* ,.  WWI I _. °

of First-Class Copyright Novels Published!

Price, but 5 cents each.

 

 

 

 

 

No.45. VOL II. PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST., N. Y.

Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., at Second Class Mall Rates.

Copyrighted in 1880 by BEADLE AND ADAMS.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her Hidden log; or, Love it All Odds.

B Y ARABELLA 80 U TH WOR TH.

CHAPTER I.
THE SQUIRE’S LETTER.

SQUIRE RAVENHALL, throwin
ming softly, like a man at peace

g wide his dressing-room window, hum-
thh himself and all the world, looked

“now vn

1mm on- vov To COME!“

forth over the sweeping lawns and woods of his own estate, and the
view beyond of one of the most lovely bits of woodland scenery in all
Eastshire. ‘ .

It was a bright May morning. A _few days: exceptional heat, for the
month, had been fol owed, the prev10us evening, by a brief though vio-
lent thunder—storm. The only Sign, however, that new remained of the
latter was a superb ile of clouds 1n the north-east. The sky was of a
pure blue, here and t are broken by a small, fleecy drifting fra ment
of nebulae. The sun shone brilliantly, while a fresh breeze ma 9 the
lake that was just visible through the trees down in the hollow ripple
with tin wavelets.

“ We] ,” thought the Squire, a. hale, handsome-looking men} of fifty,

\'p

‘A-‘Mm

2

HER HIDDEN FOE.

w-h s .m...«.

m

 

w-

it ~—-¢

 

with iron-gray hair and mustache, a fresh
complexion, and clear, steady, well—open gray-
eyes, “ what a lovely morning it is!”

Leaning on the window-sill, and gazing
down at the broad gravel terrace beneath, he
whistled.

Instantly two handsome Scotch hounds, fol-
lowed by a Skye terrier, darted from the
house, and lifting their muzzles to the Squire,
barked in delighted recognition.

Then the Skye, getting.on his hind legs,
frantically waved his fore paws, while the
bounds tore with theirs against the wall be-
neath the Squire’s window.

. “Down, Bruce! down, Wallace! Follow
Burnie’s example, you rogues—look, but don’t
touch! Adams will be ready to kill you if you
knock off the shoots of his pet creepers. There,
there! I’m coming!”

As the Squire disappeared, so did the dogs,
and before he could well open his bedroom
door, there the three were to greet him, out-
side. Having administered a caress to each,
the master descendedoto the morning room,
followed by his canine body-guard, who, on
his taking his seat at the breakfast-table, each
adopted a position most advantageous in their
opinion for the receipt of substantial proofs of
their master‘s affection. ’

The Squire, though not of an “exceedingly
merry disposition, was not given to sighing,
yet he sighed now. The morning was so ge-
nially bright that his breakfast table ap ed
more than ordinarily solitary.  a it
would have been pleasant to have had 
one to speak to. v ‘ , ' '

The only other inmate of Ravenhall was Ed-

.. ward Churchill, the Squire’s nephew, and, 'in'

 Cééthe Young gentleman’s belief, as “15° in 80°19

, last letter is i bet

' and un stiflable a

'vty’s in general, his presumptive heir.

He seldom put in an appearance at- the

‘ , .‘cifiquire’s early breakfast, save during the hunt-

ing season—an absence the uncle hardly re-

gretted; for, to use a common phrase, they did,

,not hit their horses at all well together. .
w The Squire, having bestowed an installment
of future donations upon his canine attendants,
drew the letter-bag toward him, and took out
, its contents.

There were several for Edward Churchill,
two betraying a woman’s calligraphy-acne
dashing, large and decided; ‘ the other neat;
graceful, .yet undecided, and bearing the copy

ibook style still about it. , 7
 The Squire indifferently threw them over by
“his nephew’s plate, and inspected his own.

The very first he looked at was also in a we-
man’s hand—striking, elegant writing, with a
marked individuality in its style. .

“Who the deuce is it from?” muttered the
Squire.

.Ladies did not favor him with epistles often,

and this was quite strange to him. He turned ' r

it curiously, this way and that, until his
glance rested on the post-mark, “St. Heller’s,.
Jersey.” '

, It but increased  mystification. To his
knowledge, he Was acquainted with no one
there. Finally, he broke the seal, and the mys-
tiflcation. at once began to get clear. ,

The letter itself was not in the same hand as
that of the envelope; it was a man’s writing,
and, though faint and unsteady, seemed famil-
iar to the Squire. .

He lookedat the conclusion of the last page,
and exclaimed, “Good gracious! it’s from Mar-
tin Heath!” --

Then he turned to the first page and read:—

' “SEA VIEW VILLA, St. Clement’s.
“MY Dun. Ramsay—

“Yon will be surprised, perhaps a little offended,
at once again beholde my writ

si ence—consi
were 1 5 together, entered Oxford to
gether had our first ‘ bump ’ supper thin its classic
walls. I feel now,‘now that we are doomed never
again in life to meet, how wrc I have been. Your

ore me, seven years 0.

Do you remem r it? You had heard that Ingad

been ill, and, with that im ulslve generosl ' hich

is your nature, wrote too er sytthnpath'yg , 

_ * e ‘eve s

ance. I ‘ Iwaeon of testing
‘ armwrdgedi

er, and to-

     
  

  

 

,afterso lo .
fl 118

 

“ Hardly had I landed at Hieres than a relapse of
my malady set in. On recovery, though my will
was good, and much as I wished to learn about you,
Iwas hysically incapable of the exertion of cor
respon ence. .

“ 1!? doctors ordered me to Algiers, where I lost
my ear wife. Then I was recommended S
then Madeira—in fact, Ravenhall, for seven years
have been vainly pur'sui health.

“ Finally, I was order my native air. You know
what I that means, Ravenhall. A entle way of
an. i , “No hope.’ I was to break is e joumeygfi
a rie residence in this charming 1s1and. I sh
never leave it. The end has arrived; I feel that I
have buta short space on earthto live; my weakness

increases dailfi.

“ Death, wh e it brings me peace and release from
a weary life sickness, b but one anxiety. That
is a great one—my da ter, my sweet darling
Ianthe, my gentle com on and nurse! Whether

youare married, and ve children of your own "

the Squire’s brow clouded, his lips contracted), “I
am unaware though the natural supposition is that
you are and ave; then I know, when you look upon
your own fair daughters, you will compassionate

II .
m!‘ gwi to my traveli for so long, I leave her,
my poor anthe, utter] a one and friendless, almost
a stra r to her own and. Ravenhall, will you be
a a an to my child?

‘ She is not rich, but I do not leave her penniless.
Will you look alittle after her and afford the ben-
eflt of your advice to my poor friendless little girl?

“ MARTIN Hum."

The Squire had read with considerable emo-
tion. He recalled those rather riotous but
very mirthful “bump " suppers, and the Ox-
ford days altogether, in which handsome Heath
had always been the gayest, lightesthearted,
and a trifle the wildest in an innocent way, and
the favorite with all, even the grave Dons,
though they shook their heads at times over
his mirthful pranks. ‘

Rising, the Squire rung the bell violently;
then, crossing to a desk, began filling in a tele-
gram form thus:

“ Fear nothing, dear old friend! I follow this im-
mediately. Expect me.”

“ Tell Hills to saddle a horses—the fleetest,”
said the Squire to the footman who had an-
swered his summons. ‘-‘ I want this telegram
wired without a second’s unnecessary delay.
Then bid my valet at once pack my portman-
teau. I am going to Southampton.” '

‘-‘ To Southampton! That’s a rather sudden
determination, isn’t it,‘ sir? Thought you
promised old farmer Styles to look over those
new acres of his!”

The speaker had sauntered into the room as

the footm'an,‘ with the telegram,  it. He
was a young man of about .flve-and—twenty,

fair of complexion, and his rather heavy build
modified by his hight. His features were good;
the worst, his mouth, which would have de-
clared the nature of the man,  hidden by
along mustache of a straw   . edjstrong-
ly with red. His eyes, of a  "in, were
slightly prominent, and of a by’ no means
pleasing expremion, a defect concealed by the
lids being habitually half-drooped.

Thus Edward Churchill was considered by
the fair sex in general as a remarkably hand-
some men, a fact of which he was anything
but ignorant.

“ You must carry my apologies to farmer
Styles, Edw . ” replied the Squire, sharing
between the three dogs the contents of his
plate, _ for ,which he had lost all appetite.
“Serious and important business necessitates
my starting“ once for Jersey.”

“Jersey!” ejaculated the nephew, raising
his lids; then, “Trust there’s nothing wrong,
sir? You hardly look yourself!”

“ I have received‘sad news respecting an old
college friend who was very dear to me. His
letter will explain better than I can.”

He passed it across the table and Edward
Churchill read.

“ Humphi " Like the world—writes when he
wants something,” he remarked, in conclusion.

“Then unlike Martin Heath,” put in the
Squire, somewhat sharply-“ an upright, high-
minded man, generous to a fault, he. would
give the coat oi! his back to serve a friend.”

"‘You intend to go to Jersey, sir, to see the
your: lady, Ianthe—pretty name—through
her  culties, and comfortably settled, as Mr.
Heath requests?” .

“I am going’to Jersey, to once again see

'Ianthe Heath’s descent upon Ravenhall, took

 

my old friend, and to bring his poor child
back with me here,”
“Here, sir?” . l p -' --
“Yes, here. Henceforth, Edward, this will
be Ianthe Heath’s home, if she will accept it,”
replied the Squire. “She will lose a good
father. As far as I am capable, I will supply

his place. I suppose you see no objection?”
“I, sir? How could I? Of course, none in

the least!” answered the nephew, quickly. '
But his brow contracted, for he, in his own

weecret heart, did see a very‘egreat objection.

Ravenhall was not entailed, and the Squire
could will it as he pleased. '

“ Her father’s nurse!” he reflected. “I trust
she’s some strait-laced, tract-giving, plain
dowdy.”

Then it occurred to him to inquire the girl’s
age.
“I have been thinking of that,” remarked
the Squire. “ After quitting college I learned
about as little of poor Heath’s life for some
years as he did of mine. But I recollect, in
the year 185— meeting Dick Sadgrove, a
mutual friend, at the club in St. J ames’s when
he told me Heath was married. So, possibly,
his daughter might now be about sixteen. or
seventeen.” ,

“A girl!” put in Edward Churchill, with‘an
imperceptible shrug, as he began to look care-
lessly at his letters. “Why, sir, you’ll have to
send her to school, or get masters 1”

“If “she require masters, she shall have
them,” was the response.

After that, silence ensued. The Squire

crossed to the desk, and Edward Churchill

mechanically, his mind being engrossed yet by

up his. letters. He gave them but a cursory
glance until he came to the one with the dashing
writing. He smiled, and was about, to break
the see], when he noticed his other female cor-
respondent’s epistle. A frown took. the place
of the smile, and, crushing the letter in his
hand, he thrust it unopened into his pocket.

For a moment he seemed hesitating whether
to open the rest, but finally placed them all in
his pocket, hurriedly concluded his breakfast;
then, rising, approached the window, after
taking his hat from a side-table.

“What time do you leave Ravenhall, un-
cle?” he inquired.

“I find,that if I start by the 1.50 train I
shall reach Southampton in good time for the
mail~packet,” replied the Squire. “ Therefore,
after all, I can ride over to farmer‘Styles’s.” ,

"‘I’m not sorry, sir, to confess the truth, for
I had half an engagement this morning.”

“With the charming widow?” remarked the
Squire, dryly. “ You go there very frequent
ly. Have a care. Handsome women of forty
are dangerous.” '

“You scarcely find her so, uncle,” said the
nephew, with a laugh; “though not flattering
for me to confess, I believe Mrs. Mortimer ad-
mires no man like she does you, while you—”

“ Prove an exception to the masculine rule
here, and dislike her,” rejoined the Squire,
quietly.

H Wh
yourself.” .

“As there are elective aflinities, so are there
elective antipathies. I dislike and mistrust
Mrs. Mortimer; and when Ianthe‘ Heath is an

 

I

xcuse me, sir, must be a puzzle to

inmate here, shall forbid her to form more '

than a passing acquaintance with the widow.”

“ That’s rather unjust. Mrs. Mortimer, who
is very handsome—” ' ,

“ In her style, which is not mine. To use a
vulgar phrase, she cannot for real beauty hold
a candle to Mary Blair. By the way,” pro-‘
ceeded the Squire, fastening down anenvelope,
and not perceiving the color that had suddenly
spread over his companion’s check, “has her
father got any nearer perfecting his invention,
by which mankind is to travel at twice the
rate they do now, by half the power of steam
force? The man, I fear, will end in a mad-
house.” / . c

“ If he doesn’t blow himself up before,”
sneered the nephew.

 

 

 

.n u: x 

 

 

 

 

.St. Clement’s

\ .. 1..-“-.. .

HER' HIDDEN FOE.

3

 

 

“ I hope that pretty daughter of his will be
suitably married first. You will be back, Ed-
ward; before I leave?” ’

“ I shall return for luncheon.”

As, stepping through the window, he strolled
leisurely across the lawn, the Squire, resting
on his desk, looked thoughtfully after him.

