer-ml impudenoe."

“It is an older friend than you are,” she re-
“ ‘

 KWaMeodto‘bepeeud le,red-

H

'Don‘t cry.

 

of! a litt
W," at“ Dudley, sav- yet.

K.

POOR} ZEPH.

agely—“a starveling who can scarcely keep soul
and body together by the profits of his semi-moral
establishment.”

“ You have no right to run the place down,"
cried Zeph, indignantly; “where you have been
yourself—where you met me first—where. you know
I go.”

“ Where I hope you will never go again, Zeph.”

“I don’t see why I should not,” she answered.

“It is not fit for you."

“ There is no harm in it."

“ It is n disreputable den," cried Dudley.

“ I have spent many a happy evening in it."

“ At the expense of the 'good opinion of your
neighbors, and at the risk of your character,"
said Dudley.

“ What i" cried Zeph, looking indignantly into
his face, and then turning away and covering her
own with her two hands. A moment’s silence, a
few more steps along the highroad, and then a
passionate outburst of weeping, which bore away
every atom of forced composure on her side, and
of self-restraint on his. All his ill feeling and
uncharitableness vanished, and a deep concern for
her and her grief took possession of him. He
had never seen her give way before; he had
thought her hard to impress, a charming girl, but
defiant, and cool, and clever.

“ Zeph, my dear Zeph, don't cry.”

But Zeph, once subdued, could not restrain her
tears very easily. Her pride had been mortified,
his harsh words had cut into her heart, and
showed how he despised her and her ways, and
was prepared to sneer at and heap contumely upon
everyone and everything with which her past life
had been associated. She had almost thought
herself of late days above the glories of the
Grandison Rooms and the triumphs of the Gran.
dison season, for the men were not like Dudley,
and talked difi'erently, and seemed of another and
a lower world altogether. But it was crucl of
him to attack her thus mercilessly, to wound her
and her pride, to think her life immeasurably be-
neath his own, and tell her so, as a wind-up to
the bliss of their holiday.

“I might have expected this,” she sobbed; “I
have been waiting for you to insult me in this
way; I have been a fool altogether.”

“ My dear Zeph, I did not mean to insult you,”
he cried; “ I—l could not endure the thought of
you going to those rooms again, and mixing with
the people there; you are too good for them.
I was jealous. Ilove you, and can’t
bear this any longer.”

He put his arms round her, and‘kissed her tears
away, and Zeph suffered herself to be caressed
and consoled. The truth had escaped in a wild
moment of excitement, and he had told her that
he loved her! He did not say anything more, he
did not grow eloquent concerning his love, as the
heroes always did in the penny numbers she read;
but the confession had escaped him, and a feeling
of immeasurable content was at the bottom of her
full young heart. The man loved her, and though
she cried still, and he still essayed to sooth her,
they were tears of happiness now, born of his
avowal.

They walked quietly to the station, even grave-
ly, as if they had entered on a new phase of exist-
ence in which they understood each other more
completely, and regarded the fixture—their future
—with reverence and awe. They were lovers from
that hour, Zeph considered, and there were no
more secrets and half oonfidences to follow that
day. In the lottery of woman’s life, which has its
aim and end in happy marriage, Zeph had drawn a
prize, and she was proud of it. Why should she
disguise her feelings, now that he had told her that
he lovod her? There was not much lightness or
brightness over the rest of the journey home;
Dudley was very thoughtful, and Zeph was content
to sit quietly at his side, with her hand clasped in
his. There was very little conversation exchan
between them; but Zeph was happy in her silence,
and glad to think for herself.

When they were nearing Fenchurch Street. she
add. in a low voice, “ May I an all to father,
Dudley ?"

Dudley came back from dream-world, and said,
quickly, “ No, no; don't tell your father anything

 

w ~3-

“ He knows I have come to Epping with ‘lt
friend.”

“ A male friend ?"

H y'es." I

“ What did he say ?”

“ Oh, very little.
self, I know, Zeph,’ he said, ‘but I should like to
hear a little more of this new friend of yours, for
sill that.’ Now if I could tell him to-night, and
make him almost as happy as myself ‘3" ‘

“Tell him what ?”

“ Oh, you know," said Zeph, blushing, “ for you
have not been making fun of me, surel l”

“ No, Zeph,” he answered, “there no fun in
all this. We have passed out of the region of
flirtation into grave facts and earnest truths. But
I must think it carefully over—I have a greatrdeal
on my mind, girl."

“ Will you have any secrets from me ?” she
asked.

“ Not any—presently."

“ Will you tell me next time we meet ?"

“ Yes; next time, then.”

“ 0h, Dudley, I am dreadfqu happy now," she
whispered. “ I have been anxious and miserable
at times, and you have been often—oh ! so strange.
It has been so very, very hard to try and under.
stand you."

“ How was that ?"

“ You have been dull and thoughtful, and then
so full of fun and—and affection—like a mah who
did not know whether he cared for me or not,” she
explained. ‘

“ Ah ! I knew how much I cared too well, Zeph,” '
he replied. ' *

From Fenchurch Street to the back streets of
Soho in a hansom cab , and then the parting It
the corner of the street where Zeph’s father lived.

“ Good-night, dear.” ‘

“Good-night, Dudléy,” she answered; “ I willi
not go to the Grandison any more. Never any
more !"

“ That‘s right—thank you ; there’s a good Zeph," '
he cried. ' ‘

“And I never meant to go, really,” she added,
“ because you have always looked so cross when
I have spoken of the rooms to you. You will for?
give my Worrying you about them tc-day, Dudley,
won‘t you 5’"

“God bless you, child—yes.”

Ile stooped and kissed her, as he might have kiss.
ed alittle child even; and then he bade her “ GoOd-'
night ” again and hurried away. With every ‘
from her his heart grew heavier with self-
and sclf—abasement, and the darkness on his path
became denser and more heavy. To the end of
all this—so lightly and carelessly begun, as it had
been—the barrister did not see his way.

 

. CHAPTER v.
‘ IRRIIISOI.(“WON'Tr

Had Dudley. G_rey, barrister at law, been like un.
to most men, this story need not have been written,
or its sequel might easily have been guessed.
There is nothing new in a chance acquaintance, a
man wandering out of his sphere to make love, and
a. poor girl flattered into indiscretion, perhaps into

destruction. These are the passing events of a '

great city, the eternal shadows of the streets after
the gas is lighted and the work of the day is
over. _
We have attempted an analysis of the feelings
of Dudley Grey and Zeph Carrington, because both
man and woman were ordinary mortals “with a
difference." If they met and made love as then-
sands had done before them, without any heed to
the codes of society, they were not able to regard
it as a jest, or to part as easily as they had met,
with no one the worse for the acquaintanceship.
Dudley Grey, with whom we have particularly todo
in this chapter, was tortured or blessed with a con-

sed science. He was a mun who knew he was on the '

wrong road, and who made one or two faintet.
forts to retrace his steps, and ‘
altogether in his secret courtship. M
he knew would have. treated this matter ,
and laughingy, as a mere jest at which}th
have expected a girl like Zeph to laugh y
would not have believed in Zeph any "  ' 0y.
 have expected her—if she  ;, ' (“its

 
 
   

‘You can take care of your- '

    
 

 

w:

 

 

  
   
   
      

R0 013 ZEPH.

 

  

fool—to believe in them ; and they would have
’ turned away from her at a moment’s notice, or
‘ without 'a moment's notice, and hardly given her
another thought to their lives’ end. Fresh faces,
new flirtatious, and the world only a merry-go-
round, with no time to think of the troubles and
aching hehrts and bitter disappointments of a few
in the great crowd.

Dudley Grey was new to the business. He had
been a studious youth; he had been always proud
and reserved; he had become engaged early in life
too. lady whom he knew respected, and whom he
fancied that he loved, until this wild, strange pas-
sion had mastered him and shown him what love
was. He knew now that his parents and friends
had prompted him to this engagement, had told
him what a ood thing it was to secure the affec~
tions of Gerafidine de Courcy, a stately, high-born
being, who would bring him fifteen hundred a year
as a started, and whose expectations were won-
derful. He was a lucky dog to hit the fancy of
HissDe Oourcy, every body said, and as she was a
beautiful woman and only two years his senior,
he had never repined at his fate, or seen anything
to pine at until his philosophy was upset by a shop-

' l.‘
811.‘erat. was to be done now it was difficult to say.
A He had gone of his own free will into temptation;

he had meant no evil; he had been attracted by the
face and manner of a woman whom he thought it
would be easy to say good-bye to when he pleased ;
and the woman had turned to him with her whole
heart, and believed in him with a force and passion
which had 'changed the whole tenor of his life.