“He’s my own sister’s son,” he muttered;
“and yet '1 always feel there is something
strangely antagonistic between us. One thing,
hexis selfish, and, I fear, rather wild still. The
fault may, in a measure, be mine. Fifty is not
always right in its judgment of twenty-five.
If he were to wed and ssttle down, I dare say
he would make a very respectapr ‘memb‘er of
society. I wander he has never thought of
marriage. “ His is just the nature that levee
early. At one time I feared the widow would
seekto hook him, having failed to land me.”
And the Squire broke into an amused laugh.
“She played 'her cards too-openly. She‘let
me see her hand, and, discovering that I’saw
it, favored me with her secret hatred, though
she likes me so very much. No, Ted’s safe, be-
ing only my heir by my will, and the widow
would land a gold-fish.” ‘

He paused awhile, then murmured: “ I won- .

der what kind of a girl is Ianthe Heath? If
Ted should happen to like her—”

And the Squire’s thdughts grew busy in
building air castles, which the future was to
scatter to the four winds, or render substantial
tenements. ‘ ,‘

Meanwhile, Edward Churchill no sooner was
beyond sight of the house than, taking out the
crushed letter, he opened, read it, and again
frowning, crushed it a second time in‘his hand.

“Confound it! What does she mean by
writing? Docs she think we can always be
meeting?” he muttered. “ I might as well be
tied to her apron-string.” '

Swinging half round, be altered his course,
and left the Ravenhall grounds 'bya diflerent
gate than that he had intended.

After a quarter of an hour’s quick walking,
making his way through a tangled copse, he
reached a retired portion ‘of the river, thickly
overhung by willows. ‘ ’ u . ‘

Beneath one, which almost concealed her,
was a young girl of exceeding beauty, enhanced,
ratherthan decreased, by her plain attire. '

She leaned thoughtfully against the tree,
watching some floating leaves eagerly, as if
they contained her destiny. -

 ' sound of the creaking boughs, she
looked up, then sprung quickly forward.

“Ah, Edward!” she exclaimed; “ you have
come?” ' v ' _

“ Yes; I’ve come,” he responded, shortly.
“ Whatever made you write, Mary?” _

.“Because I had not seen you fora week,”
she smiled,’placing her hand fondly on his am.
“And, dear husband, I was getting so—so
weary 1,, _ , I , _

 

CHAPTER II. p

i run squmn TAKES A vow. ‘,

Tun morning was bright and exhilarating
when the mail steamer in which the Squire
was a passenger, rounding No at Point,
came in sight of St. Aubin‘s Bay, d finally
moved up alongside Victoria Pier, which was
crowded by Jersey residents, half-pay officers,
and half-pay widows. -

The passage had been a line one. The Squire
had felt no ill-eflect from it, and now hastened
ashore; ‘

Making his way through the crowd of men
who were urging the superior attractions of
the Royal Hotel, Brea’s Boarding House. the
Golden Apple. and others, he entered one of
the ilys waiting, and gave the direction—Sea
View Villa, St. Clenient’s. ‘

Anxious as he was, the Squire could not but
be struck by the charming island—its forts,
the. quaint. irregular'row of. houses forming
Havre des ,Pas, and the firm, golden'sands.
Five minutes later, the fly was traversing the
reach-and not five minutes after
bad halted before a detached house, standing a
littlerbask inia ga’rdefi,gupon the 'stncco front

,- s

 

of which was the name—Sea View Villa. The
Squire, as he looked, dropped back on his seat,
a disappointment at his heart. ‘
“ Too late!” he muttered.
'rli" ‘

Alighting, bidding the flyman wait, ap-
proaching the villa, he knocked. The door
was opened by a neat little servant.

“ Mr. Heath—” began the Squire.

“ 0h, sir, he—” And dear Mi Heath—oh,
sir!" (sob.) “ P’r’a'ps, sir, ” (sob), “ you’re the
gentleman as sent the telegraph, and who she’s
been‘ expecting?”

“.I am,” answered the Squire.
card to her, my good girl.”

The maid, showing him into a parlor, as-
cended to the upper' floor. The Squire walked
to the window. ‘ ‘ '

He regretted not having been in time to see
Martin Heath, and was rather embarrassed at
his position as rdian to a young girl who
was a perfect anger to him. What should
he say if she s‘aw’him—w’hat do? .He grew
more anxious every moment. He pictured his
ward a slim, fair, pretty, delicate girl, who
would be unable to speak for tears.

“ Poor little thing!” be reflected; “ how
shallI cOmIort her? I’m so strange at this
kind of thing.”

Then he was aware the deer had opened,
and there wasothe swirr of a soft dress. The
Squire turned and halted, surprised, as he look-
ed upOn Ianthe Heath. ' ‘

How rarely do the pictures of our imagina-
tion come near the truth, and how greatly are
we astonished that it should be sol

Squire Ravenhall beheld before him, not a
child, but a woman, tall, graceful, queenly of
stature, dark, with features firmly and ex-
quisitely molded, and large lustrous eyes that,
in their beautiful depths, showed that their
owner'had learnt thesad experience of anxie—
ty, sorrow. 'Never had' the Squire beheld a
face so handsome, and at the same time so
womanly gentle. . ~‘

“ How good—how kind—how very kind of
you to come!” murmured Ianthe, in a low
tone, advancing, her 'ttm long slender hands
extended. “I would that ”—-and her lips
quivered—“I were not the only one, Mr.
Ravenhall, to thank you!” ‘

“.Would, my dear young friend,” respond-
ed the Squire, with emotion, as he pressed the
small hands in his, “that I could have been
quicker, or death slower! But your father
got my telegram?” ; ‘ ' '

‘-‘ He did. Your name, Mr. Ravenhall, has
been constantly on his lips. I cannot describe
to you the anxiety ‘with' which he awaited
your reply.” ‘

“I trust he never doubted me?” remarked
the Squire softly.

“Never—never! When your telegram ar-
rived his look brightened, as it need to in the
old days when he was well and happy. Draw-
ing me down to his pillow, he whispered, ‘My
darling, I fear nothing new. I do not leave
you alone. "In trouble, or- doubt, you will
have a good man to consult.’ ” ~

_ The Squire turned toward the window, and
drew forth his kerchief.
V Ia'nthe had related her father's words with a
quiet simplicity that was deeply touching.
Steadying her voice, which had failed her, she
added, ‘“ For that happiness which you gave
him, Mr. Ravenhall, I shall hold myself your
debtor for life.”

' “ Would that I could have done. more!” re-
'marked the Squire, again taking her hand.
“ Would that! could have told him how gladly
I accept the trust he has confided to me!”

“I will endeavor not much to trouble you,”
said Ianthe, trying to smile. “ Only of some
things I am so ignorant. My income is suf-
ficient for my need, and it washny dear
father’s thought that you would kindly advise
me as to my future. ” .

“Had he formed any plans for you, Miss
Heath!”

“Yes; that I should. try  find some nice,
respectable Sfamily with whom I could live-"

“ The poor, poor

“ Take my

’to her.

 

“ Miss Heath,” put in the Squire, “that fam- , .
ily, I trust, is already found. There is a roof
and welcome waiting for you in England. As
my ‘ward, ‘my dear old friend’s child, you shall
have no other home than Ravenhall. I ask but
one return. I am wifeless, childless; let me
take Martin Heath’s place. Let'me be to you
as a father.”

Ianthe’s lovely eyes looked bewilderineg
into his. Then, as she read there the
generous sincerity that actuated the speech,
they suffused with tears, and she murmuredfi
“Oh, this is too much! What can I say? How
thank you? How ever show my gratitude for
such generosity to me, a stranger?”

“ Every friendship must have a beginning,”
said the Squire. '

As he spoke, he gently rested his hand on
the girl’s bowed head. Ianthe, removing it,
kissed it gratefully. Her heart was too full
for speech. '

What was it in the touch of her lips, that
caused the Squire so violently to start, the
color to quit his cheeks, and to suddenly avert '
his eyes?

Had her attitude and his recalled some sad
memory of the never-to-be-buried past?

In anytcase, could Edward Churchill have
seen and heard, it would hardly have rendered
him at ease in mind. '

The Squire entered upon his office of guard- ‘
ion at once, taking all trouble and responsibil-
ity ofl Ianthe’s hands. It was a great relief
She grieved for her father much, but
Squire Ravenhall’s presence was a great com-
fort to her. His age, his appearance, natural-
ly won confidence, reliance; his tender con-
sideration respect, nay, aflection; while the
more the Squire saw of his beautiful ward
the more he felt a certain void in his life wadf
being rapidly and pleasantly filled. If he had ,. ~
had such a child, he would have been devoted”? V .. -:
to her. Why not, then, equally love this hifiw.‘ ~ -‘
adopted daughter? ~ , i

t V . a a ~. V
to

 

How satisfactory it would he were his ’
nephew to love Ianthe, and they should sucglfi
coed to Ravenhall together, occurred to him. ’

“Who can tell?” he soliloquized, pacing the
sands, one evening, before the villa, the only
other sounds beside his own tread being the,
soft-breaking waves and the sand shrimps hop— '
ping in myriads about his feet. “ She is
friendless and alone, while there is no denying
that Ted is handsome. Twenty-two—just the v
ago." And the Squire turned toward the light:
ed parlor window wherein he knew Ianthe
was seated.

She was so, her thoughts far away in a sun-
nier land, where had happened one of the most
pleasant episodes of her life. Ah, how brief it
had been!

The Squire knew, by her own confession, ,
that she was friendless. He had asked if there i
was any one she would like to be informed of ,
Martin Heath’s death, or to attend his funeral. k 

“Thank you, no,” she replied, sadly. “I   . ,. if
have no relations, and, owing to our moving 
so often from one place to another, we made 5
few friends—none whom I need inform.” 3

“ We will soon have friends enough in i
Eastshire. It’s a pretty and a sociable place," 
he rejoined, pleasantly, noting the faint color 3
that rose to her cheek, and attributing it to a. '1
sensitive feeling at her loneliness.

As soon as free to leave, guardian and ward
quitted the island for England. a

It was late before they arrived, and last-he » 5
was much fatigued. The Squire led ber‘ ‘
through the hall into the pleasant dining-room, . #4
where, taking her hands, and lightly touching ’ ‘
her forehead with his lips, he said, gayly,
“ Welcome home, my chil .f’ .

Then turning to Edward Churchill, who
stood there looking on, with that uneasiness
yet about him, added, “lanthe, this is my
nephew. You will, I trust, be the best of ‘1
friends.” ‘ ‘ ' .

“ Indeed, I hope so!” smiled'Ianthe, gazing
not unsdmiringly on the handsome young man
before her, to whom she _ «

 

a
1
l
i
l
l

   

 

 

4

'  x .
M s

HER HIDDEN FOE.

 

 

Heath altering that hope,” responded the gen-
tleman; adding within himself as he gazed
upon the new guest’s tall, graceful figure, clad
in sables that enhanced the dazzling clearncss
of her complexion, “What a splendid wol
man! Beats the widow hollow! Now I won-
der if it’s my destiny to like or hatexher? Has
she brought peace or war? That, I fancy,
rests with the governor. He seems remarka-
bly sweet on her just at present.”

That same evening, at about sunset, an hour
.after the boat had arrived at Jersey, fromlst.
Male, 9. man of 1about eighty-and-twenty,
handsome, with fair and clearly cut features, in
figure, carriage and dress a gentleman, stop-
ped at the gate of the Sea View Villa. After
ins ecting it a moment, he muttered, “I’m
su e that fellow at the post-office said there
was onlv one Heath in the island, and... that
they lived at Sea View Villa, St. Clement’s.
This is St. Clement’s, and this is Sea View
Villa.” \

He entered the garden and knocked.

The same neat maid answered him. -

“ Mr. and Miss Heath did live here, sir. But
the poor gentleman died, and was buried yes.
terday.” ,

The stranger was overcome by the sudden-
ness of the intelligence. “Poor Ianthel” he
,thought; . then said, “ Where is Miss Heath

new?” ’

“ A gentleman, an old friend of Mr. Heath’s,

ythink, sir, came over from England to her in

.Iafier trouble, and she’s gone back with him to-
“ y w

'fdh.

    

“How glad 1 am that she, had some one
with her—some one to take care of her,” thought
the stranger. “ Could you oblige me with
Miss Heath’s address? I, too, am a friend.”

, “ I don’t quite recollect it, sir; but, if you’ll
Wait, I’ll ask missis.”

Returning, the maid handed the stranger 1K

“slip of paper.
 The “ missis” had kindly written it down.

5,, .
“2,: With earnest thanks, the stranger hurried

away, and crossed the road to the sands.
Ianthe Heath’s loss had affected him much.
“ Oh, if I could only have arrived a week

.yr:,%ooner,” he reflected. Then he looked at the

igéyfpaper and read, “Aubrey Ravenhall, ~~Esq.,
’ "‘eyfiavenhall, Eastshire. -

g erer blow to the stranger.

The address was evidently another and a
He reeled be-

 ,th it. Then, his brow darkening, hemp

c

v“.
V

1  aimed through his set teeth, “ Ianthe beneath
".‘his’roof I Then may I renounce all hope of
ever meeting her again, for not even for her
Wdilld I cross his thresholdl”
Before dawn, however, the stranger, Mark

. Glendenning, had changed his mind. . Raven-

hall was not all Eastshire, and to visit the
county was neither doing service to nor re-
ceiving service from the Squire.

“ To any other spot than Ravenhall I have
as much right as be,” reflected the young man.
“Should we by chance meet, it will be as
strangers.” ,

So, Mark Glendenning was a passenger in

.r .. the Southampton boat next morning.

   
 
 

 

CHAPTER III. .
IANTHE MAKES A DANGEROUS ENEMY.

Mas. HAMILTON was a tall, stout, handsome
woman, of a little ovor forty. She was a
blonde, vivacious and witty. A woman with
a quick discernment of character, and who

.wcould skillfully adapt her tone and manner to
any she‘might hold in conversation.

She dressed in taste, though a trifle floridly,
as is the case sometimes with large women.
With the opposite'sex she was a favorite, for
she could flatter judiciously.

She gavenice little parties in her pretty
roBms, was an excellent hostess, with just that
suspicibn of Bohemiauism which made her re-
unions aIWays a success. She-had a nice little
property, had, traveled, and seen much so-
ciety. ‘_ agragip',‘ ‘ ' ~ _ »

‘One morniiim‘ipfiy a week after Iauthe

_ Heath’s arrival at,  venhall, Mrs. Mortimer;
 N, , ,3, .

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.“M: 1 “be
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attired in a morning toilet of blue cashmere,
trimmed with old lace, sat in her tiny boudoir,
opening onto the garden, arranging with her
soft, white fingers various colored wools.for
some tapestry work. The sound of horses’
hoofs on . the road caused her to look up. She
smiled on recognizing Edward Churchill.

“ Coming here, of course,” she thought.
“Well, if I failed to fascinate the Squire, I
have succeeded in obtaining the friendship of
the nephew. .Not quite flattering, considering
the uncle is a sensible, worthy man; andthe
other—well, might be any thing not worthy if
his brain were not too heavy to plan. Here'he
comes!” ' r _

She had heard the gate click, and knew her
guest, as usual, had hitched his bridle to the
gate-post. -

,Looking up, with a smile, she called: “Do
not trouble to go round; come this way, Mr.
Churchill. You are too old a friend to stand
on ceremony. , Shall I not ring for Robert to
take Whitethorn to the stables?”

‘f No, many thanks. . My visit must be a.
short one,” he replied, stepping into the room,
and shaking the widow’s hand—“ unfortunate-
ly,” he added. ' o

“Unfortunately, indeed! I was just think-
ing of you. ~You know the saying, ‘Speak of
angels.”’ .

“I fear, a fallen angel, in my case, Mrs.
Mortimer,” laughed the visitor, taking his place
on an ottoman near her.

“Well,”--with a shrug of her well-formed
shoulders—“you are aware there is another
version! But we’re losing time, and I have
been so anxious tomes you.”

“Honored, I’m surel” remarked Edward
Churchill, balancing his well-brushed hat on
his gloved hand. “ May I ask why?”

“ Whyi—a woman’s curiosity, of coursel I
«want to know all about Miss Heath. I’m told
she is lovely. Is she?” ,

it Very. 17 -

, “Then, as a natural sequence, you are al-
ready over head and ears in love with her, and
have no objection to the increase in the Raven-
hall establishment?” ,

“ Humph! I don’t know about that,” replied
Edward' Churchill, dryly. “That’s as it may
turn out. The Squire is a great deal too fond
of her to suit my boo .”

“ Gracious! you do not mean that he would
give Ravenhall a mistress?” cried the widow,
dropping her wools.

' “Marry her--hel” exclaimed the guest,
bursting into a loud, amused laugh. .“ No, in-
deed; though it’s a dmll idea; the Squire is not
a marrying mam” ’

“Don’t be so sure of that, my friend,” re-
marked the widow, slowly noddingher head.
“Gentlemen of fifty do, at times, very foolish
acts. Trust me, they are quite as dangerous as
widows.” _

“ And are widows dangerous?”

“ A cynical world so reports them. But
the Squire and Miss Heath? I am all ears.”

“ Well, it isn’t your suggestion that'I fear!”

“ Then what do youi—that is, if I may
hear?”

“Well, I don’t mind telling you, Mrs. Morti-
mer,” replied Edward Churchill, balancing his
hat now by the brim, and looking gravely
into it. “ I know I may trust you. And you
are the only person living in, whom vaould
confide.” ’ a

“ Thanks! I shall not take that as flattery,
.but earnest, and prove myself worthy of your
confidence,” said the widow. “ Go on.” ‘

“ Then ’the matter lies in this fashion.
Though I consider myself the governor’s heir,
he never has right-down acknowledged me in
that light; so, as I have not the slightest legal
claim to Ravenhall, he can leave it to anybody
he pleases. New, you see, Miss Heath has
come here as his adopted daughter; he treats
her as one-23. great deal more like one than he
ever treated me as a son.”

“I have ’heafi” put in the widow, “that

your horses do . " always run easily together.”
“ That's just it.  the Squire gets to love

., .. .s , giant
r =1 :1  :w. .

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“is? __ i ». Auk.

 

Ianthe Heath really as a. daughter, to say the
least, he’ll leave her a pretty large share out of
the estate, if he doesn’t leave her all, and more-
ly an income to me.” 7

“Were there any danger of that,” remarke
the widow, quietly, “ surely, Mr. Churchill,
you have the remedy in your own hands?” .

“How so?” he inquired, curiously.

‘,‘ Why, marry Ianthe Heath yourself.”

A starth expression came over- the listener,
followed by one of slight confusion. His color
came and went, his eyes were again fixed on
his hat, as he rejoined, “ Ah! I wish I could!” I

“And why couldn’t you? To a handsome
man like you,” said the widow, with her touch
of Bohemianism, “all things in the way of
feminine conquest should be possible.”

He looked at her as she bent over her wools,
paused, pulled his mustache, then added,
gloomily, “ Ah, but that isn’t possible!” I .

The widow, struck by the tone, bent her
gaze, with sharp, sudden scrutiny, upon him.
She was a woman who had seen somethin  of
the seamy side of the world, and believed ' at
she understood her visitor. , ' ,

“I think I comprehend,” she said. “Tut!
what you men consider obstacles may not
always be so, or may be got over with a little
trouble. In some cases a woman’s advice is
invaluable. I do not seek your confidence,
Mr. Churchill, though I should respect it as a
sacred trust, and in the true spirit of a friend,
would give you my advice and assistance.”

“You are very good, he rejoined, with a
nervous laugh, “ but I haven’t said that I had
a confidence to make.” ‘ '

“True. I was judging from your manner,”
remarked the widow quietly. “ Pardon me.
Still the ‘ isn’t possible’ yet remains to me a
mystery.” I '.

She resumed the sorting her wools. Edward
Churchill, glancing furtively toward her, ob-,
served that she looked grave, that her brow_
was slightly contracted. He really liked and;
believed in the widow, who had great influ-
ence over young men, who, while admiring,
also felt confidence in her power to advise. ,

“ I hope I have not oflended you?" he said.

“Offended me!” smiled Mrs. Mortimer, her
brows raised. _“ Good gracious, no! What
made you think that?” ' .

“ You looked so serious.” ,

“ Did I?” remarked the widow innocently.

.“ Well, I was seriousrfor I was thinkinqulf a i
. serious matter. You have placed your position,

Mr. Churchill, in quite a new, light to me.”

“How do you mean, Mrs. Mortimer?"

“ Why. in regard to Miss Heath. Youwill
excuse me if I take the liberty of an old friend,
and speak my opinion frankly?”

“I should be thankful if you would,” he re-
joined, with fervor. ' '

“Then I am anxious about you. No one
knows so well as a woman the influence of a
woman, especially when the lady is young and
handsome, and the subject worked upon'midv
dle-aged, not to say elderbv, I alivays thought
Ravenhall entailed.”

“ That’s the worst of it—it is not. Also, you
see, I don’t hear even the name—and the
Churchills were never favorites of the Squire’s.”

“ Humph!” murmured the widow, reflective—
ly. “ How vexing these disturbing influences
are! Everything was going on so nicely until
Miss Heath’sarrival.; Mind, I don’t mean to
accuse her of design. She may be as innocent
of.greed as possible, but she can’t help her
youth, her beauty, and the sentiment that
hangs around her position—they are her weap-
ons, and must be, despite herself.”

“ Yes; you’re right, Mrs. Mortimer,” broke
in Edward Churchill. “ I don’t behave Ianthe
Heath knowingly makes use of them, but she
can’t help it. Already she’s everything to the
governor. He- seems another man in these
few days. He rides, drives, visits with her;
does nothing without telling her; leaves every-
thing to her. Yes, hang it !”--and, starting up,
he crossed to the window—“she’s as;
mistress of Ravenhall already. If it’s like this
now, what will it be in the end?”

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“ I saw all this at your first. words,” said the
widow, quietly, but fur-lively, watching her

guest as he stood against the framework of the . g l
: all done quite hurriedly. I’ll tell you the whole

window, his look turned to the floor, his hand
pulling his mustache. It was a, handsome, but
a slightly heavy, selfish. countenance. “ Hence
my marriage suggestion, which, however, you
say is impossible.”

“‘ Utterly.” , , g .

“Which means that you care for some one
better. Oh, love, what sacrifices we make for
you i” 5 p , _

‘,‘ It must be a strong love indeed tocause a
fellow to let slip such an, estate and property
as Ravanhall.” . ~ ; . . .

“Then you’re not in IOVe? You would wed

Miss Heath to morrow, it—if it were ,possi- _‘

ble?”

"-‘ Ah, that I would!” he answered. 

The widow reused. He looked at her doubt~
fully. His lips opened once or twice to speak,
but he“ said nothing. . _ ,

Rising and approaching him, Mrs. Mortimer
said, gravely, “ Listen to me, Edward Churchill.
Your position is very serious. I seeit in your
manner more than your words. Can! nothing
he done? Will you trust me, confide in me?
I am not devoid of intellect; I will help you if
I can: You must not lose Bavenhall without

“ an efiort to retain it.” :

He looked at her, still playing with his mus-
tache, nervously. . , a

“ I’d like to trust you—I know I might,
safely enough—you’d never betray my confi-
dence. Still—”

“You do not know how to begin?” smiled
the widow encouragingly, putting her hand on
his arm; “ Let me use my woman’s skill, and
guess. .‘ You have got tangled in some foolish

love afiair, of which you have repented, but ,
- :Mortimer, rising with alacrity.

honor—” I ,l ._ . I

‘ “It .is worse than» that!” he broke infarct
lookingathe'r. V 1  .> » _

“Worse?” . , a '

“Yes, a hundred times. _ Mind, you have,
promised to keep my secrete—J am already
married, Mrs. Mortimer! There—the cat is
out of the bag!” . -

“Married! You!” cried the widow; then,
in surprise, stepping back, she. resumed her"
see.th thecouch. ‘ v " ~ . -

“Yes,” he rejoined, sullenly; “that’s a dif—e
ficulty I don’t think even your skill can get me
out of.” v .

She did not answer at once, only looked at
him; reading him carefully. Then she said,
quietly, “I don’t "know. Come, sit down and
tell me all about it.. Becollect, our, doctors
and lawyers must be as our confessors; we
must Ihidernothing'from themif we really ex-
pect their ai .” ‘

A, The‘oalm, self-reliant tones  such a ring ’

of encouragement and authority in them, that
Edward » flhurchill, having made the first
plunge, never thought of disobeying them.
Then and there he passively surrendered him-
Eskimo thewidow’s hands. He sat down near
. er. ’

“Of course, you have committed the act of » -

a madman, and  repent,” began. - “ Of
course, too, she who has damn you ' into
trouble is pretty, but beneath you» in; birth, or
you wouldnot try to co your union?”
“ That’s true. If beauty were an excuse for
my folly, I had it. She’s. the prettiest girl in
all Eaetshire.” r -
v “ You don’t mean -Mary Blair?" cried the
J widow. . '4 . r-
” "I do. You’ve hit it.” . , 7:
“Not wonderful with such a claw. The
daughter of crazy Blair, the blacksmith! Love
 might; but however in your pusition
:didyou come to marry her?” ' 4 .

" “Because I loved haw—because at the
maxim ’I would have done anything to make'her
elm e.  w w ‘ w -

“ Do you love her as ardently new?” ' ’

“ n is likely?" he reissued, with a short, he. a

‘ table laugh. “I’m not the am men, who has
committed a folly andrepented ofit.”
“Not by hundreds,” remarked! the widow,

 

watch.
zmeet them—that is, her and the governor-at

,et

 

dryly. “Who knows of your marriage but
yourselves, may I ask?” ,
,.,,“Only the fellow who married us. It was
main,” I

“Mary Blair, with all her simplicity, knew
well how to take care of herself," smiled the
widow, after she had listened. “ She was
firm; yoquere week. But you have not told
me how you were married.” .

“. Just at that time a ,Iellow was staying
with me from Oxford. He hadn’t taken orders,
or hadn’t got a flying-ea half-fledged parson,
in fact, though I didn’t tell Mary Blair so—
and he performed the ceremony for us.”
“Then in my opihion, you may be safe.”
“In what way?” he, asked, glancing up
quickly. . g . 1 , _ i

“In this. Should ' necessity occur—the
threatened loss of Raveuhall through your
being tied to, this designing piece ’of simplicity,

.for.instance——in,.my_zopinion‘ legally it might be

. e.” -

, = “Do you reallyafihillk. that!” he.”de éaéér'

ly- . ;
“lode,” replied the widow, confidently.
“At least, it would be wise to obtain legal
opinion. I should advise, you to 'do that.
Think over it, and watch how matters progress
at Ravenhall. I should like muchlto see Miss

proved no marriag

A Heath.”

“Why not do so?’ Let me introduce you!”
exclaimed Edward Churchill, consulting his
“1n half an hour I have promised to

the cross-roads. Are you not riding or driving

this morning? You might go in in that direc-

tion. I should be pleased to escort you thus

far.” _ '
“Thanks; I will - do so,” answered Mrs.

f‘ Though a

woman, you shall .see I can make arapidtoil-
7’ ', ’ , .