What was to be done? He thought of the
whole position in his chamber night after night,

‘ v day after day, with his work at a stand-still, and

his brain oppressed by the truth. There were
‘ two'good women in his mind, and he must break
the heart of one of them—whose should it be?
He was pledged to the lady; his interests, his fu-
ture position in the world, his honor were at stake
here; but he dzd not love Geraldine de Courey any
longer. In .her presence he felt that he was a
hypocrite, weighed down by a lie as big as a mill-
_ston’e. And yet he Would fling to the winds all

'- ahis chances if he married Zeph Carrington; his

friends would laugh at him, everybody would
laugh at him—one or two, like Frank Amoore,
would ‘pity him for being such a fool. And Zeph
would not makehim a oodwife possibly; and Zeph’s
relations and frien sl Great Heaven! to be
d ‘ ‘ down to companionship with them, and
to ave for a father-in-law a man who was earning
thirty-live shillings a week at a foundry: To be
poor ailhis life for the sake of a delusion of this
kind—a delusion which would fade and leave him
the victim of a mesalliance—no, it must not be.
He was fond of Zeph, he knew; but he did not
know how terribly fond of this quaint little girl
he had become until he had made up his mind to part

‘ ' with_her, to wean himself by degrees from the spell

of her companionship. He was wrenching himself
away from his better self in the effort, now that
the, girl looked up to him as to a demi-god, and

' , valued him at a higher rate than he deserved.

This task of drop ing off by de ees—so easy an
operation to men 0 the world,wor dly, to men of the
town,townly—was a giant’s task to Dudley Grey,and
beyond his moral strength. He awoke to the
consciousness of his own weakness by degrees;

' .- thetears' in hph’s eyes, the tremor in her voice,

, at a chance word, or something that suggested a
, suspicion of a sh ht, the exuberance of spirits
- when he was his 01 self, and looked as if he loved

her, all told upon him, and kept him’ irresolute.

He could not make her unhappy while she trusted

in him—he dared not tell her yet that he was unde-
' serving of her trust. Wait a while he must.

' Since the expedition to Epping Forest she had
altered very strangely, too; there was hardly an
atom’s worth of resemblance to the bright, pert
little_woman whom he had “ chuffed " at the Gran-
dleon Booms} She was a tiirft“a then, {81111) of admi-
ration. r lorexcitement a r wor ours, see.
ing  in home, but findi her amuse-
ments out’ot lt—a “fly-away” girl w om chance

‘ -, tensor , . to ruin, according to the
l, clusflld‘intinfluenced her life. glow
’ she ‘ ‘a thoughtffil, earnest being, proud of her

, y and mum of love for it, thinking of
" lilo inl lavetln manwho hadmade

 

up his mind to st away from her, and young and
innocent enoug to believe in him implicitly. She
was so terribly happy in this half engagement that
he became afraid of her, and with every meeting
it was a greater difficulty to close his heart against
her. If he had not been, fool enough to fall in
love with her, he thought, it would have been an
easy task to frame a plan of eternal separation;
but she had become bound up with his life, with
his heart-strings, and the ordeal was almost be.
yond his strength. Yet he must leave it to time;
he could do nothing hastily and cruelly, he rea-
soned, meaning, perhaps, that he could not part
with little Zeph yet awhile. '

To a girl more suspicious or less trustl'ul than
Zeph Carrington, the actions of her lover might
have suggested many grave doubts. They met al-
ways in secret. He shunned hbr home and her
father. It was understood, she thought, that for
a while, and for “family reasons,” nobody should
know what intimate friends they had become; all
the truth was to follow presently, and when Bud.
ley gave the signal to let in the brightness of her
life upon the mistyland wherein she stood with
him. He did not talk of the future in this way;
on the contrary, he carefully avoided any allusion
toit now; but Zeph read it for herself, and thought
she saw the end veryclearly. She was afraid of
his family and his friends; she knew they would
look down upon her always, and think the worst
of her that they could; and there was romance in
all this secrecy and mystery, and she, poor child,
was very young. This man was her first love,
and he had come from a world of which she
knew nothing. She would keep the secret for his
sake; he surely knew what was best, and she was
certain that he was very fond of her. If 'he had
been “ shamming,” she would have known it in an
instant, as awoman generally knows the true from
the false in matters of this kind, and the Very
strength of his love for her added to the force of
the delusion which deceived her His fits of sad-
ness were even in his favor, for in her presence
there came stern feelings of remorse, which only
her smiles could chase away. If he were dull, he
had been worried by his family, she thought;
somebody had been trying to persuade him to an
expedition that would separate them for a time;
somebody had seen them together, perhaps, and
had been too curious with his questions.

Some one did come face to face with them at
last. Theywere strolling home together from the
theatre, where he toolr her very often for his own
distraction's sake now, more than for her amuse-
ment, when they came face to face with Frank
Amoore. The young lllilll looked from Dudley to
Zeph, nodded to his friend, looked keenly at Zeph
again, and passed on.

“ Who is that ?" she asked.

“A friend of mine.”

“I have seen him‘ somewhere," said Zeph.
“Why, he came to the Grandison with you the
first night we ever met l"

“Yes, that’s right, Zeph.
have i"

Frank Amoore proved that he had a good mem-
ory also—one of those memories which are ex-
tremely objectionable to other folk at times. Dud-
ley found him at the gate of Clement’s Inn, wait-
ing for him later on in the night.

“Frank i" he exclaimed; “what are you doing
here ‘2” '

“Waiting for you,” was the grave answer.

“Is anything the matter 1”

“I have been to the Bareblades.”

“ Geraldine is not ill ?"

“ No. But she expected you this evening. You
promised to be there."

“ I only half promised."

“Is it too late to have a talk with an old friend
in his room to-night i" asked, Frank, seriously.

“Oh, no,” answered Dudley, “if there is any-
thin of importance to communicate.” .

" ell, I think there is."

“ Come in, then."

What a memory you

CHAPTER VI.
a rarxnn‘s ormioit. ,
Dom: Gan guessed pretty correctly what

 

the Inn till his return. He knew the lecture that
was in store for him, andhow Prank Amoore would;
regard the position. He had lectured Frank in hie
day, proffered him wise counsel, talked a heap of
worldly wisdom to him, and now- it was the younger
man’s turn.

Dudley was unprepared, however, for the quick
dash at the subject when they were face to face in
his chambers, for the excitement of Amoore, for
the honest but hard plain-speaking which escaped
him. '

“ Dudley, I did not think until to-night," he
said, “ that you were the man to lead a woman to
ruin." ‘

Dudley turned red, then very white.

“ Neither am I," was his answer. '

“ If you have not gone to the bad, or dragged
that poor girl to the bad, you must be close upon
the brink, ’ said Frank; “and I am sorry to think
this of you after all the years of our acquaint-
ance." .

“ You are a true moralist," answered Dudley,
mockingly; “you allow nothing for “wanting
circumstances, for the romance of the poaitiu, for
a man seeking change or distraction out of the
narrow groove to which society confines him. You
are hard on me, flank; you should have known
me better."

“ I don’t seem to have known you at all," said
Frank, doubtingly. “ Yours is a character far be-
yond my comprehension.”

“ I have done no harm," was the reply. ‘1'

“ Yes, you have." L.

Dudley did not relish his friend's 
It was exceeding the limits of the friendship which
existed between them. Frank Amoore tookaview
of the position which it was not possible he could.
comprehend, and acted and spoke upon the sup.
positions he had himself created. Dudley was in 4
no mood to continue the argument. He was slow.
ly but surely feeling himslf 'eved; all the,
more surely, because he was conscious in his heart
of the weakness of his own defense. - >

“ Shall we dismiss the subject?" he said, coolly.
“Will you allow me to have my own opiniowin
this matter as well as yourself?”

Frank Amoore regarded him earnestly. Here
was a friend drifting rapidly away from the pro-
prieties, and he had no power to save him, after
all.

“ I should have been glad to talk this .over
with you,” he said, “to tell you about the Bare-
blades, and what they say and think of you ;
but you are irritable to-night, and not your-
self."

“No, I am not myself," said Dudley, moodily,
almost despairingly, “ and I never shall be

am."-

“ My dear Dudley, it is not too late—say it is
not,” cried Frank. A

“I don’t say it is too late," he answered, “ for»
I have done no harm to the girl, Heaven knows.
I have found her a pleasant companion and a dear
friend, and Ihave respected her always. But Ian
not happy with her, and I can‘t be happy without
her," he added, with a burst of passion that broke
down all the self-restraint which he had endeavored
to exhibit.

“You don’t mean to tell me you are in love with
the girl?” cried Frank, in his amazement.