The widow was ‘ as good as her  She

descended, both elegantly and carefully attired,

just as her pony-carriage, with its attendant
tiny groom, appeared at the gate._ , ‘
Edward Churchill handed her in; then
mounting, rode by her side along the" shady
way to where the tour roads met. That from

Ravenhall and that from Greenbank Villa

formed two, sides, gas it were, of an angle. A As
the pony-carriage partyreached the place of
rendezvous, the‘ Squire and . Ianthe on horse-

back neared it also. Abruptly they met. Had

the Squire desired to avoid an introduction,
it would have been impossible without down-
right rudeness. _ _
He raised his hat. I At the same moment
Ianthe looked surprised, and, with cold hauteur,
slightly‘backed herihorse. . v » ' '
Edward Churchill, failing to observe it,
said, “ Miss Heath, allow me the pleasure of in-
troducing you to Mrs. Mortimer. ” I.
The widow, leaking atu'the girl straight,
started; then, with acharming smile leaning
forward, said, .‘.‘ Inthink, Miss Heath and I have
met before. We “sold friends”: , -
“I beg your pardon, madam,” responded
Ianthe, icily.  “ Il‘believe we havemet but
once, then were not introduced- We are not
even acquaintances.” . , .v ' ,.~
‘ Ending with a slight inclination, she moved

her horse on. The Squire followed her.

“ You know Mrs. Mortimer, Ianthe,” he said.
“As you heard me‘ say, sir, we met but
once, at the house of a mutual acquaintance.
0n dear papa’s finding that she was one o! the
guests, he retired" as early as he could. She

was not a. person whose society he would allow

me to be in. Does she reside here?”

“ Yes. She isa widow.” é

“ Is she? In Paris her husband was alive,
but she was divorced.” r -

“Was it she whofiled the petition?” inquired
the Squire, curiously. . _ ,

“No, sir; her husband.” , -

"‘Y‘ou .lmowMissHeatthbadolso asked
Edward Churchill of Mrs. :Mortimer, ’who,
after» one fierc’e,:hite of A: e lip,» had, recovered

' composure. ' 

C

 

“Yes; we met once, at a mutual friend’s, in
Paris, where—mind, secret for secret—a1 fancy
I deeply offended her by quite innocently ac-
cepting” the~attentions of a gentleman who,
unknown tome, had deserted her colors for
mine. But I am glad we did meet, for I now

'can express a better opinion upon your af-
fairs.”

“ And that?”

“ Have a care—be on your guard! Beneath
that calm look, which is a mask, she is dan-
gerous. Now go,” laughing gayly, “ or she
will think that I am robbing her of you too!”

Shaking the reins, she went quickly on, and
‘her looks grew hard and cruel beneath her vail
as she proceeded. . ,

“So, Ianthe Heath,” she muttered, through
her set teeth, “ you are the daughter of that
stuck-up Mr. Heath, who found the air of my
society too noxious for his childto breathe! I
have never spoken to you, but no woman have
I so intensely hated! I have often wondered
whether we should ever again cross each other’s
path. Fate has willed yes; and now, in re-
venge for that insult long ago, I’ll ruin you!
It is, no empty threat, for I believe Edward
Churchill has made it an easy matter. We
shall see!”

 

CHAPTER IV.

EDWARD CHURCHILL’S FEARS ARE CONFIRMED.

IAN'I‘HE HEATH was more than pleased~ she,
was most gratefully thankful for her ~ new
home.‘ For the first time since childhoodfflie
knew what it was to be taken care of. ' seen
before her mother’s death she had been filter.
father’s constant attendant and nurse, fund
since had never quitted him.

. ' The bright, sunny period of youth, that goes
like a summer’s day, had been passed by her
beside the sick man’s couch-passed readily,
without complaint. Indeed, Iantbe was not
conscious of any self-sacrifice.
would have won her from her duty. To her her '
father was everything. His memory would be
sacred to her, but she was human, and the 
urious ease and comfort of 'Ravenhall, h
every care was taken off her hands, could not
but have their effect. ' “
' Her spirits rose, despite herself. The palior
of her cheek gave place to a delicate, healtw
bloom. As Edward Churchill watched,“ 
grew more afraid of her, using his owu tariff
“ cutting him out with the Squire,” wh' e on
the other hand, he upbraided himself * f  
dred times-for having been led intethat' “ ‘ 1

,marriage. If it were no; legal, after a 

he could wed Ianthel Then he’d becerta‘i’n of

Ravenhall, andthe Squire’s approval too, The

idea never seemed to occur whether Ianthe, '-

Heath would marry nim.  ' f

The thought respecting the legality of his
marriage with Mary. Blair had never been out
of his mind since it had been ,put there by Mrs.

Mortimer.

following morning as he smoked a cigar on the

terrace, and the Squire joined him.  g 1 r

“ Where is Miss Heath, sir?” inquired the
nephew, throwing awayhis cigar. ‘.
“Getting her hat. I have shown her semi“,

w}
..-. '

  

    

Squire. “I am now going to exhibit to her
another in the person of Crazy Blair. Will
you go with us?” ‘

“I am sorry, but I promised Thornton ‘
Young to be with him by eleven,” answered
Edward Churchill, instantly inventing an ap-
pointment. “I might meet you after. ‘ I will
if I can.” , . ,

,“That’s right; do so,” the Squire rejoiiihd,
then added, somewhat abruptly, as he rear-
ranged a trailing plant in one of the stone ,
vases with his cane, “By the way, what
is your opinion of Ianthe? You have had a
week to judge.” ' , A

“She is beautiful, and in eVery way and :4: ’
mirablel” . ‘ a ' .

“ I am glad we agree,” proceeded the Squire.
“ For my part, were I a younger man I should

 

strive to woo and win her!” _.- ,
Edward Churchill 1 §$fi§§e speaker sun
.1}? f ‘f’. V I.

h,”
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at,

 

Noinducementf‘ , _, 
wherefir‘* ,

a;

   

He was pondering over iton the A. '

of the curiosities of Eastshire,”_. laughed  " 

 

 

s; '

 

HER HIDDEN FOE.

 

 

piciously. Was this breaking the ice? Could
the Squire be entertaining ideas of matrimony?
Squire Ravenhall saw the glance, and read
it. First he laughed, then looked serious.
“Don’t fear, Ted; I shall not be a rival to
him who would win Ianthe. But listen to me.
Stay; come a little way from the windows.
There, that will do. Now tell me, am I wrong
in thinking that Ianthe Heath has made an im-
pression on you?”
 What could he say? .He prevaricated.
“ Could one so beautiful fail to do that?”
 “ Exactly! Well, impressions lead to warm
' feelings at times, eh?” He paused, wishing
evidently his nephew to take up the thread.

Edward Churchill merely remarked, “ I be-
lieve so, uncle.”

The Squire looked at him as he stood, stamp-
ing with his heel at a blue pebble in the path.
He certainly was handsome.

 “Ted,” he exclaimed, finally, “ tell me
i“ "frankly. I do not-—say do you—the days are
early—but could you love Ianthe?”
P», A home question, truly. He replied to it
flatter a space by another question.
. “Will you first tell me, sir, would it annoy
or please you if I could?” .

“Please me beyond all things!” was the
prompt answer. ‘ ‘ It, is thus. Ianthe is my
adopted daughter. I have vowed to be a fa-
ther to her. My knowledge of her, the effec-
tion she has amused in me, have strengthened

that vow. On her marriage I shall provide
  portion; on my death I shall provide for
s  ‘ a daughter of my house. Now, I do not
a. wfi to sell Ravenhall. I do not wish to-divide
‘f‘étliéf’estate. Also, Ted, I shall leave you well
provided for; but should you love and wed
Ianthe, then all difficulties and divisions would
be prevented. You would share the place as
man and wife. I think it just to let you know
this,” proceeded the Squire, in his manly, ring-
" ing tones, “ for though you may not have
{deemed yourself so, I having said or done no-

thing to lead you to that belief, I imagine that
' v society looks on you as my heir.”

' Edward Churchill’s lips were white beneath
his mustache.

His suspicions were correct then. Ianthe

 ‘ ,, Heath had ousted him.‘ He must forego Raven~

‘r.  or marry her! And how about Mary Blair?
. 4;?" Society has considered me your heir, sir,”
,‘fie remarked, with an effort at a laugh, “be-
fili '5“; g that you had no other, I being next of

a9.

   
   

airs,” rejoined the Squire, coldly. “If
w an: 2: to do so, it is not mine to set it right.

I offered you an income and a home at Raven-

hall. What more I may do rests with me.”

*1 “Indeed, uncle, do not class me with socie—
"t'y," broke in the nephew, with a laugh. “ I
am grateful for what you have already done,
and shall be equally so for whatever you may
hereafter bestow on me.”

“Spoken well, Ted!” cried the Squire, ex-
tending his hand, which the other grasped,
while his lips muttered a curse. “But Ianthe,
Ted? Win her, and you shall be my heir,
indeed.” .

That is a question, uncle, to which .there

 

 ~ £13m two sides,” answered Edward Churchill.

 “To love Ianthe is not diflicult; but to win
her, yes. If she should happen not to care for
mes-who knows?”-~and how anxiously he said
it!-—-“ her heart already may be another’s!”

“ Tut! When she told me, as did her father
.in his letter, that she was alone, friendless?
Bias her,force her inclinations, I'would not for
the world. That she is my adopted daughter
shall not prevent her being her own mistress.

- All I say is, try. You are. youn handsome,
and often inher company. Your nion would
greatly please me for the reason I have stated.
Well, what do you say?” .

“ What can I say, uncle, but that I will try,”
he replied perforce. “ The result lays with
Ianthe Heath, not me.”

“ Thank you.” And again the Squire pressed
his hand. “ Recollect, faint heart never won

fair lady. Hush! here; she comes!”

 

As he spoke, Ianthe appeared on the terrace,
advancing toward them.

“The Squire is going to introduce me to one
of your Eastshire celebrities, Mr. Churchill,”
she smiled. _

“ So I hear—Crazy Blair.”

“He certainly has a .craze,” put in the
Squire. “The poor fellow’s brain is too power-
ful for its owner’s limited range of eduCatio‘n
and experience to master. He is ever onthe
verge of wOnderful discoveries, but never
crosses it. ” i

“ Is he young?” inquired Ianthe, as they
moved to the terrace steps.

“ He is fifty; a widower, with one child, a
daughter—his safety-valve against insanity.
He adores her; she is as the Very apple of his
eye, as she deserves, for she is beautiful, and
one of the steadiest, best 'girls in the village,
though for years she has lacked a mother’s
care.

Edward Churchill had .dropped a step be-
hind, not joining in the conversation. His head
was bowed, and he struck at the gravel with
his cane. _

‘ At the foot of the steps he parted from them,
saying jestingly: “Take care, Miss Heath,
that Crazy Blair does not blow you up during
your visit!” Adding, as he Went, to himself,
“ I wish he would, the whole lot of them !—-—for
some such event alone seems capable of getting
me out of the fix I am in. I must wed Ianthe
Heath, or,“ in all probability, lose Ravenhall.
It’s a shame. Whatever the Squire may say, I

_ had a rightto expect it to be mine. I’ll go and _

consult the widow. Somehow, I don’t know
why, I wish that Ianthe Were not going to see
Mary Blair. Perhaps Mary may not be at
home.”

But she was at home, and opened the door of
the cottage, adjoining the forge, that stood
under a large spreading chestnut, to the left of
the village green, at once to the Squire’s knock.

“ Good-morning, Mary, ” said Squire Raven-
halL “Is Blair at home? I looked in at the
forge, but he was not there.”

“No, Squire; I fancy he is in the workshop.
Will you walk in, and Iwill see.”

Ushering them into the neat little parlor
that possessed a swing bookcase, well supplied
with volumes upon engineering, steam, etc,
she left them. Outside she paused, pressing
her hand to her heart. Remembering the tie
that bound her to Edward Churchill, she was
always nervous in the presence of the Squire.
Then she hastened down the passage to the
workshop beyond.

“ What a lovely girl!” remarked Ianthe, di-
rectly they'were alone.

“ Miss Blair is the acknowledged belle of the
village!” laughed the Squire. “It’s a miracle
to me she is not married; but I do not even
hear that she has a lover. That is the fault of
over-education.” ‘

“How do you mean, sir?” .

V “Why, Blair’s wife was a superior woman
for her. class; while poor Blair himself holds
education as the pure gold of the earth, and
nothing would content them but that Mary
should be well taught. The consequence is she
has been raised out of her own sphere, without
the power of entering another.” ,

The blacksmith entered, and Ianthe regarded
him curiously as he saluted her with an inborn
courtesy. j’

‘ He was of‘the middle hight. Iron-gray hair
fell over ,a broad, knotty forehead. His well-
formed features were begrimed by the forge
fire, as were his hands; yet Ianthe was struck
with his appearance. There was the dignity
of thought—~of brain power about him; but
theyague expression of the large, clear blue
eyes seemed to betray howiterribly the brain
was consuming itself, equally with the uncon-
scious movement of the muscular hand across
the forehead, as if to summon back memory.

Ianthe thought of the Squire’s words-—
“ Blair’s daughter is his safety-valve from in-
sanity ;” and turned toward the girl.

 

She was standingomstly by the window. ,

Leaving the Squir 7 ho was giving some di-

 

rections to the blacksmith respecting repairs
required at Ravenhall, Ianthe approached
her. . , l

“ What a pretty garden you have !” she re- '
marked. “ Can it be that that is a bignonia on
that trellis? It grew over our house in Jersey,
but. I did not know the English climate was
warm enough for it.” ‘

“ This thrives well,” replied Mary, timidly;
“ but then father takes such care. It’s a re~
lief to him‘ when he leaves the forge. We
have a fern that no one else can get to live,
but it does here; father, you see, is so clever.”