“I am, by God !" cried Dudley Grey.

He got up and walked about the room like a
wild beast in his den. Here was some one to con-
fess the whole grim truth to at last, and with no
fear of the world which would judge him presently
more harshly than he deserved. .

“Dudley,” said his friend, “I am no saint; I
don’t look at this affair from the mountain-top of
my own self-righteousness, and I am sure you have
been foolish rather than wicked. I should net haVe

thought too much of a flirtation of this character,"  .

dangerous as it may be, only "—
“ Only what .’” Genuine "
“Onl there is your engagement to .
“ Yes): I know," answered Dudley; “thereie'the
misery of it all." ' - 
' “You can‘t love both the women."
“Upon mysoul, I  do, after-theft!!!-
ions," said Dudley, with a hard laugh «anew
confession. \ '
“ No; it must be either Geraldinefir the shop-

had kept Frank amoore lingering at the gates of. girl,” said the other, thwghtfuhy; “Wound

 

 

   
 

we;

POOR ZEPJI.

 

 

 

are engaged solemnly to the ene,and cannot under
any possibility marry the other, why, the sooner
you say farewell to the shop-girl the better.”

“ Yes, it is wise advice," Dudley replied, sorrow-
fully, “ and if it was not breaking a girl’s heart, it
might be done.”

“ Will you tell me what you mean to do i?”

“ I don’t know," answered Dudley, helplessly.

“Be a man. Be the Dudley Grey whom I have
always known,” said the other, seizing his advan-
tage; “ save yourself and save the girl.”

“ Yes, I am going to do that, but ’

“ But what ?”

“ But I must have time. I can’t dash at her
with a sledge-hammer, and crush every hope in
her heart at one blow. I will not do that l” cried
Dudley.

“ You do not think of Geraldine in this matter,”
said Frank—“ how she feels your absence, and be-
comes suspicious, jealous even, of the excuses
which you are continually making to keep away
from her."

“ She can’t suspect anything.”

“ She is. unhappy, Dudley. You have been en-
gaged to each other for so long a time. Only
think what you are doing,” added Frank; “how
badly you are behaving to both women.”

“ Yes, that’s true,” replied his friend ; “I
haven’t much of a defense to urge, and you are so
clearly on the right side of the argument that I
will not trouble you with my answer. I can only
say again, I have done no harm.”

“But harm must come, unless,” he said, blunt-
ly, “ you drop it.”

“ I’ll drop it,” said Dudley; “ I had made up my
mind before you spoke to me.”

Then the two men shook hands on the strength
of Dudley Grey’s promise, and set the subject
aside, for that night at least. They drank a glass
of together, smoked a cigar, and parted . the
best 0 friends, although the topic which might
have wrecked the confidence and faith of these old
school-fellows had been discussed with some heat.
What Frank Amoore had gone back to the hospi-
tal, Dudley thought it all over again in the solitude
of his quiet chambers, and sketched out a feeble
little plan or two for the general peace of mind of
everybody, without any great satisfaction to him-

If.

 

se

Was it too late ? Had he gone too far, and was
there never to follow happiness 'n? He was
afraid so. He was afraid of Zeph—he did not see
his way to confess to that little faithful woman

\that he had been a scamp from the first, and en-

aged to be married to another when he was pro—
5 ' his great election for her. Not profes-
sing, for he was really and deeply in love, he was
assured, and hence she had believed him and trust.
ed in him. This was her reward—to be cast of!
as a something no longer worthy of his notice; to
sink back to he. own poor sphere with a heart full
of bitterness against such men as he; to become
desperate, or go wrong, perhaps, out of revenge
upon herself, as many women had done before
poor Zeph.’s day. He felt already that she was not
the girlto treat the matter lightly—to get over it
with a few hysterical tears and a shrug of her
shoulders at the folly of it all. He had not been
frank with her; he had never let her see one
git-rupee of a truth which might have put her on
or separated her from him. There was

the pity of it, and the cruelty and shame of it, and
his confession was to come. Come it must he
knew now—there was no help for it. It would be
one sharp wrench, and then all over for good—for
very. good, thank Heaven! What life would be
for a while without Zeph he did not clearly per-
ceive, and he did not care to consider. He hardly
knew himself how desperate a hold his passion had
of him. He could not bear to think of her be-
ginning life afresh, without him, of meeting her
no more at the corner of the street wherein her
place of business was, of seeing her face grow ra-
diant at the sight of his, and at the consciousness
that he was there again to take her into the bri ht
world beyond the four walls of her work-room. e

., triadhard to think of Geraldine de Conroy instead,

Iii “his pledge to her; of her leve and his hon-
or,or the little semblanee of honor, that was left
in him. He kntiv: :e did not 1%:Geraldine miw,
but ,, not not n ,up,ofts ng
her' fink truth of Nevin atustion, and asking

for that liberty which her wounded pride would
assuredly be willing to accord. He was as selfish
as most men, possibly. He could not bear the pain
of separation from the woman he loved better llmn
the ridicule which would be hurled at him and the
object of his choice. It was a stern sacrifice for
him to give up Zeph, but he would rather his heart
bleed than his friends should laugh at him. Burke
was right when he said there was only one passion
—-vanity!

Yes, Dudley Grey was very weak—one of those
weak beings with which the world is overstocked,
unfortunately. He was far weaker than he knew,
for meeting Zeph Carrington an evening or two
later on, when he was full of the wise intention of
telhng her the truth, and asking her forgiveness
for his duplicity, he hesitated once more and put
off the day of his confession. She was so bright
and happy, so intoxicated by the dangerous atmos-
phere in which every breath was drawn, that he
could not tell her that night. He would tell her
next time they met, he thought; he muld write to
,her the truth ; he would do anything but own his
folly then. ‘

It was a mistaken kindness, and the last chance

slipped by him.

 

CHAPTER VII.
WHAT rna cram SIDE rnoucar or n.

Son four or five days after Dudley Grey’s last
meeting with Zeph Carrington—his last time of
“ keeping company with her," as Zeph phrased it
—and before the opportunity had presented itself
to meet her again, the barrister was disturbed and
surprised one afternoon by two visitors to his
rooms.

mon staircase of the house in which he lodged, and
startled him at his desk by a solemn ponderous
dab with the knocker Outside. lie rose, opened
the door, and stared at the two men, connecting
them with an Old Bailey case which he had been
studying of late days, until the consciousness that
he was familiar with the features of the younger
man dawned unpleasantly upon him.

“ You know me again, Mr. Grey," said Ben,
nodding his head toward him, but maintaining his
stolid aspect. “I see you know me just as plain
as I know you.”

" Yes, I remember you,” answered Dudley; then
he looked hard at Ben's companion-a short, thick-
set man, with great gray whiskers hanging in a
ragged, unkempt fashion from his cheeks. Dudley
knew who he was also, before the fact was made
apparent to him, although the face was hard and
rugged, and unlike Zeph’s altogether. The man
was in his factory dress, and had stolen an hour
from his work to confront our hero in his home.
Yes, Dudley knew who he was, and with what ob-
ject he had come. ‘

“ This is Zeph’s father,” slid Ben, by way of
rintroduction.

“ Indeed," responded Dudley, somewhat hoarse.
ly. “ Will you step inside? I hope,” he added,
slowly, “ nothing has happened of any consequence
to bring you here. Miss Carrington—she is well l’”

“ Somethin has happened," said Mr. Carrington
in reply, and e and Ben followed Dudley into the
room, “or I shouldn’t have troubled you in this
way, and without a warning like.” -

“Sit down,” said Dudley; “ don‘t hurry—take
your time.”

He did not wish to be hurried himself: it was
he who wanted time to consider, to prepare for
the crisis which had come to him at last, and
which he was compelled to meet. He felt he must
be on his guard, and not commit himself by any
rash expression or promise to the father, with
Zeph's ol_d lover for a witness to every word he nt-
ter'ed. He felt even a little indignant, as though
he had been led into a trap, and without fair warn-
ing, until the puzzled, pained look of Mr. Carring-
ton subdued all sense of rage in him, and changed
it into fear. It was a troubled face at which he
glanced askance, and the first impression, that it
was flushed with drink, took strength with every
minute of the interview. ‘

 

want to take up too much of yourn,” said Mr.
Oarrlngton; “hutl an uneasy In my mind, sir,

They came into Clement's Inn, and up the com-.