“ Ofthat I am sure,” answered Ianthe, more
and more taken by her companion. “ May I
see your'garden?”

“Certainly.” ~

Quitting the room, the two were soon walk-
ing side by side down the Well-kept paths,
their skirts smttering the perfumes of the
flowers as they passed. - - ,

Their walk and talk was intermde by the

Squire’s voice summoning his ward.

“My visit’s all too short,” smiled Ianthe.
“ You must allow me to come again; audit
you will let me have a specimen of that fern,
I shall be delighted.”

“ Ianthe, Ianthe!” remarked the Squire,
shaking his head after they had left; “.I per-
ceive you are a terrible Radical! You have
inherited your father’s revolutionary ideas:
you actually shook hands with Mary Blair. ”

“A condescensionI paid not to the black-
smith’s daughter, Squire, but to intellect. She
is far cleverer than I!” laughed Ianthe. “Do
you know Mary Blair is quite a botanist? 'She
knows, too, all the Latin names of the flowers,
and that I could never acquire. Ah l”

The exclamation was hardly audible; but
the quick start accompanying it did not escape
the Squire. He looked round.

“ What is the matter, my love?” he" asked.

“Nothing. That is, did you notice a gentle-
man just now, standing by yonder stile?” '

They weire proceeding dawn a broadcoun-
try road, bordered by high hedges and arched
by trees.

About twenty yards in advance of them
a stile, leading to the meadows.

“I did see some one,” replied the Squire.
“ Did you know him? Ted, perhaps?”

“ It was not Mr. Churchill,” said Ianthe; and
her tone was lower, her color, atrifle highten-
ed. “But the figure seemed familiar to me.
It was like some one I knew abroad.”

“Not a Nihilist, Ihope?” laughed the Squire.

“No, indeed! Pray do not think soil] of
me, or of those I knew,” rejoined Ianthe.
“ Though I fear, unless you object, sir, I shall
be Radical enough to improve my ac<1uaintance
with Mary Blair.” .

“I shall not object, my love,” remarked the
Squire. “I have not the slightest doubt, if
we were judged by the standard of brains,
Blair would be found a better man than -I.
But about the mysterious figure that vanished .
sorapidly; for I see you have not forgotten
him?”

Ianthe had not.

Her glance had furtively been trying to
penetrate the thick hedge,'but in vain.

They had now, however, reached the stile.

Going to it, both looked over. No one was
to be seen. i ”

“He’s vanished, truly! You will not beable
to see if it was the person you behaved.” : '

* "It was not; for bad it been, he "surely
would not have disappeared. Besides, it is not
at all likely that he could be in Eastshire.”

They proceeded on their way until they
reached a small lane full of deep cart-ruts, di-
vergingfrom the road, when Ianthe said, halt-
ing: “ Did you not say, sir, that youparticu-

W88

rlerly wished to see farmer Styles this mom-

lug?”

“Yes, I must call upon him; but I will see
you to the lodge gates first.”

“Pray’do not think of it!” cried the girl.
“.Why, they’re almost in sight. Surely I can
go that distance unesoorted? You will pain
me, sir, really I”

. .. “mm...” .......,...a:.

 

 

ii

HER HIDDEN FOE.

7

 

 

“In that case I yield. Perhaps I may over-
take you before you reach the house.”

Waving his hand, he turned down the lane.

Ianthe pursued her way more slowly. The
expression of her countenance was changed.
She was lost in thought.

“I could have declared it was he,” she re-
flected. “Yet, how possibly could he be here,

' and why should he not speak?”

Just then there was a quick step following
her. She fancied it was the Squire; but, on
turning, started, with a little cry of joy, re-
cognizing the gentleman she had seen at the
st' 6.

“Then it was you, Mr. Glendenning,_that I
saw!” she exclaimed, impulsively, extending

her hand. “I thought I could not be mis-
taken.” .
“Yes, it was I, dear Miss Heath! At last I

am happy enough to speak to you.”

 

CHAPTER V.
A SACRED CONFIDENCE.

“How strange that you should be in East-
shire as well as 1, Mr. Glendenning!” remarked
Ianthe, recovering her composure. “Why
did you not speak to me just now?”

“ You were not alone,” he answered, passing
over the first part of the sentence. “I would
not intrude.” ‘ V

“It would have been no intrusion. It was
my guardian who was with me. One of the
best, the kindest men that ever lived.”

“Indeed!” remarked Mark Glendenning, a
sneer on his lips which he checked in his tone.
“ Is he also related?”

“Not in any way.”

“ Thatis well!” said Mark Glendenning, fer-
vently, beneath his breath.

“He was an old ,college friend of dear
papa’s. Ah!” exclaimed Ianthe, stopping ab-,
ruptly, “you do not know—I “have not told
you—though perhaps you may have guessed
from my dress.” .

“ I know of your-sad loss, and have grieved
for you,” he said, quickly, with ready sympa-
thy. “I arrived in Jersey the day you left. I
was informed of everything.”

it And you-n

“Came here,” he interrupted, looking at
her-‘they had been walking slowly on——“ to
see you—to say how sorry I was—to ask if
there was anything I could do for you, Miss
Heath. You can but'know how glad—how
honored I should be if there were!”

“You are very, very kind,” she replied, in
a low tone, her gaze bent on the ground.
“Heaven indeed has sent me true friends in
my sorrow. ,I thank you so'much!”

“Then I am neither to be glad nor honor-
edi” he smiled. “There is nothing I can ’do
for you, Miss Heath?”

“Nothing. I alni'Ost wish there were, for
I’m sure that would please you best.”

“Indeed it would. Do you recollect when I
saved your little dog that had got into the
whirl of the tide round the headland, and
could not make the shore?”

“ How could I forget it?”

“ Well, it was not a very heroic deed,” he

« laughed, lightly; “ but I look back on it as the

happiest event of my life.” .

It was an embarrassing speech to answer.
,Ianthe feared to do so seriously. ' '

“I thought you a hero!” she laughed.

“ Ah! I have no. little dog now. Poor Fluffy
died of afit, I fear brought on by an inordi-
nate love of eating. Do you intend staying in
Eastshire?”

“ I hardly know," he rejoined.
scarcely tell, so much depends.”

" If more important business should not call
you elsewhere, I fancy its beauties would repay
you—you who sketch so beautifully,” she re-
marked.

“That is true,” he smiled. “Already, I
assure you, I have seen enough, Miss Heath, to
make me in no hurry to depart.”

Whether she did not understand his real
meaning, or whether she deemed it best to ap-

“I can

 

pear not to do so, Ianthe rejoined, “ I am sin—
cerely glad of that, Mr. Glendenning. Then
you will let me have the pleasure of' introduc~
ing you to my, guardian, Mr. Ravenhall? I am
certain you will like him, and that the liking
will bemutu .”

“Many thanks; but I fear that is a pleasure
I must decline. Myecircle of even acquaint-
ances is a small one, yet I do not wish to in-
crease it. If I may see you occasionally like
this-if I can ever be of any service to you,
and you will permit me, you do not know the
boon you will confer.”

She looked at him perplexed, wondering.
He perceived it, and, with a nervous laugh,
said, “You are surprised! You regard me as
eccentric. What can I say or do to remove
the impression?”

“ If you desire to remove it—I mean my
wonderment that you refuse a simple introduc-
tion to my guardian,” smiled Ianthe—“ why,
the truth is ever the best to be sa' .”

“Is it always?” he responded, in avoice so
seriously interrogative that again she looked
at him. Then, as with sudden determination,
“Miss Heath, you are right; let me confess it.
It was to tell you and your father the truth
that took me to Jersey, where I learned of
your melancholy loss, and came here to ex-
press my sympathy. But why not still tell the
truth? Why should I not? I have a history—
a sad one. . I am sure, Miss Heath, you would
hold it as a sacred confidence not to be revealed
to those nearest and dearest.” .

Ianthe, moved somewhat, and slightly ner-
vous at the tone the conversation had taken,
answered, “I would, indeed, regard the con-
fldenco in the light you say. But why is it
necessary at all?” '

“Why?” be repeated. “Because, until you
know, my presence is a deceit practiced upon,
if not an insult to you. Because I may not
new again take your hand, may not ask the
countenance of your friendship until you have
learned the truth. Will you hear it, and then
be my judge?” .

“Your judge, Mr. Glendenning?” she said,
nervously; “ why should I fill such an omce?"

“ Because, for no other’s judgment do I care!
Do not refuse, Miss Heath! Give me the com-
fort of having one who probably will not refuse
sympathy, to confide in. Do not reject a con-
fidence that had your father lived would have
been his.”

Ianthe paused. Perhaps her companion was
not aware how strong an advocate he had in
the girl’s own heart.

Finally, glancing up, she said, quietly, “Mr.
Glendenning, I will accept it in my father’s
name! But surely this place—the open public
road—is not suitable? Here is Ravenhall. Will
you not enter it?”

They had reached the handsome lodge gates
by this time, and she u tioned toward them.
w back a step.

“ We

. : from interruption
there than here. ‘ 'th me in my eccen-
tricity, Miss Heayfe added, with an eflort
to smile; “ but orbit the boundary hedges of an
estate as large est-his seem to press on one at
times like prison walls. Do you see t ' lane?
It leads, as you know, toward the riv ng‘here
it is tinprobable that any one would d1 _ b us.

   
   
 

might not be mo

Dare I ask you ‘ alk in this direction?” ‘
“Why not? It , 1 do as well as any,” re-
marked Ianthe, m ‘ forward.

  
 

“ Thank you,” he'isaid, ‘ stly, even
gratefully, that it thrilled h   ,; heart.

The path was somewhat rough-,3 yet Mark
Glendenning did not offer his hand to assist
his companion’s steps. He knew she would
prefer. it otherwise. They walked in silence
side by side, each one’s thoughts on the other.
Suddenly Ianthe Heath stopped. _

“This is far enough, is it not?” she said.

“ Quite,” he responded. “ See, under this tree
is a felled trunk. Will you sit down? It will
be more comfortable for you. I will make my
rfcital as brief as may be.” V

She took the seat, her feet buried in the soft,

 

mossy grass, enameled by daisies and blue—
bells. She could not help being struck by the
strangeness of her position, but she had no
fear of her companion, whose manner was
marked by an almost reverential respect.

Mark Glendenning then taking his place
near her, standing,‘one arm leaning against a
tree, his handsome countenance grave, and in-
dicating considerable emotion, he began in low,
clear tones, over which it was evident he kept
great control. ‘

“ The confession I must make, Miss Heath, I .
throw myself on your generosity to pardon. I

feel how trebly wrong of me to touch on the 3.".

matter when your loss is so recent. Yet I am
sure you will recognize that circumstances offer
an excuse. You remember how we first met;
how we met again and again. You cannot
estimate how delightful to me was your and
Mr. Heath’s society. I called it friendship,
yet not for long. Very soon I knew it to be

love—that all the world held no being so dear},

to me as were you!” -

Ianthe, flushing painfully, made a movement
as if to rise. 

“This, Mr. Glendenning, is scarcely the coal-v
fession you led me to expect,” she remarked.

“Wait—I entreat you: wait!” he exclaim-
ed, touching her arm lightly. "‘ Pray hear me
to the end! Why I have said this is but to
show you why I tell you my history. That
you can ever be anything more to me than
a friend. Miss Heath—that I should ever
dare to hope, ask it, is impossible. There
is a barrier between us—I know it. I would
tell it you that—that you may not misunder- ’
stand me when I ask for your friendship; ' f
that you will think of me now and manly-I;
is "—he paused, undergoing an internal struggle;
then the word came like a whisper through his
clenched teeth—“disgrace!”

Ianthe started, then looked at him with
pitiful sympathy.

He was very pale, and it was very evident“ "

that he was suffering deeply.

Instinctiver she extended her hand, saying, ,
“Not through any fault of yours, Mr. Glen-’
donning—of that I am sure.”

“No, indeed, no! Thank you for those
words!” he rejoined, gratefully pressing the—
slender fingers.
I remembered this disgrace, and fled yiur ,
presence. Uselessly, I returned; but honor  "
not all lost to me. I dreaded—pardon, the
presumption—that I might not beco i 
different to you, and forced myself fro ‘
presence again. To live, however, ,
ever seeing you I found to be impossi . .r
came to a resolve. The history of my E13,:
which I had learned from a dying mother’s
lips, had never passed mine to a living soul. I

   
  

determined. that it should to you and  » ~ :

father. Before you I would appear under no
false colors. Then I thought that you, when I
had disclosed all, would accord to me your
friendship, without misreading mine or fearing
that I should venture to overstep it.”
Mark Glendenning pausing, Ianthe said,
“ My father liked you much, Mr. Glendenning.
He, as I, esteemed your friendship. Believe
me, n’othing you can say will lessen my 519.,
,4 

He took the words as they were spoken.  , 1

never dreamed that, in arousing a generous"
girl’s sympathy, he was .the more surely win-
ningherlove. ‘

Ianthe’s whole heart seemed to go forth in
pity to her noble, handsome companion.

“It will make me happy indeed if it should
lasso, Miss Heath. I will delay my recital no
0 r.

And then, with many c of fee
from anger to bitter grief, mud his w.
tory.

She listened in earnest sympathy and com-
passion. ' .

Her lip trembled, and tears hung on her
lashes, when the son, telling of the mother’s
death, burying his head on his arms, crossed
against a tree, sobbed aloud. * '

When Mark Glendenning recovered himself,

.‘w'mx -~v

  l (

  

“When I knew I loved you, 

1'.

x

,7

a,

,m». n. V.‘h’t..4, ...