“I haven’t much time to spare, and I don't talk

 

and a word or two from you can set things
straight, if they’re ever to be straight again. Ben,
says they ain’t.”
” More they ain‘t,” added Ben, in sullen chorus.
“ I know what men like him mean when they come  .
nfter such girls as Zeph. We all know how that ":3
ends; we‘re not blind, any of us.” ' ‘ “I '
Dudley drew a long breath. ' ‘ .. ‘ '
“Will you tell me what has happened i” he said :  Z
to the father. ‘ I
“Yes, I will.
Mr. Carrington.
“Discharged from her employment 1" exclaimed
Dudley.
“ And through you. That's the hardest part of
it, Mr. Grey,” said the father. “ Through you."
fZ‘I cannot see how I have been the means
0 ,
“0h,it‘s easy told,” interrupted Mr. Carring-
ton; “ they found out at her business she wasn’t
going on well—so they put it, mind you—and that
she went about with a gentleman—that‘s you !—
to all kinds of amusement, coming home at all . ~
hours—which I know myself. havmg to sit up for  
her; and they told her-~G0d damn ’em !—--what
do you think they told her 1'” blurted forth the

  

Zeph has got the sack,” replied

 

L
father. . _. If,
“ You need not repeat it,” said Dudley; “ I can 
guess what unjust folk would say to a defense ' ‘24." 1'
less Woman. But they are in the wrong—come . 

pletely in the wrong, I give you my word of hon~
or.‘

“I don‘t want it,” said Mr. Carrin n shak' - I ‘ .-
his head to and fro in emphatic profess? "‘ I dug ’ a. ':
want anybody to tell me my gal isn’t a had an. (I ‘ ‘
know in all London there isn’t anyone with less ._ -
vice in her than Zeph. That’s not it.” i "

Dudley Grey knew that was not it, too; it was if
not the depth and extent of the motive which had 'Y :4 -
brought Zeph‘s father to his room. I 1"

“She had chucked up the business. She did * 
not care to be spoken to by the governors, and they
said she‘d better leave at once; and,” added Mr.
Carrington, “ left she has.”

“ I am sorry she has been so hasty as this,” Dud-
ley murmured. I ~

“Then me an her had some words, too, forI ’ ‘1 «.
wasn’t best pleased with it at all, and said more "
than I meant,as people do when they’re riled.
And then,” he continued, as he leaned forward,
planted one grimy hand on each of his corduroy ‘
knees, and stared with grave intentness at the bar-
rister, “ she up and told me everythin —who the

 

 

 

gentleman was, and what he was, an where he
lived, how he had been keeping company with her,
fih l,forever so long, and was uncommon fond of '
er. ’
“ And was going to marry her,” added Ben iron- ~
ically.

“ That’s what I’ve called to ask about," said w ' I
Mr. Carrington. “ I told Zeph this mo 1 '
should come and talk to you straightforward.“ e,
and as man to man.” "

“ What did she say to that i” asked Dudley, in ' . 2‘,
a low tone. . ‘

“She said I might, and welcome. She could
trust you, she said to tell the truth. She would
have come with me' if I’d let her,” he continued,
“ but I thought it was best for you and me to have
this out together.”

“Yes—no,” said Dudley, irresolumy, «I wish
she had come with you, I thih'lf ”"
“Why ?n 0" it} |

“ I could have explained tlféimole matter more
clearly, perhaps," was his 918w war.

“What did I tell you ?” growled Ben to his 
companion. “Didn’t I say so? 08ft you see
what his game’s been? Haven’t I said so all »
alon ?” - , - ‘ «

“ will not have your interference,” cried Dud- .4 , ‘
ley Grey, fiercely, at last; “it is no business of ,.  L -
yours.” I, r. 

“ Oh yes, it is,” answered Ben, stolidly but bold- . 1. 
ly: “ for you see, if you hadn’t stepped between ' ‘.
me and Zeph, she would have been my witch!
this time. I wanted her to be. I liked herdi-

. r , l . j s .y _  .3; H
A fi.‘w¢um..9»¢.mg.w ‘A , g
If “x '.  " ' 5.": I ~.

to, x “ , .._'._‘ N ‘x '
. . ' “‘3”. '~-.: “we “:3”. .

 

 

fully.” .
“Hold your row, Ben,” said Hr. ' , ,, ‘
u “(’1’ let we speak. It I!     ‘ ID i

. _ . ' _ I '
«GO it"mutwred Ben. “bug  w .1“
he told it‘s not my busing.» , . ,   g

 

    

 

 

 

 

‘v  -\-. , ..;_' w‘ ‘1 '
v, - ~' 7' f H", ‘9‘: _

 

 

' but I will write to your daughter. I

l‘ or see you ever again.

“ Lot‘s st to the rights of it, or the wrongs of
it,” said r. Carrington ; “ that’s what I havecome
for, Ur. Grey. What am I to make out of all of

‘ this f—that my daughter ain’t good enough for you,
.and never was 1’ That you’ve thought it a fine thing

to take her out and unsettle her for all our home-

; I - ly ways? That you’ve turned her head, and made

her-'deue you’re desperate in love with her, and
you’ve never meant it all the time? That you
would have ruined her if you could, and told your
swell friends afterwards you'd thrown another
woman on the streets? That’s it, now; own it
like the scamp you are l’

Dudley Grey winced beneath these hard words,
and the shame of his position burned red into his
face. He might have been expected to be judged
likethis by one whose heart was in his child's good
name and fame. He was judged unmercifully,
but it was natural the man should think in this
way, and disbelieve any statement he might at

I . tempt in extenuation of his conduct. Extenuation!

it was beyond him. He made the attempt how-
ever.

“lr. Carringtcn, you do me an injustice," he
said; “you think too badly of the position alto-
gether. I have never had a thought against your

~ ' daughter’s happiness—never one thought of doing

her an injury. I have been very weak and foolish
—your daughter has become a dear friend of mine
-—I have the most profound esteem for her; I
would die rather than a word should be breathed
against her.”
“ They are talking of her already; all the young
women at the business—not one-half of them as
as she is—are picking her to pieces ; they
ve torn her character to rags; they will
speak of her soon in our street, where the
story will come round sharpenough. Now on have

- done her all this harm, but you don‘t say ow you

re ,to set it right.”
p ‘mat can Ido 1’"

“ What Zeph told me you meant to do, what you
have led her to expect all this while,” said Mr.
' u—“ marry her."

“I would do it tomorrow if it were in my power,
but it isn’t," said Dudley.

“leaning you are married alreadv, perhaps i”

“ No, I am not married. I am engaged. I—

w' I explain
evetythi , and she will understand me and for-
give-ansi‘or God’s sake, leave me i" Dudley en-
tmted. “ I am wretched; don’t you see that f"

“I don‘t care a damn for your wretchedness,"
said Ir. Carrington, bluntly. “What's it to me?
Whatue you but a man who would have led my
girl wrong if you could ‘3”

“On my soul—no !” ’

“ ’Pon my soul, yes i" cried Hr. Carrington.
“These things don’t stop when you like—it‘s all
down hill—and you meant to drag her into the
ditch at the bottom. It’s the way of half of the
devils of your sort that skulk about thekstrfets to
a? r 'rls, whose ignorance ma es t easy
w Ipliaoveghad your answer."

“ Dot yet. I will write a letter to Zeph at

O.

“Don’ttrouble yourself," said her father; “I
should not lether readit. I can go home and tell
her in half a dozen words she was wrong and I
was right in what we said of you this morning."

“No, no, don’t tell her anything; pray let me
write to her,” urged Dudley. .

“Are you going to say you will marry her ?"

n asked as he rose.

"‘13:; going to relate the whole story of my
position—etc explain to"—— .

“That‘ll do; Idon’t choose she shall see it,
Come, Ben, let us leave
this n,” he said.

They walked slowly from the room; they went
away without another word; and Dudley was
thanki Heaven for their departure, when the
flushed aoeof the father peered round the door

II. ‘
“EL”, U Well tell you what I think of you be-
fm 1 s0- 1 IhI’n’t be easy without,” said Zeph‘s

.“spnnc, geese.” replied Dudley, in feeble
m; “ 1th I:

enough of myself, with-
.hud words. know what you think of

we a t to think.”
mywpu ng—and I feel heundtossy

 

POOR ZEPH.

it—you’ve acted like an infernal scoundrel from
the first. That’s all.” And having expressed
himself thus forcibly, Mr. Carrington went back
with the news to poor Zeph.

 

CHAPTER VIII.
“ roos zsrn.”

Yes, he would write to Zeph at once, thought
Dudley. She would understand him better than
the rest of them. He was judged too harshly by
outsiders. The father, in cruder language, had
only expressed the same opinion as Frank Amoore.
All his own fault; he owned it, and he deserved
it. What right had he to be judged a better and
more honorable man than ninety-nine out of a
hundred placed in a similar position? What proof
was there existent that he would not have harmed
Zeph Carrington? And how much evidence was
there that his course of action was not one of
studied deception from the first ?

Yes, he would write to Zeph.

He sat down before his desk and began; but the
task was more difficult than he had imagined. It
was impossible to explain his long course of decep—
tion, and constitute his love as an excuse for it.
He dared not set down on paper that he had loved
her desperately and foolishly, but there had never
been in his thoughts an idea of making her his
wife. He could not register cruelly in black and
white that her position was beneath him, her
friends and home surroundings altogether low, and
that he was enga to be married to another
woman at the time e was raving of his affection
for her. He was sure he loved Zeph passionately
and unselfishly, and the sorrow at his heart for
Zeph’s sorrow was a weight which bore him down
completely. He begged her not to judge him as
her father had done, to think of his trouble even,
to consider it was all for the best that they were
about to part: and then the lines read so coldly
and falsely that he ran his pen through them, and
cursed the incompetency of expression by which
he had been smitten.

He spent hours in writing letters, which he tore
up us soon as he had written them, and finally he
seized his hat and dashed into the fresh air in
search of relief from the sick headache which 0p-
pressed him. But he could not remain in the
streets with a letter unwritten which might bring
a faint degree of solace to Zeph's heartif he could
only say all that was in his thoughts more earnest.
ly. He returned to his chambers, lighted his
lamp, and had recommenced his miserable task,
when a strange, soft knock at his door thrilled
him with a horror for which there could be only
one reason. Zeph had come to see him! to de-
nounce his rfidy with her own white lips, to
curse him for the blight which‘he had been to her
life. He was sure it was she before he was stand-
ing in the doorway, looking out into the murky
landing;plaee where Zeph was.

He ad not been mistaken. She who came
quickly toward him, with her hands extended and
her anxious face uplifted for his kiss, was the poor
little milliner who had altered his life and ship-
wrecked her own in trusting to him.

“Zeph, Zeph," he said, “you should not have
come to see me here; you should have kept away,
and waited for the letter I am writing to you.”

“I could not wait, Dudley," she answered, list-
lessly. “ What was the use of waiting? Let me
come in and talk to you.”

“ But "-—

“I am tired,” she said. “ I have been about the
streets all day, looking at the shops and the car.
riages. I must rest a minute, Dudley.”

It was a pale, haggard face at which he gazed,
and there was something so depressing and awful
in her steady stare at him that he hesitated still
for her sake.

“I will come out with you,” he said.
walk together in the Inn.” e

“ Did not you hear me say I was tired ?”

“Yes; but I should not like them to say. you
had come to my rooms,” he said. “They may be
watching you." i

“ Who are they I" asked Zeph, shortly.

“ Your fatha', your friends.”

“Never mind them. They know," she M

“We will

 

II

with a short, hard laugh, “ I am not too partie-
ular.”

“ Don’t say that, even in jest.”

“And I know I can trust you, Dudley.
not the man to injure me i”

“ God forbid l”

“Then let me come in, forI am very ti”—

She reeled as she spoke, and would have fallen
to the ground had it not been for his plunge for-
ward, which saved her by clasping his arms round
her in his fright. He led her Into his room, and
while she sat in the big library chair he had re-
cently quitted, be mixed some weak brandy and
water for her.

“Here, drink this,” said Dudey. “ You have
overtued your strength tc-day. You have been
greatly worried and traduced. It would have been
better to remain quietly at home.”

“Home 1" she echoed, sorrowfully; “ I haven’t
any.”

“Great Heaven! what do you mean Y"

“Any that I care about, I should say,” she an-
swered, as she drank from the glass which she set
aside the instant afterward, with a visible shudder,
and clasped her two ungloved hands tightly togeth-
er in her lap.

“I am glad to see you, Zeph, for one reason out
of many, although I would have preferred meeting
you elsewhere,” began Dudley. “I seem to have
so much to say and to urge in my defense, if you
will not reprove me too bitterly for all my weak-
ness.”

“ I haven’t cause to reproach you, Dudley,"
she said, with a sad smile. “It is all my fault,
not yours.”

“ No, no; that is not true," cried Dudley. “ You
are not to blame. I should have known better. I
haye deceived you eruelly, but I could not help
it.

“We could not help it, either of us,” said ‘Zeph,
staring at the carpet. “ It was Fate, wasn’t it?
I believe in Fate.”

“ Tell me first about your quarrel with your em-
ployers. What did they say about you and me ?”

“ Oh, don’t bother," said Zeph, in reply. “ What
does it matter I"

“ You are not reckless, Zeph ?”

“ N—no," was the half-hesitating answer.

“ You are resigned to our partin from each
other? You see it is best for both 0 us.”

“ Yes,” she said, slowly; “ perhaps it is.”

" You will believe, too—oh! Zeph, you aria be-
lieve—this is the bitterest day of my life. Don’t
think me a wretch and villain at any time. If it
is not easy to forget me, don’t think that," he
cried.

“ Did father say you were a villain I” she asked,
almost unmoved by his excitement.

“ Yes."

“Ah I he thinks so,” she muttered. “ When
they told me at the business I was no better than I
should be—when they told everybody that—he
said it might be true for what he knew. He’s ve

You are

hard on us both. He’s not a good father, Dudf VA

le .” -

“ Don’t think too hardly of the father, Zeph,”
said Dudley. “ He had a right to speak.”

“ He said a lot about you I "don’t take in yet,"
continued Zeph, with her old sharpness of discourse
apparent for an instant; “and that you were en-
gaged to bemarried to a lady too. That's a lie,
isn't it? If I‘m too poor and common for you——
if you have thought it over again, and seen the
folly of it—I don’t mind much. I won’t be, after
a while, so very, very down at losing you. But
there is no other lady anywhere, is there, Dudley ?
Do tell me that.”

She had woke up from her apathy at last, and
was regarding her old lover with eyes gleaming
and wide, her face full of a craving to be convinced
that Dudley had loved her in real earnest through
it all.

“ My dear Zeph, it is trueenough,” he stammered, ,

“ I am engaged to be married; that is the shame
and the remorse of it to me.” ‘
“ I—I didn’t think it was so bad," Zeph mur~

“ It is.” ~

“Then why did you comeaftcmef” she-Red;
curiously. “Why could not you Kathe? I
had never done any harm.” . '

The lightdfid mothering-thaw

 

 

‘_

l2

\

POOR ZEPH.

 

 

shadows stole back to it and deepened in their
tone.

“0h, Zeph, [did not think it would come to
this i" said Dudley.

“ I was happy in my way; it wasn’t a good way,
but laughing and talking at the Rooms didn’t seem
to matter much; but when you followed me, came
to Keaton,” she added, thoughtfully, “met me
week after week, night after night, made me
your companion, took me everywhere, let me see
you cared for me a little, why, what could I do
but like you very much ? O my God ! what could
I do ?”

Dudley knew not how to answer. There was a
strong impulse upon him to clasp this young wo-
man to his breast, to speak words of consolation
and aflection to her, to bid her consider herself
from that time forth his alfianced wife; it seemed
the only fair and honest reparation he could make.
Heaven knew he loved her better than Geraldine,
that he had never loved Geraldine at all, and Zeph
had been so great a happiness of late days that he
had preferred to lose his honor rather than lose
her. But he was silent; the crisis had come, and
it was wise policy to meet it firmly, though with.
out the girl it seemed impossible then that he
should ever know happiness again.

“ Courage, Zeph, courage," he answered, in a low
voice.

She went on in the same half-absent manner—a
woman asking questions of herself rather than of
him.

“If I could only understand why you took so
much trouble, spent so much time on me, talked
of being fond of me—if I could only make it all
out l” she said; “ but to go on like this, and then
suddenly cast me of! like an old glove, it’s a riddle
I can’t guess; for it was all acting—wasn’t it ?"

“ No, Zeph, it wasn’t,” he cried; “ I never told
you an untruth in my life. You were, and are,
awfully dear to me; but for both our sakes we
was say good-bye to each other."

“Now we are found out,” she added, “ I wonder
what would have happened if nothing had been
said about it 2"

“I have been summoning courage to end this
for weeks ; I have been miserable concerning
y0u.l’

“ Only for weeks.
“ it was too late then."

“ Zeph, dear Zeph, it is not too late,” cried
Dudley; “ here is the turning-point of our lives.
There is nothing for you to look back at with
shame. You have been good and true and honest.
You have no cause for regret; the disgrace of it
rests with me."

“I have been a fool," said Zeph, bitterly. “I
thought I was going to marry a gentlemen, and I
was silly enough to trust him.”

“ I have not abused your trust, Zeph.”

“ Oh, you have respected me, you mean,” said
Zeph. . “ I wish you had not."

“Good God!”