 

    
   

awning... .. . a. y N

was”

 

 

 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
   

 

 

he said, “You see now, Miss Heath, the bar-

rier that holds me back from ever daring to

hope for more than your friendship. I have
told you all.” 4
“And, Mr. Glendenning, I thank you for

’ your confidence,” she answered,.gently. She

had risen, and now held out'her hand. “Your
poor mother—it is her story, I believe?”

“It is her story, Miss Heath, that is true

She was an angel: but the world would not—-
nay, does not read it so.”

“ And ”-—she paused, then substituted for the
.word she hadbeen about to use—“ him?

you ever met?”

, “But once.” " ~
“And then?” . g a
“He was wealthy, honored, prosperous.”

“ He knew you?” ,

“ How was that possible?” faintly smiled
Glendenning. “We meet as strangers. No
word of mine shall ever make it otherwise be—
tween us.” ‘

“But is this right? I would force him to‘

listen—I would force him to repent, and-—-”
said Ianthe. 1

“Would repentance bring back the dead?”
interrupted Glendenning. “ No; his path runs
‘ofi way, mine another. Even were they par-
a l, and the intervening space but small, I
would,not'cross it.”

“ I think you are wrong,” she said, gently,
though much in secret admiring him. “Yet
yo’firs is a hard cross that he has given you to

weeks Not, however, too heavy, I trust, for

)

friendship to lighten. You shall never find
mine changed.”

'f ,“7 Nat man I wanted—all in this world that I
Ewegfor,” he remarked, as he touched'his lips

to her hand.

The action was not without a witness. At
that moment Edward Churchill, chancing to
be coming up the lane, saw it through the
trees. ‘ He had been in consultation'with the
widow, during which it had been arranged,
chiefly, it must be owned, by Mrs. Mortimer’s

subtle suggestions, that Mary should be inform-,

ed that, her 'marriage was no marriage, and
that Edward should at once pay his addresses

',,,,-;'{to Ianthe. ‘

Even to the young man, the widow’s parti-

‘ Tisaaship on his side had,been a trifle surprising;
, blitmvhat is so easily deceived as‘ vanity? Ed-

ward Churchill imagined that Mrs. Mortimer
wasactuated purely out of friendship to him-
.self, while, in fact, her motive power was re-
” " 1 (1 he whom she pretended to serve
the instrument she used.
' eeting with and cutting reception by
Heath had aroused all the widow’s worst
., She was certain that the girl would
 : ' t the Squire, at least, with the truth of
. widowhood; and when she said that she

  

 

‘ ; wbuld ruin Ianthe, meant it as no idle threat.

Edward Churchill had himself shown her the
way. ‘

The minister who had performed that secret
union had. it had been ascertained, joined a
missionary expedition into South Africa. For
Mary Blair ever to discover him Would be 'im-
possible, as she had been ignorant of- even his

name. Thus the prior girl was helpleds.‘ ’ ’

list Mrs. Mortimer meant her by no means

'to be the sufferer in the ends Ianthe once

married to Edward Churchill, itiwas her plan

 » .to find the clergyman by secret means, keeping
herself in the dark, to inform Mary and her' a

father of the truth, and bring about Ianthe’s
disgrace,,and Mary, the blacksmith’s daugh—

 l’tePr’s exaltation to the rank of Mrs. Edward
 Churchill as a thorn to the Squire.

In her own mind. the plot was clear, and
with great skill she manipulated the strings she
held. Even that morning Edward Churchill
had, he hardly could have said how, save by
his own reasoning, become morally convinced
that his marriage with Mary Blair,though‘ one
in henor, was not so in law; and that regard.
ing himself in the light of a hardly-used indi-
vidual whose generosity and softness of heart
had caused him to fall into the snares of a
pretty low-born girl, he had every right to free

‘_ .
f "‘L

E. 5‘  I . . "2%..

Have

 

HER HIPDEN Eon.

himself from a connection so detrimental to his
future. ‘ ' -

He had quitted Mrs. 'Mortimer, therefore,
with'ther full intent'of at once laying desperate
siege-to Ianthe’s heart, having small fear“‘of
success, when, happening to lift his eyes, he
had halted from astonishment at beholdin'g,
through the trees, Ianthe’s‘tall, graceful figure
and that of a remarkably handsome man, who,
with marked deference, was kissingher gloved
hand.

“Who the deuce is he?”he muttered. “I
never saw the fellow here before. He’s no
3stranger to her, though! Meeting in this se-
cluded lane looks mysterious! Those high and
grand girls can manage a little secret flirting
on'their own account, it seems! Can the fel-
low be an 'old lover? He looks it. Then I
suspect he’ll be poking his confounded nose in
at Ravenhall! I wish I could hear what they
are saying.”

And for that honorable purpose diverging
from the path, EdWard Churchill strove to ap-
proach them through: the trees.

But his purpose‘ifiva’g. prevented by Ianthe
and Mark Glendenn'infi' quitting the lane. At
the Ravenhall gateségthey parted, the latter
down the road, the firmer entering the Raven'-
hall avenue.  '
On the terrace she met the Squire, with his
dogs. 

“Why, where have ’you been wandering,
my fair maid,” laughed the Squire, “that I
should reach home first?” ' ‘ ‘
“I met an old friend, sir.” ,\ '1 , '
“Not the‘man we saw'at the stilfi’g. ’
“The ’same.
thenfseeing that Iwas not alone. He is an
old friend—eone whom papa esteemed greatly.”
‘ “ I hope, my love, you told him that he
would be welcome at Ravenhall?” , ‘

. “I did, sir, take that liberty, but I am
doubtful if he will avail himself” 'of’ Ravenhall
hospitality, as his stay in *Eastshire is uncer-
tain. See,”’she smiled, “we haVe all arrived
at home together! Here comes Mr. Churchill.
I’ll go and remove my hat. Luncheon must
be nearly ready.” - ‘

When Edward 'Churchill’ joined the Squire
he said, “_ Has Ianthe' told you who was the
young fellow she was speaking to in the lane?"
- “Yes; an old friend.” ” ‘

“Friend!” laughed the nephew,  1
“‘In confidence—mind, in confidence ‘ /
kissing her hand, and looking things 
able. I fear, sir, I shall find a rival in m 
ing.” '“" 1

“ You intend to woo, Ted?”

“Yes, uncle. Why should N
You took me by surprise this morning, afid I
didn’t like to say the truth downrightiv It
would have seemed as if I only said it but of
selfish, mercenary motives, to secure ven-
hall. But I do love Ianthe, and should consider
myself fortunate if I‘could win her.”

“ I am delighted, Ted!” cried the Squire,
putting his hand on his nephew’s shoulder.

“ Ah, sir, but this new ‘ friend?’ ”

“Is no more than a friend. Certainly he
cannot be a lover, for Ianthe asked“him to-

 
  

'RaVenhall,‘ and he refused to come, his stay

here being short.” - _
"‘I am glad of that!” responded Edward

'Churchill, who had a dread of Mark 'Gleu-

denning’s rivalry.

CHArrEa VT;
1 : carter BLAIRfS‘INVENTION.

“ No, no, Edward, you? don’t mean it—‘-you
. can’t! ,
'are but jesting!

Think—hit would kill me! Say yen

forgive you!”
The speaker was peer Mary Blair.

faced guilt, Edward Churchill had carried out
Mrs. Mo'rtime‘r’s suggestion, and, seeking an

interview in the old rendezvous amongfthe ,
-willows,,had told Mary she had been deceived.
The ceremony, as the clergyman, had been but ‘
3try!” she said.

a"mockery, that had apparently made them
man‘ah‘d’tvife. ‘  ' "

A»... .

 

He did not like to amass me ‘

. _ He would kill yOu!”

I not owfié/itl'

‘ are testing” my, affection!

_ see what I would say and do.

Itflwould’ be clue], but 'I’d'

With '
a brutality the outcome of nervous, shame“

 

5

She had listened at first, too stunned to be-
lieve, even if she understood. ‘ r

In that very spot, where the graceful wil-
lows, casting their delicate branches into ' the
water, made little mimic eddies in the tide,
how often had Mary listened to EdWard
Churchill’s fervent whispered words of love;
and now, could it be that the same lips uttered
such fearful sentences? v .

The poor girl stood gazing wildly and with
rapidlysblanching cheek and lips before him.

Then when she nOted 'his expression—how it
never softened, how no smile appeared,
how his look never met hers—a fear stole into
her fond heart, and, throwing herself on her
knees, clasping his hand, she had made that
piteOus appeal. - 7' ~ ,, ‘ .

“Get up, Mary,” rejoined the scoundrel,
plucking away his hand, and, perhaps .to pro—
tect its recapture, thrusting it into his pocket.
“I’m deucedly sorry—I really am! It isn’t
quite my fault. ,What could you expect?”

“ What expect?” exclaimed the unhappy
girl. “ What, Edward, had I a right to expect?
That you were speaking truth; that you, a'gen-
tleman, could not, would not, deceive ’one that
you, as'you said, so fervently loved, who so
fervently loved ydu! Had I not a right to be-
lieve you?” -

“ A gentleman! There you’ve hit it, Mary,”
he broke in, seizing at the merest straw of
wordly extenuation, however  and coward-
ly. “ Not only am I a gentleman, but the
heir to my uncle Ravenhall. Then'how hould
I really Wed you, Blair, the blacksmith’s
daughter? Your father’s a Very clever and
worthy man-of his class, "and yous‘re deucedly
pretty and nice, and I do love you-yes, I do!
——but we hardly could be man and wife. You
must see that?” ‘ ' v '

’She‘ had not‘ risen from her knees but in
that humble position looked up at him, as,
with face averted, his trembling 'voice came -
over his nervous lip. And, as if forced to ex-
pend his irritable anger on something, he sav-
r ~,er crushed a cluster of daisies beneath the
heel 'of his boot. ' ‘ '

“ My father!” said Mary, in low,‘separate
syllables as if that part of his speech alone had
riveted her car. “Do you know what he
would do, if, what you say is true, and he
learned what you have made me, his daughter?

EdWard Churchill started, and his color for a
moment changed. 'Crazy Blair-"'Was certainly
not one to be, trifled‘ with, especially where
Mary was concerned. But, like” most men, ,
Churchill felt that he might trust in the love
of even the woman he deceived. He answer-
ed, with a sneer, “ You mean he would way-
lay me—knOck me down—shoot me, Mary?
And that, I': suppose, would make your heart
happy, as it would avenge you?”," r -

“Happy! Your death, and5l9y my father’s
band, cause me happiness! Ah, how‘ little you
know 'theldepth of'a woman’s love! Hadgyou,
EdWard-mevelr '— never Would: you—have so
basely, so 'cruelly 'de‘csive'd! But "—with a
quick change of manners-e“ I evennow cannot
believe it._ Itis too unreaIL—tooterrible‘! You
I Your words prove
it, EdWardi-‘ldearest'rEdward! You wish to
As if I. could
harm you,‘ or' let others injure you! Smile, 1
Edward! _ Say, love,'I',am right? Let me once

more feel your ’arms about me!”

She clung to him in her toch appeal.
She tried to smile up at him; though blinding
tears flowed down her pale cheeks. ‘ -

Freeing himself, he drew, a step back; full of

gdogged determination. ‘ ‘ - '

“ It is true,” he remarked; “ and whatever
I might say couldn’t make it different, Mary.
I tell you, I’m sorry, ‘but that can’t mend mat-
ters now. The marriage was no marriage.
All the laws of England couldn’t make it one.”
Mary rose to ,her feet, and stood erect; she

"was calmer, but very pale.

“I’ll not believe it, Edward. At least, I’ll
“Try what?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NHER HIDDEN FOE.

9

 

 

“Whether there is no law in England that
will right me.”

“You, Mary!” he ejaculated, with sudden
uneasiness. “I thought you said your love
was so great you could not harm me.”

“And would thaw-to make you, Edward,
what you have professed to be—-my husband?”
she rejoined, gently. “You yourself say you
are sorry for the past.”

“Sorry, Mary, that I deceived you; but I
couldn’t have married you. Can’t you see
that? Myumcle would never have looked upon
me again. Whatever I can do for you, I will.
Whatever ybu ask in reason—7’

“Stay; not another Word!” exclaimed Mary
Blair. ‘

Her bosom rose and fell with quick pulsa-
tion, her white lips trembled, but her voice
was steady and calm.

' “ Up to this hour, Edward Churchill, I have
been your wife! Not for one moment will I
be your—”

Her voice failed her; she dared not trust
it. Had she proceeded, her tears must have
flown forth.

He did not break the silence, but still kept
thrusting his heel upon the crushed daisy.

After a space, Mary continued: “But I
have said I will not believe it, and I will not.
How can I tell that you, who confessto hav—
ing the heart to deceive, are now telling m
the truth?” ,

He cursed her beneath his breath.

“You‘ll find it is so,” he rejoined, doggedly.

“Then the law must tell me it is as you
state, Edward.” . .

“What!” and he glanced quickly in alarm
at her; “you would declare your disgrace to
the world?” ‘

“Would it be my disgrace or yours?” she
replied, yet in the same quiet tone. ‘9 I would
leave the world, Edward, to judge between
us. ~Did you think I would hear my misery
in silence? Had I been alone, I might have
fled somewhere to hide my disgrace—even
there,” and she pointed to the river; “but I
have a father. You tell me that I have
brought dishonor‘on? name "—again the
poor girl’s voice falte d—“ yet he shall know
it was in ignorance, that he may not curse
me!” .

“What! you would confess all to him?”

“Why not?” Is he not now the only one
who loves me?” , wi ’ "

“anfound it!” he muttered; then,aloud,
‘{ Your tone has much changed since the com-
mencement of this conversation, Mary.”