“ It would have put me on my guard, and I
should have got away before I cared for you,”
said Zeph; “I should have been frightened and
run. There, I don’t intend this for a reproach,
Dudley; I said I had not come to say a word
against you—I didn’t mean— Forgive me. Now
I know the truth,“ she said, rising to her feet, “ I
think I can say—good-bye—pretty well.”

She turned grayer at the thought, however, and
her eyes were full of that far-away look which had
already scared him.

, “ You will go home, of course?" he asked.

“Yes; I will go home,” she answered wearily.

“ Making it up with your father—settling down
quietly—deeing very quickly, I hope, how wise we
wareho-night in parting thus."

“Oh! I see that already,” she said, quickly.
“ Don’t you fear."

“ And you will seek another situation at once i"

“Situation,” she muttered,

' “ It will give you occupation and relief of mind."

“My character is gone, and no one will have

9‘

Ah!" with a heavy sigh,

:-' .0-
“ It is not one. I will "—
“You Will nothing. ,plm'" add Zeph ; u I

r
i

a

 

don’t "I: totalkaf that or think of this, just

now. u feigned-bye lhave come to say, that's all ;

and I‘gaa say; it, and-God bless you, i"
“memrm as Wv.-ul’:.M

x

 

ley cried, folding her in his arms, and kissing her
passionately for the last time in his life.

She returned his caress, put her arms round his
neck softly for an instant, and then went away
dry-eyed, and with a slow, firm step. He watched
her descend the stairs from the balusters, over
which he leaned, but she did not look up at him
again, although he cried good-bye to her once more,
and she murmured back his words—an echo of
despair that was deeper than his own.

When she was in the Inn again, and a few
paces from the house, she came to a full stop.
She turned and looked at the light behind the
window-blind of his room. Had she been struck
into stone, she could not have remained more si-
lent and rigid in the night shadows that were about
her there.

It was her last look. The dark curtain would
fall between them forever after that, unless
What would he say, what would he do, if she toiled
up those stairs again and told him that she could
not go away. and it was cruel now to send her
away, after all that had happened! But she did
not move toward him—she stirred neither hand
nor foot until a hand clutched her arm suddenly
and roughly.

“ Ben 4.” she faltered forth, as she became aware
that it was her old admirer standing by her, with
his fierce white face peering into hers.

“Yes, it is Ben, and no mistake."

“ Have you been following me ‘2” she asked,
with a quaver of indignation in her voice.

“ I have," was the reply.‘ “ I told your father
I'd hang about till you came. He said you wouldn’t
come here, but I knew better. I knew what it all
meant. Oh, yes—it wasn’t easy to humbug me.”

“ Well," she said.

“And you've been in there,” he shouted. “ I’ve
counted all the time you’ve been planning with
him what to do, now the whole trick's blown
upon."

“ I don’t know what to do,” murmured the
helpless Zeph.

“ You’ve settled it all, no doubt.”

“ And I don’t care what becomes of me,” she
added. “I don‘t, really."

“80 that you get away from the gov’nor and
me," cried Ben. “ Of course not. He’s nothin’,
I‘m nothin’, and that fellow’s everythin’.”

He shook his fist at the lighted windows of
Dudley Grey‘s room.

“ Shouldn’t wonder if I didn’t kill that man
some day,” he muttered, with an oath

“ Don’t say that. It was all my fault.”

“ Oh, I don’t excuse you,” answered Ben

“I don’t ask you," she said, almost sharply, and
in the old sharp way, and then the hollow voice
came back again. “Where’s father ?"

“ Waiting for me to tell him where you’ve
been.” '

“ And you’ll tell him ?”

“ I’ll tell him you’re all that’s bad. or you
wouldn‘t have gone in there. I wish I‘d dropped
down stone-dead afore I’d seen you do it i" he ex.
claimed.

“ He’ll believe I’m wrong rfbw, won‘t he, Ben .9”

“Why shouldn’t he ‘2”

“Ah! why shouldn’t he ?” she said.
l)ye')'

“Ain’t you coming home ‘3" he asked a little
curiously.

“I shall be home presently.
Grey I would go home.”

Ben gave vent to another oath at this, and Zeph
turned slowly from him and went along the Inn
toward the Strand. He did not attempt to follow
her; he went his own way, and in his own bitter
spirit, to Mr. Carrington's house.

 

“ Good-

I promised Mr.

 

CHAPTER IX
“rnr. noun or rm: sroav."

Tm: weak, vain man who had once been so
proud of his moral strength, was a stranger being
than he was aware, or we have been able to depict
to our readers in' the faint sketch which we have
attempted here. Although not an exceptional
man, nor an uncommon specimen of humanity—
only one of a sentimental order of beings who
never mean 111, and work more mischief than these
bolder sinners yho march triumphantly along the

I

 

 

devil’s road as though it led to “glory—Dudley
Grey was to an extent different from his class.
He did not breathe freely after his romantic folly
had collapsed, and the parting had taken place,
and all was over for good.
had not completely made up his mind to part-with
Zeph, he found out. He had been touched to the
quick by her grief and love for him; her despair:
ing face haunted him still. He had shadowed her
life for all time. Ile had taught her never to trust
in his sex again, and he had set the tongues of

scandal hissing at her with the worst oonstruc- ~l

tion of her dangerous acquaintance with him.
She was so eccentric a girl that he was afraid of
the result; she did not look at life defiantly or
proudly now : he had struck down even her self-
confidence; he had driven her mad by hi own
cowardice and reserve. She had been so good a
girld until his sickly sentiment had turned her
hea .

The end had come, and they had said good-bye.
He was never to meet her again, to like her, to
hear her crisp, merry laugh ringing like a peel of
sweet bells in his ears, and her big eyes were never
to light up again with pleasure at the sight of him.
They would pass each other in the street present-
ly, souls divided and drifting away.

If he should go back to her! It was infatua-
tion—there was insanity in it. There was social
suicide, the contempt and laughter of his own

world; but there was Zeph wretched, and he laved ‘

her. Yes, he had played with fire until his wings
were scorched, and the consciousness of her grief
was already insupportable to bear. He could not
be happy without her; he was sure of it. He
should be utterly miserable with the woman to
whom his honor was pledged, and make her life a
misery. He could only brighten the life of the
girl who had left him; he would do it, by the help
of Heaven—he would do his best at last!

What were class distinctions, and the howl of
gentility at his defiance of them, to Zeph: and
Zeph’s love for him ? His mind was made up an
hour after she had left him—completely made up.
He sat down and dashed off a few wild lines to
Geraldine, acknowledging his unworthineeefsnrs
rendering his claim to her, referring her to Frank
Amoore for the explanation of his conduct, for
which he begged forgiveness very earnestly, and
then he went out into the streets and dropped his
letter into the pillar-box with a strong, firm hand.

“ Thank God, I have made up my mind at last!”
he said. “I do Geraldine more justice by Bligh
mg her and accepting her scorn of me, and I save
my dear, dear Zeph all further bitterness.”

He walked up and down the street considering
this, he had no intention of returning to his
chambers yet; he was unsettled, but far happier
in his mind than he had been of late days.

Why had he not done this before, he wondered

now, and saved all the heart-burning and all the
pangs of conscience by which he had been beset?
Why had his miserable pride stood in the way of
making Zeph happy? And he had coolly thonfit of
loving one woman and marrying another?
God, he could change Zeph’s life as in afaizy tale
by the potent spell of his honest heart-felt words,
and Zeph’s father and friends, and even Ben, would
become tolerable in time. If he lost caste, heshodd-
huve done his duty, and he should becontent in his
lower estate—nothing could be more certain then
that—with Zeph Carrington loving him so well.
He would proceed immediately to Zeph's father’s
house and recover lost ground as soon as possible.
He would bring the smiles back to that poor White
face of Zeph’s, and there should never be any-
thing save peace and rest upon it again. She
was sitting at home, miserable and despairing,
and he must hasten with the news that he loved
her too well to say good-bye to her. Thu, was
not a parting forever which had occurred a Halo
while ago in his dusty room at Clement’s Inn--
only a scene in a comedy. leading up to 
they would look back at it presently “6140;:
their fears and regrets. as at an intervals 7

story that had ended Pleu‘le- 8'“ ' » ,i 0’

him a good wife; she was an a‘ ' , .
ble, docile girl, shrewd enough to catch «will!
the manners and customs of ‘ ,; wo‘

man of whom he should feel «blunt: r '1: fl - i

or two with him would mg. g ' m flu
those who knew her history M ‘

 

lIe was a. man who I i i

 

  
 

 

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POOR ZEPH.

I 13
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._..._- ...._ a.

at his choice. There was more real love in the
world than skeptics asserted, and so much the
better for the world.