“It has. I’ll tell “you why, husband-{or
husband I believe you are. I have guessed
your secre .” wr- ~

“ My secret?”

“ Yes. You love Miss Heath, or Would wed
her, and so desire to be rid of me. That is why
I will not believe your word—why I will ask
thelaw to right me.”

Try, as he did to prevent it, this direct,
truthful accusation produced a change in Ed-
ward Churchill’s countenance.

“What absurdity!” he exclaimed, with
averted glances “You are mad!” r ‘ ‘

“No,” said Mary, slowly shaking her head.
“Since her arrival, you have changed; and
now comes this. Ido not blame her; how
could If She is good and beautiful; but she
knows nothing of this.” ' ‘

“Supposing your wild supposition were
true?” put in Edward Churchill. “Say I did
love her—that doesn’t make her love me.”

Mary gave a little mocking. laugh.

, Poor girl! this man had been her deity, and
she could not but suppose he must be so to any
woman. s
“I‘must‘ go," she said, moving a step away.
“ I ought not tehave come, for my father may
need me. Tosnight’s work, he says, is to see
the result—the success of his long toil.” 

“Stay, Mary!” he exclaimed, following, and
placing his hand on her arm. “How are, we
separating?” v ,1

“ As we met,” she replied, sick with misery
and despair. “ As maxi and wife.”

 

 

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘

“ Well, look here!” he remarked. “We’ll
let matters stand-as they are at present, eh?
Promise me you’ll say nothing to any one—not
even to your father—about—about this until
we meet again, Mary l” a

“All rests with you,” she responded, in alow
tone. “I shall be in no hurry to give pain to
one I love.”

“Then I’ll see you ina day or two’s time.
As I said before, I’m sorry for this!——-I am in-
deed. Good—byl Won’t you take my hand?”

“I cannot!” she answered.» “I never will
again, Edward, unless it be as my husband’s.”

She went from him up the slight, grassy in-
cline, and disapper among the trees.

Edward Churchill looked after her with a
brow as black as thunder.

“Well, I’m in a pretty mess!” he muttered.
“I would never have behaved she was a girl
of that spirit. If she tells that mad father of
hers, I’m done for. I must consult Mrs, Mor-
timer; but I know what she’ll say—‘ Brave it
out. The marriage can’t be made a marriage.’
That’s all very well, but she doesn’t know the
Squire. He’d have no blot on his ’scutcheon
nor his hair’s neither. Besides, Ianthe—she
has talked of nothing but Mary since she saw
her. Dared I speak of love, she’d send me to
the right about at once.”

So thinking, he proceeded at a quick pace to-
ward the widow’s villa.

Meanwhile,ipoor Mary hastened homeward.

All through that last sad hour she had kept a
control over her feelings that had surprised
herself; but now Edward Churchill’s presence
was removed, she feared that she must break
down before reaching the seclusion of her own
dwelling.

Grateful for the darkness of the approaching
evening, she finally reached the .gate of the
cottage. '

The forge was not closed yet, ,but it was
emptyyand the the merely sent a dim glow
around. '

Her father Was, as .she had guessed, in his
private workshop at the back.

All the week he had been busy, almost
through the night as well as day, at his inven-
tion, and now was he to know the result—
whether failure or success!" .

Crazy Blair, in his own mind, had no doubt
which.

Going softly into the garden, Mary looked
through the small panes of the workshop win—

dow. - .

. Yes, there was her father, in leathern apron

and with grimed, strong, yet nervous hands, at
work.

The furnace. was :alight. Crazy Blair’s
broad, dark .brow was contracted by intensity
of interest in his work; his iron-gray hair Was
flung back. 

There was something striking in/ldre man-—
the dignity, the beauty of mental power.

As Mary looked, Blair threw up his brawny
arms, as if in exultation; his visage lighted up
with triumph, a joyous smile was on his lips.

The girl cowered back with a stifledsob.

“ Oh, how shall I ever tell him? How can I

blight his happiness—his faith in me? It will
"break his heart!

0h, Edward, Edward, the
all this misery should be your work !” r
She crept to her room, and there, throwing
herself on her bed, found relief at last in tears.
She had seemed brave before Edward Church-
ill, but in her heart she had not been. She had
declared that she believed herself his wife, that
he was deceiving her by saying otherwise.

Yet she could not but ask herself whether he ,

would have dared to state that if it had not
been the truth. ,.
The night darkened around her._ It was
black enough in the gérden, lightened onlykby
the red glow of Crazy Blair’s furnace. Mary
was unconscious of the course of time. Her
brain had ven way for the moment beneath
her fearf‘ suffering; instead, of unconscious-
ness, coming'to bring her relief, her thoughts
were cruelly‘active. They made her temples
feel as if heavy weights were pressing on them.

 

Thought followed thought; and once she be-
came aware as one waking from sleep, that she
had been laughing hysterically, for she caught
the echo in the room. ‘

Nearly three hours had so passed when Mary
leaped up on her bed, scared, bewildered, but
sensible. Something had roused h'er. A fear—
ful sound~a violent report that had shaken the
cottage to its foundation, accompanied by a
clatter of broken glass.

What was it? Thunder? It was loud enough
for the word’s coming to an end. Would it
come again? All was silent. What could it
have been? Then something of the truth
forced itself into her stunned brain. With a
shriek, starting up, she ran to the window.

“My father!” she cried. . .

There was the red glow of the furnace,
fiercer. brighter. And in the garden beneath a
volume of white smoke or steam issuing from
the workshop window. The window! It had
gone; the panes, the frame had disappeared,
leaving but the square openingT through which
the furnace glare and smoke or steam were
coming. .

Mary turned sick with dread. ' ’

Then, thinking only of her father, she darted .
down the stairs, calling upon him, wildlyg:
Running through the tiny passage to the door 5’
leading into the workshop, she threw it Open.

What a sight presented itself! The place
was on fire! The furnace coal was scattered,
around. Flames leaped up and ran along “the, *
ignited wood. Smoke, lurid as with life,
rolled over the ceiling. Mary stood as one
paralyzed; to move was impossible! , ’ .

The hot smoke rushing toward her probably ;
brought her back to conSciousness. Where-
was her father? Wildly she glanced. around;
then, with a cry sprung forward.

The blacksmith lay extended on thegfioor, a
deep cut on his temple.

Was he deadlmhad he only been stunnedl,
Mary did not stay to ascertain. Frenzied by
love and terror, she seized him by the shoul-
ders, and, with a strength fear musthave
given, dragged him into the little passage.»
Then closing the door, she ran to the front and? “f. 4
of the cottage, opened it and filled the dark,  ~ “*1
silent night with her cries for help. ' ,, 

“What is the matter?” inquired agenth  V

mg. ,
“My‘father!” gasped. . “ The work-
shop is on fire! Save him! Oh, in mercy,
help me!" I ' g .
She dashed into the house again; and 
l Glendenning—for it was lie—followed. .j *
Together they got Blair out into the ttic
front garden, in which neighbors, eager to rang;
der aid, were rapidly assembling. Their first
thought was to extinguish the fire, passing r '
ning comments on the cause,such “Go
all along how it would be!” “This comes of
new inventions!” “ Crazy Blair, indeed!”

. Mary neither saw nor heard any thing
around her. Throwing herself on her knees
by her father, she had gazed atihim, ea rly.
Then, with a, piercing shriek, “He is d 1——

_§:,

.fl M,  :‘

‘ he is dead!” she cried, and-fellinscnsible across

his body.

It was at this moment that a brongham
halted in the road; and its Occupant, aladyr » ,
letting down the glass, inquired the cause of
the crowd. A , r ,

“ Only crazy Blair, ’um, 'blowed hisself up,
and set fire to his place!” »

.. “Do you mean that some one is hurt?” said
the lady, who was no other than Mrs. Morti— ‘ . ,
mer. r~ .

“I think Blair’s done for hisself, ’um. He
looks as if he’s dead. His poor daughter’s in a
fine takinl.” .. r '

r The widow instantly alighted.

“ Where are they?"-she said. “Take me to V
them, my good man.” ' , r _

As she made her way through the crowd,
she encountered a gentleman doing the same,
for whom, however, every one made a pas-

   
 

“ , Doctor Gra l” she - “ ' 
Ah, y remarked, this is

 

very sad. I hope Blair is not hurt seriously.

    

 

 

       
 
    

 

HER HIDDEN FOE.

 

. “l 0
Let me come with you; I may be of use to his
poor daughter.”

Soon the doctor was kneeling by the black-
smith.
“ This wound is a most serious one, I fear,”

.. he said, after a. rapid examination. “The

2;, skull is fractured, and I suspect whatever has

done it is yet in the wound. Some of you fel-

; fellows fetch a hurdle or a shutter; the poor

2; man must be taken to the inflrmary, and have

' instant care and attention.” -

 Mrs. Mortimer, who had had an interview

fl" with Edward Churchill that evening, had been

leaning over Mary, her mind thronged by
thoughts that would have astonished the ad-
miring spectators, who, as they saw the widow,
in her rich evening dress, kneeling by the poor

It girl, blessed her for her charity.

t '“ And this unhappy child,” she remarked,

i raising her head, as the doctor concluded, “ I

will take care of. her. She, too, will need at-

 tention. Will some of you kind people assist
5; me to carry her to the broughaml I intend to
 take the poor thing home with me, Doctor

z Gray,” she added, “where she can be well

i nursed; and if you will look in at the villa af-

 * r.  leaving that unfortunate Blair, I should be
I ’ obliged.” a e O

. . “I will not fail, madam. I honor you for

i . your charity. The girl may, indeed, need a

;? friend; for I fear much this wound of her fa-

ther’s may have a fatal result.”

, ,Hands, rough but gentle, placed poor Mary

., inrfifim brougham; and, the widow seated by
 ,_ - an supporting her, they were driven home.

._ ‘,‘ This may turn out a most fOrtunate chance

' for our plan——or, I should say, for my plan,”

~ reflected Mrs. Mortimer. “ If the crazy black-

smith die, Edward Churchill will. having noth-

ing to fear in that quarter; while as to this

girl, while I have and can keep her under my

, roof, I will take care she shall not balk me of

the wrongs I am determined to have on you,

Ianthe Heath! It shall one day be my turn to

[ass you as you. did me—with cold,‘haughty.

disdain!” - a as

, When the news of the sad occurrence at
any Blair’s reached Ravenhall, Ianthe rose
' pquickly.
“Poor Mary!” she exclaimed. “Oh, dear
' <.sir,.‘may I go to herl—emay I bring her here?”

' “0f course—certainly, my level” said the
Squire; and Edward Churchill grew white
with alarm.

gMary, his wife, beneath that roof, nursed by
n Ianthe Heath!
. ' His terror was quickly alloyed by the next
A, ‘ words of the footman who had brought the
‘  news. ‘
 ' “_If you please, miss, Mrs. Mortimer was
. ‘ . __ ..,passing at the time, and took Mary Blair
‘ ‘ v " home in the brougham with her.”

“Well done!" remarked the Squire to him-
self, a little ashamed of the hard things he had
said of the widow, “My love” (to Ianthe),
“this, indeed, proves that there are good and
charitable sides in every one’s character. I
shall go down, though it is late, and get the
latest intelligence respecting the. state of poor
Blair.”

   

(3?"
Cat; <,

 

CHAPTER VII.

- v NEWS FROM AFRICA.

Tim explosion at Blair’s had not a fatal .re-
suit; but ittwae, nevertheless, serious enough.

The fracture of the hull was so severe that
it was likely to keep the blacksmith a month,
if not longer, at the inflrmary. And the
double shock of that sad night had told great—
ly upon poor Mary.

Brain fever had satin, and when that left
f her, and strength came slowly back, Doctor

Gray’s fears were unfortunately realized. Hen

[ reason was in abeyance—he would not 'say
 , V gene; The future alone could prove whether
.' ‘ rber senses would be restored. She had forgot~
‘  ten everything; knewno one. . r
f It wasas though she were beginning a new
, life, where all was strange. She was gentle,
E passive as a child, and, Doctor Gray aflrmed,
i: did not sufier.

 

 

a“ You must remember that, Blair, ’.’ said the
Squire, kindly. when he broke the news to the
distracted fa-her. “ It must be your consola—
tion that she is happy. You must watch ten-
derly ‘over her, and give up inventing for a
time. ’You see what comes of it.”

“Don’t talk like that, Squire-you, a man
of sense,” broke out the blacksmith. “Mary
shall be my first thought in all things, poor
darlingl But it was not I—it was my poverty
to blame;” and he clenched his knotty hands.
“ I had to work with inferior materials. They
couldn‘t resist the pressure. Yet what would
this world be if a man had turned faintheart-
ed at his first failure? No,” he cried, vehe-
mently; “if I live, I’ll .succeIed yet.”

Then he sobbed passionately as he exclaimed,
“Oh, Mary, my poor child, never have you
been dearer to'me than now!”

Crazy Blair and Mary found the warmest
compassion in every, heart save two. Those
two, it need hardly be stated,,were Edward
Churchill’s and Mrs. Mortimer’s.

The one saw himself freed from any fear of
Mary making public that secret marriage;
while the other perceived the greatest obstacle
to the success of her plot against Ianthe re-
moved. Let the latter once be wedded, and she
had no doubt of finding a means to prove,
without showing her own hand in the matter,
that Ed ward Churchill was legally the husband
of Mary Blair.

“But,” had said the young gentleman, when
the widow had advised him to lose no time
about the wooing, “suppose Mary regains her
senses?”