He strode on, with his brain full of thoughts

 

I akia‘to these, until, at the corner of a cross i

street on his way to Zeph’s house, he came to a

E f full stOp. Astoue's throw distance from him
‘ 4' rose the huge brick front of a metropolitan ! which the men were raising to their shoulders.
hospital, and there Frank Amoore worked in ’
the good cause and dreamed of future fame in ',

a world of surgery.
He should not have thought of Frank

Amoore on that occasion had it not been for 3

the knots of idlers about the doors and on the
pavement and in the roadway. and in noticing
them his friend came to his mind. He would
tell Frank what a revolution had ocuurred in

.. his thoughts, and What a better man he had
It would not take 5

become as by a miracle.
five minutes to relate, and he should be amused
—actually amused—by Frank’s stare of in-
cred ulity- and astonishment. This AmOore was
a man of the world, cool, calculating and high
principled; what would he say to him in the
face of a resolve from which nothing could
turn him? Frank would tell him he had acted
very unwisely—everybody would tell him

' that—but he could say never again he was

behaving badly to both women and leading
the poorer on to her ruin. Frank would talk in
his worldly-wise style for a time, but he would
thaw by d from the inner warmth of
his heart, and wish him at last every happi-
ness in his choice. And presently—Dudley

"actually laughed at the idea, so full of life and

light thoughts was he now that honorable
course of \ action lay before him—Frank ‘
Amoone would begin to pay attention to
Geraldine de Courcy, and marry her in good
time, and live happily ever afterward, though
he would never know what was the deep happi-
ness. of an unselfish passion like his own.
That would be reserved for one who had sunk
his chances to save breaking the heart of a girl
in a back street.

He crossed to the hospital and paused again.
Perhaps Frank Was busy. There had been “a
case ” in during the last few minutes, and the
crowd had not dispersed yet. Jackson, the
porter, was chasing one or two boys down the
stepsas Dudley Went toward him. Dudley Grey
was well known as a visitor to the surgeon’s
quarters, and the porter touched his hat as he
came up.

“ Ia Ir. Amoore in?”

l.  m.”

“ And busy, perhaps!”

“ No, sir, not at all.”

“ Oh, I thought by the crowd ”———

“Isuppose they’re ,Waiting for the .body to
come out again—for they’ve brought it in an
hour too late—that’s all. They’ve no right,"
said,,tho;porter, very much aggrieved, “tokeep
bringing their stale stiff uns here. We can’t
curetbem thing-s."

“ We couldn’t help it, I s’pose,” said a surly-
looklng man in blue serge jacket, who stepped
from the hoapital as the porter spoke. "I‘ll
swear she breathed when Bill and I fished her
out of the water."

“You’d swear to anything,” said the porter,
laughing with the my complacency of a man
mined to tragedy toiling up the broad
stone-eup- all day. “I suppose you heard her
dying speech and come-lion, too, and what she
did it for?"

“That’s easy guessing,” muttered the man;
“ it’s all one tale that takes gals to the river.”

“Ly, that’s true,” said the porter, “and”-—-—

W‘ me pass,” said Dudley, pushing by
mitroughly. ‘ ‘ Where’s Amoorel I must
 ‘ Don’t stand in the way. I "——

30 dashed into the great central hall, where

' a W “duh were congregated, and some

 working-men were preparing to
depart  their draped and rigid burden to the
W‘deadmon-o Frank Amoore was cross-
ing  in hate, when his friend screamed

‘ 2.. (“his name. The young surgeon paused,
‘ turned very pale, _and_ came to him with an

angry frown upon his face.

“ Good God! Dudley, why have you followed
on like this?” he asked, sternly. “ What’s the

i use of it, save to attract attention, and make

1 more misery and scandal!”

' “It is, then—it was ”——-— Dudley could say

i no more, but remained dumb and horror-

: stricken, with his hand pointing to the litter

“Yes—it was the girl you called Zeph,”
said the surgeon. “ What did I tell you long
ago?"

Over-wise folks are proud of their prophecies,

‘ shout forth to the weaklings, “ What did we
tell you?" But this vain, weak, willful Dudley
Grey had closed his eyes at the mention of Zeph’s
name, and dropped like a dead man at the feet
; of his friend.

“ Don’t press round too much, gentlemen,”
said Amoore, bending over Dudley at once,
and waving back the students. “It’s a little
shock tothe system, a mere faint—that’s all.
Unfasien his neck-tie; he will be better in a
minute.” Then he looked found in a scared
and excited wayhimself, and waved his hand
toward the group of bearers in the background.
“ Take it away- quick l”

And as Dudley Grey came to himself, and
glared into the face of his friend, poor Zeph
was carried out into the night. .

ream.

 

 
   
   

    

   
 

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l WAs SEE His WIFE? Mrs. Mary Reed CroweIl.
2 FLEEING FROM LOVE. By Harriet Irving.
3 DID HE LOVE HER? By Bertie T. Campbell.
4 A STRANGE WOMAN. By Bett inwood.
6 Two GIRLs’ LIVES. By Mrs. M. R. Croweil.
9 THE WAR or HEARTs. B Corian Cushman.
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26 THAT BOY or NORoorrr's. Charles Lever.
 CHARLOTTE‘S INIIERITANCE. By Miss Braddon.
29 A GIRL's HEART. B Rett Winwood.
30-31 RED ASA ROSE Is IIE. By Rhoda Broughton.
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33 STRANGELY WED. B Mrs. J. D. Burton.
34 THE GIPSY BRIDE. .
85 ANNIE TEMPLE. v. J. H. Ingraham.
86 WITHOUT MERCY. y Bartley T. Campbell.
37 BLACK EYES AND BLUE. B Corinne Cushman.
38 BRAVE BARBARA. By 00 e Cushman.
89 ADANGERous WOMAN. By MEET-st Blount.
40 OUIDA‘s LOVE. B Henrietta E. Condo.
41 Lou: A WIFE. Corinne Cushman.
42 WINNING WAYs. By Ma , aret Bloom»
48 A‘WOIIAN‘E HEART. 12y rs. M. V. Victor.
44 TEE DEAD LETTER. by Seeley r.
45 LORD LIsIE‘s DAUGHTER By C. M. meme.
46 A WOMAN'S HAND. By author of “ Dead Letter.”
47 VIAIA or WRA'rn. By Mrs. Mary R. Crowell..
48 A WILD GIRL By Corinne Cushman.
49 THE MADDEsT MARRIAGE EVER WAs. By Burton.
50110": IN A MAZE. By Mrs. E. F. Ellet.
51 CATEoLINA. By Dr. J. H. Robinson.
62 A ROEANCE or A POOR YOUNG GIRL. E. F. Ellet.
63 TIIE LOCKED HEART. By Corinne Cushman.
54 TEE PRIDE or TEE DOWNEs. By M. Blount.
55 A STRANGE Gun. By Albert W. Aiken.
56 THE PRETTY PUEITAN. By A Parson’s Daughter.

57 DID SEE Sm? By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.

Waverley“

N‘Ar‘.~nn .— lvsrv‘lM4 . ,4

1 THE MAstD BRIDE. By Mary Reed Crowell.

2 Was LOVE? By Wm. Mason Turner.

3  IRL WIFE. B Hartley '1‘. Campbell.

4 A BRAVE KEANE; Arabella Southworth.

6 BESSIE RAYNOR, m ORE GIRL W. M. Turner.

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12 H18 [AWFUL WINE. y Mrs.Ann S. Cm

18 Mom InmJQUAEEEEss. By .
14 Win I IE» HIE. By Sara Claxton.
~86 A FAIR FACE. By Bartley’r. Campbell.

16 Timer BEE Nor. By Margaret Iewester.

17 AL'OYAL  By Arabella Southworth.

.19 Tu BROKEN B
so OnrnAN NEIL. TEE ORANGE GIRL
‘21 Now AND FOREVER. By Henrietta
2! Tu RIDE or AN ACTON. By Au
 EAR. BanSamCluton. . V .

' ' 7A0! WAS F0310“. Eleanor Blaine.
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27WAsSnAC ' ? Bylnflrha'ckeray.

28 8M Quinn. 1 Mrs. Ann's.‘8wphenar

29 FOR BERDEAISAKE. By Sara Gluten.
~80 TEE BOUQUET GIRL By Agile Penna.

1n AMAD MARRIAGE. By MaryrA. Dennison.

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87 TEE COUNTRY COUEIN. By Rose Kennedy.

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‘ 5‘3 sasssvflora, TEE Amiga.“ & . e.
64 MAN'S EART. V Kaim
I NE 0 . By A. filthworm.

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59 A WICKED WOMAN. y Lil ie D. U. Blake.

60 BLIND BAREARA’s SECRET. Mary Halpine.

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69 BOWIE,TIIE KNIGHT 0F IIIVALRY. P. S. Warns.

70 DRIPTING To RUIN. By Mary Reed Crowell.

71 THE PAREON’s DAUGHTER By A Parson’s
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72 THE YsTERIous GUARDIAN. By C. Cushman.

73 WAs SHE A WIFE. By Rett Winwood.

74 ADRIA, TEE ADOPTED. By Jennie D. Burton.

75 PRETTY AND PROUD. By Corinne Cushman.

76 THE BITTER FEUD. By Jennie D. Burton.

77 A WOMAN‘S WORN. By Mrs. E. F. Ellet.

78 THE BLACK RIDDLE. B Corinne Cushman.

79 CORAL AND RUBY. B enDie Davis Burton.

80 DIVORCED BUT NOT IVIDED. By A Parson's
Daughter.

81 ALMOST MARRIED. ByAParson’s Daughter.

82 Two FAIR WOMEN. B Wm. M. Turner.

83 THE INNERrrANCE or TE. By J. D. Buxton.

84 PEARL 0E PEARLS. By A. P. Morris, Jr.

85 FOR HONOR‘s SAEE. By Reed CI owell.

86 LANCE URQUIIART'E LOVEs. y Annie Thomas.

87 SAFELY ED. B author of “ Caste."

88 Fwnmn. By Col. ntiss Ingraham.

89 THREE Tum DEAD. By Miss M. E. Braddon.
90 FOR A WonN's SAEE. By Watts Phillips.
91 'HE COEETR Nor,‘ SEE SAID. By Thomas.
92 THE NEW MAGDALEN. By Wilkie Collins.
93 AN OPEN VERDICT. By Miss M. E. Braddon.
94 SWORD AND GOWN. By Geo. A. Lawrence.
95 A BEGGAR ON HOREEDACE. By James Payne.
96 HER FACE WAs HER FORTUNE. By Robinson.
97 JANE EYRE. By Charlotte Bronte;

SB WRECEED IN PORT. By Edmund Yates.
99 THE COLLEEN BAWN. By Gerald Griffin.

100 AN AMBmOUS GIRL. By A Celebrated Actress.

"4‘ .\A.~..A,‘n A,

44 THE ONLY DAUGHTER. By Alice Fleming.
5 BER HIDDEN FOE. By Arabella Southworth.

46 TEE LITTLE HEIREss. By Mrs. M. A. Denison.
47 BECAUSE Sal LOVED Hm. B Alice Fleming.
48 IN SPITE or HEEsELr. By S. Sherwood.
49 HIE HEART's MIsTRs-ss. B A. Southworth.
50 THE CUEAN HEIREss. By aryA. Denison.
51 Two YOUNG GIRLS. By Alice leming.

62 THE WINGED MEssENGER. B Mrs. (iii-Gwen.

A

81'.

165 h!!! DID NOT LOVE

 

Mason Turner, M. D.
Alice Fle
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w‘ ILEs. e .
mo 8  Jennie Davis Burton.
MANIAC BRID 88:1?ng n.
TEE E. '
Canon: SIsTERs. By Anna E. Porter.
1 JEAIAUET DID. By Alice Flam y .
Tu W ‘3 Stem. B Col. Juan Lew
1% WEIR“ 8m 1;” Angelian
0mm '
WEA'vnns AND  B ' Miss M. B. Brandon.
'CA’XILLIL By Alexander umas.
Tn Two We. By D‘Enne .
YYOUNG WINE. By My Young W e's Husband

Tu No WI'Do’ws. By Annie Thomas.

73 Ross MIcEEL. By Maude Hilton.

74 CECIL CAsTLEEAINE‘s GARE. By Ouida.

75 TEE BLACK LADY '0': DORA. By J. 8. Le Fanu.

.76 CEAEw-ITE TEMPLE. By Mrs: Rowan}

~77 CHRISTIAN OAELET‘h MINTAEE.’ By the author
of " John Halifax, Gentleman.”

78 MY YOUNG BUsnAND. By Myself

79 A QUEEN Almos'r WONEI'

‘ Crowell.
t

sesssarees
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‘ 80 HERLORD AND MAN-rm By Florence Marryat.

8 LUCY TEMPLE.
A IONG TIER AGO. By Meta Orred.
88 PLAYING FOR HIDE STAKES. By Annie Thomas.
8t TEE LAUREL Buss. By the author of “John
Halifax. Gentleman.”

 rary.

101 FOUL PLAY. By Reade and Boucicault.

102 CARITA. By Mrs. Oliphant.

103 A WOMAN HATED. By Charles Reade.

104 AFTER DARK. By Wilkie Collins.

106 HARD TIEEs. B ' Charles Dickens.

106 GRIF. By B. L. arjeon.

107 FENTON’s Quns'r. B Miss Braddon.

108 THREE FEATHERs. y W. Black.

109 JOHN HALIFAX. GENTLEMAN. Miss Mulock.

110 MURPRY‘S MAsTER. By J. Payn.

111 HEAPS OF MONEY. By W. E. Norris.

112 IN MORTAL PERIL. B Mar R. Crowell.

113 THE DEAD SECRET. yW' ie Collins.

114 PLAYING To WIN. By G. M. Fenn.

lib DENIs DUVAL. By W. M. Thacher-a .

116 Too SOON. By Katherine S. M Old.

117 TEE Two DEerNIEs. By Wilkie Collins.

11S AT HIS MERCY. By Corinne Cushman.

119 CECIL‘s TRYsT. By James Payn. - '

120 CLovDs AND SUNEEINE. and 0mm J0me.
STONE. By Charles Reade.

121 VALERIE. By Captain Marx-yet.
122 BOUND BY A SPEIL. By K. Rebak.
123 THE GOLDEN LION or GRAmRE. By An-
thony Trollope. .
124 THE CURATE IN CHARGE. Mrs. Oliphant.
December 8th.
125 THE MIDNIGHT SUN. B Fredrika Bremen
Beady December 15th.
1% Tan PILGRnIs or TEE REINE. E. L. Bulwer.
Ready December Rd.
127 FOUND DEAD. B James Pa ‘
y ReadynDecember 29th.
128 HARRY BEA-moon. By Anthony Trollope.
‘ Ready January 5th.
129 THE FUGITIVEE. B Mrs. Oli hant.
y My January 12th.-
lm TEE BERT or HURRANDG. By James Payn.
Ready January 19th.“
A new luau! every week. . ,
Forsale by all newsdealers, or sent, postage} ,
paid, on receipt of twelve cents. BEADLE 
ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William MIN. Y.

 

. ~r‘a‘g.4\

The Only Young Ladies’ Library of First-Class Copyright Novels Published. Price, Five Cents.

' 85 LED AsrnAY. By Octave Bouillon . l .
86 JANET’s RETENTANCE. By George Eliot.

87 RONANOE or A POOR YOUNG MAN. By Feuilletl
88 A TERRIBLE DEED. ‘By Emma Garrison Jena,
89 A GILDED SIN. ,.
90 THE AUTHOR’s DAUGRTEIL By Mary Hewitt.
91 TEE JILT. By Charles Reade.

92 EILEEN ALANNA. [By Dennis O‘Sullivan.

98 Lovn’s VICTORY. B. L. F eon.

94 THE QUIET HEART. B Mrs. 01
96 LET-mm ARNOLD. B rs. Mars .

101 HANNAI’I. By Miss Mulock.
102 Pm WOETINOTON. By Charles Reade.
103 A TE DEED. By Erskine Boyd. ,‘
104 SRADows ON ms Snow. By B. L. Fadeon.
105 TE: GREAT BOGGARTY DIANOND. 
lawnbmmrowanm. Bynl. _
102’ Peon 2m ByF W. Robinson. 
1m SAD Pom arm REWANOI
113. By George Elliot. Ready Dec?
109 BREAD-AWE“ AND Km. B. '
By 
Ready Dee. m
r ’s BET. B Emilie F. Gallon.
111 ‘TBE 830ml! y y M 
112 A HERO. By Miss Mulock. Ready Jan. 8d.

118? an AND VIRGINIA. From the French a:
Banal-din de St. Pierre. Ready Jan. 10th.».

114 ‘TWAB IN TRAEALGAN‘N BAY. By Walter
Besnnt and James Rice. Ready Jan. 17th...
A new issue ever week.

TEE WAVERLEY LIan is for sale by 
Newsdealers. five cents per copy, or sent y
mail on receipt ofslx cents each.

’ BEADLE AND ADAMS. Pu '
as William street. New?

lio'TnE WANDERING BEIN.

t I:

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