“That will be years,” responded Mrs. Morti-
mer, making a decided assertion, for which she
had not the slightest foundation, “if she ever
does, which I and Doctor Gray both doubt.
Ask him if you like; though, if you take my
advice, you had best avoid showing interest in
the matter. In your case, you had better be
charged with coldness than give rise to the
slightest suspicion.”

So two months Went by. Crazy Blair had
returned to his cottage, which, owing to the
strenuous eflorts of the neighbors, had only
partially suffered in the destruction of the
workshop. There also came poor Mary. It
was a painful moment to the father. The girl
knew the house, and mechanically, in a
silence that she rarely broke, went about her
ordinary duties; but she did. not know him.
The mind was void. Only one person could at
all influence it —Ianthe Heath. .

Deeply touched by the poor girl’s affliction,
Ianthe visited her constantly, and tried to in-
terest her about her favorite ferns. During
these periods she would now and then, find
Mary’s look fixed on her in a strange, thought-

.fui way, while she would press her hand to her

head as if to stay, or make clearer, some
thought that was troubling her brain. But it
generally ended in a sigh, as if the effort had
been useless.

“Poor, poor Mary!” reflected Ianthe, after
one of those visits. “Why should I mourn at
my lot when I see hers? Yet is not oblivion
of the past and indifference to the present and
future sometimes a blessing?” "

These two months had brought a trouble to
Ianthe Heath that she had found it cruel to
bear and hide. Mark Glendenning had gone,
suddenly acquaintixig her of his departure,
only after he had left, by a letter she had
been unable to understand,save that it was
possible they never again would meet, as he
thought of going to South America.

“ Dunner MISS Hears (the letter ran),—

“You will be surprised. then b, I trust, not of-
fended. to learn, on recei tof t is, that l have al-
ready quitted Eastshire. feel that I on ht, even
out of common civility and the friendship th which
you, have honored me, to have made my adieu: in
person, especially as it is improbable we me ever
meet again; but—I trust you will comprehon rue—-
Ildare not. I might, losin self-control, have said
malt which 03% in m '

posit on has
end

on. thong}!
generous .and kind. are, I believe. more
madman in the world than asylums contain. 1, per-
hapg, was mad men to have ‘ come here. Yet no;
for have told you my hittery. and won your sym-

righttosay,
u are so

Wit.

It“ ~‘ I}

   

 

Y

thy. What else had I a ht to win? The
nowledge that I possess yOur f endship will be my
consolation, in support in the land to which I am
goin -—South merica. ew scenes may procure'for
me t e repose I could never hope to obtain in Europe.
I shall make South America. my home, for it is my
present intention never to return' so I coma
mlt no wrong whenl ask you to think of me some-
times? Soon, no doubt, you will be a happy wife.
To believe that you remember me will be an exqui-
site leasure.
“ ours, with a sincerity passing friendship,
“Manx Gmsnnmo."

In her own room Ianthe had read this, and
her tears had blotted the page. Why! had he
gone-gone with such singular abruptness!
What were his antecedents to her? He him-
self was good and honorable. She loved him——
she would have wedded him! ,

She was in despair. She could not even
write to him. He had given no address. No;
as he had said, the parting was forever.

“ I soon a happy wife?” she mdrmured.
“ Never! How could he believe it? Surely he
must have seen how dear he was to me! Why
should he have pained me by saying that?”

Ianthe Heath was perfectly unaware that,
owing to the skillful innuendoes of both Mrs.
Mortimer and Edward Churchill, every one in
Eastshire was of the same opinion as Mark
Glendenning, that her marriage with her
guardian’s nephew was a settled matter, only, '
owing to the very recent/ loss of her father, the
arrangement was not made public. Even the
Squire unconsciously aided the conspirators by
—-when friends hinted their suspicions that
such a union was probable—remarking, “ Who
can telll—who can tell? Nothing, I can as-
sure you, would give me greater pleasure.”

These rumors, declared to be certainties by
his informants, had reached Mark Glendenning.

He had never dared hope to call Ianthe wife.
Yet the intelligence came like a blow.

When calmer, however, he recognized that
it would be no longer honorable to meet Ian-
tdhe as he had, possessing the feelings that he

id. . ' >-

Only now that she was, as he thought, to be
another’s did he find, not merely how intense
was his love, but that there had been hope ever
in his secret heart. ,. -

Following one of those sudden impulses that
had taken him from her presence twice before,
he wrote the letter which has been mentioned,
and the same night started for London, uncon~
sciously leaving the field open to his rival; of
which circumstance Edward Churchill as un-
consciously availed himself. .

His attentions to Ianthe grew daily more-
marked, and were apparent to- all but the girl
herself, absorbed by her own trouble. Hence
her passive acceptance of them led the lover,
and the Squire also, to imagine that she re»
garded them not unfavorably.

“ Poor Heath’s death is so recent,” remarked
Squire Ravenhall, “ that you cannot expect
Ianthe to act as other girls under less sad cir-
cumstances, my dear boy; but she loves you—I
am sure of it!”

“I hope so, sir; but-—” began the nephew.

“ But—tut, tut! True love is ever nervous,
Ted!” laughed the Squire.

“ That’s true, sir; yet, whenever I draw
near at all like ‘ popping the question,’ whether
it is anything in Ianthe’s look, or What it is,
for the life of me I cannot get a word out.”

Squire Ravenhall laughed heartily; then
said, “My dear Ted, you could not have given
a better proof than this that you have never
loved before.” (His nephew winced, and pull-
ed his mustache nervously.) “ Theta are
very few men that have not felt as you do.
We hear of Herbert having proposed to Ethel;
but Ethel herself deesn’t, even know how many
attempts and failures Herbert had made be-
fore he got the words well out. Take heart!"

“ There’s yet- another thing, uncle; her
father’s death being so recent.”

“Six months ago, quite, Ted.” *

“Then you think I might propose without
offending her?” ,

“Quite according to how you do it, my boy.
You see, your living under the same roof, in
every-day communication, makes the matter

..U~ui- .—.... .

‘W .19 .

 

 

r ’ warms-weather,  .. ,.

 

._..“g3.._y_hml ‘ .l ‘-  ..

HER HIDDEN, FOE.

ii

 

 

diflerent. Without even a right-doWn set pro-

posal, you might discover her feelings toward
on.” ’ '

y The conversation was taking place in the

library.

Rising, Edward Churchill in silence walked
to and fro a few moments. He was nervous,
but, poor Mary had nothing to do with it.

The Squire watched him, half~amhsed. The
nephew lately had turned over such a very
clean and nice new leaf, that he had won much
upon the Squire’s good opinion.

“ He’s a handsome fellow!” reflected the un-
cle. “His glass should give him confidence.
Tutl Ianthe will never refuse him. Yet I like
to see his doubt; it promises well.”

Coming back to the table, and resuming his
seat, Edward Churchill said, “ I’ve been think-
ing, uncle. Ianthe regards you as a second
father. What might pain—I will not say of-
fend—her from me, would not if it came from
you. She might consider me unfeeling, preci-
pitous; you she would merely regard as solici-
tons.”

“You do not mean, Ted, for me to propose
to herl” '

“No, no, sir,” was the quick response; “I
thought if you would feel the way—if you
would let her know how much, how very much
I love her, only that I dread to intrude upon
her sorrowl _ How very much, too, you would
like such a. match 1” ' ‘

The squire drummed with his fingers thought-
fully on the table, and his nephew watched him.
closely. r

“ I don’t know that you are not wise in that
suggestion,” said the elder at last. “It dis-
plays a delicacy of feeling that cannot fail. to
touch Ianthe. I’ll do so—and no time is like
the present; see, here she "comesl”——pointing
through the open window toward the giri,-who,
clad in melancholy sables, was advancing across

the lawn. ' “ She has been visiting poor Mary
Blair. The only change that comes to the poor

thing, they say, is when Ianthe is with her.
You had better go, Ted; I’ll speak at once, if
there should be an opportunity.” I

EdWard Churchill rose and quitted the room.
He‘ had lost his color, his limbs were possessed
by that nervousness which generally seized
them at the mention of Mary. He alone knew
that there had been something added to the
shock of the explosion that had deprived her
of her reason. V b

As the door closed on him Ianthe appeared
at the, library window, and perceiving her
guardian, entered. '

“Well, how did you find Mary?” asked

'Squire‘Ravenhall.

“ Better, sir, I am sure—decidedly better,”
replied'Ianthe, putting off her hat and taking
a seat near her guardian. “Once today, just
for a second, I am certain I detected intelli-
gence in her gaze.” _

“Do we not at times in most mad people’s,
my love?”

“ Ah, but Mary cannot be called mad. Be-
sides I did, not observe this before—only to-
day—so it must be an improvement.”

, “Let us hope it is so,” said the Squire, his
mind engrossed by quite another matter.
“But let us leave Mary Blair for awhile. I
want, my dear Ianthe, to speak to you upon a
matter which interests me greatly.”

She looked quickly up at him, wondering.

“I trust you will not consider the subject
ill-timed,” he proceeded. “Remember my
age. Months to me, Ianthe, are as years to
you. Life is always uncertain; no one can

count surely on it at any time, and less than

ever after passing their meridian. Days fiy
swiftly then.”
"Oh, Mr. Ravenhall—dear guardian!” ex-
claimed Ianthe; “Ihope you have no cause—3’
“ To think death is near me?" put in the
Squire, with a laugh. “No, indeed; yet he

only isa wise man who sets his house in order
and prepares for it.”

“ Surely, dear guardian,” smiled Ianthe,
“ you need little preparation. Your nephew,
your heir—”

 

“My love, it is your future as much as his
that occupies me.” broke in the Squire.

“Mine, sir! Indeed, you are most good;
but—”

,“I love you as a daughter, Ianthe,” again
put in the Squire; “and I, being yet strong
and in health, shall probably see you a happy
wife before I die—that is what you think?
Well, it is that very hope which occupies me.
I would like to see that happiness sedured to
you, my love; it may be.” '

She looked up at him, nervous, surprised.

“ Surely,” he smiled, “you cannot have
been blind to what every one else has seen,
Ianthe?”

“ I—I do not understand,” she murmured.

“I refer to my nephew’s sincere love for
you” ‘4
“ Oh, no; impossible!” she cried; then quick-
ly turned aside, but the Squire retained her

and.

“Nay, nay—I trust not,” he said, gently.
“ Ianthe, I have startled you. Perhaps I have
been premature, considering your loss; in that
case blame me, not Ted. A feeling of delicacy,
of fear to intrude upon your sorrow, has held
him mute, and when I urged him to speak, he
entreated me‘ to plead his cause; as an old
friend of your dear father’s you might listen to
me without offense.”

“How, dear sir, could I be offended with
you, to whom I owe so much?” murmured
Ianthe; “but what you say—"

“Do not answer without consideration,
Ianthe,” remarked the Squire. “You cannot
tell how I have set my mind upon this. To see
you and Ted married would complete my hap-
piness.‘ And he loves you devotedly. Ianthe,
I have vowed to take your father’s place in re-
gard to you. It was not an idle vow; it is my
intention to carry it out in its full sense. If I
die, 1 make you, as my adopted daughter, mis-
tress of Ravenhall.” ' ‘ ‘

“Oh, sir,” cried Ianthe, turning quickly, “I
could not, would not permit it. Your ne-
phew—” '

“Shall not be left unprovided for, though I
confess he will be disappointed. As to not per-
mitting it, my love, wills cannot so easily be
set aside. At present mine is unmade, a delay
I intend at once to rectify. Before now it
would have been rectified, but for this hope,
that, as my nephew’s wife, together you might
inherit my wealth. Ianthe, will you think of
this? Will you try, for my sake—nay, fer
poor Ted’s, to say yes?”

The girl sat silent, with drooped head. ,

The Squire, regarding her, little imagined
that her thoughts had flown far aWay across
the broad Atlantic. How could she wed‘an-
other, loving Mark Glendenning? - "7

She looked up to answer, but her heart failed
before the anxious expression of entreaty on
the Squire’s handsome countenance.

“Is Ted indifferent to you?" he said, gently.

“No, sir. How could he be that? Have I
not experienced every kindness from him? Will
you—will you give me time to consider?”

“ Assuredly, my love! This is not a matter
upon which Iwwould hurry you! Name your
time—a week?” .

“No, sir; I—I ask but until this evening!”

Ianthe had not to inquire whether she really
loved Edward Churchill or not. She liked
him, thought him handsome and worthy, but
love was not hers to give.

The question she had to answer was—Could
she sacrifice herself for those who had been so
kind to her? The idea of her inheriting Raven-
hall was repugnant, yet she knew that the
Squire could so will it without power of hers
to pass it over to his nephew.

And‘what did she sacrifice by pleasing the
dear old Squire, her father’s friend? Only her
own feelings, for had not Mark Glendenning
left her—gone forever? Never again Would
they meet! ,

Bitter and long was the struggle Ianthe
passed through. Finally, pale, exhausted, she
decided. What was the future to her!- That

 

happiness for which she had hoped was im-.

 

possible; Why injure that of' others? Should
she not, when the mistress of Bavénhall, feel
almost bound ’to wed Edward" Churchill, whose
rightful place she had usurped. Would she
bring pain and dissent between those tyre who
before her coming "had lived as father and son?

The Squire was on the terrace with his dogs
when Ianthe Heath joined him. , 2

“ Dear guardian,” she said, her slender fingers
on his arm, “ would my saying ‘yes’ really
give you pleasure? Is it- your wish?” -

“It is, indeed, Ianthe! Nothing, my love,
could delight me more, if you can say yes of
your own free will.”

“Then I will wed your nephew. Only—
only, you do not wish it to be very soon? I
could not while-—” Her eyes fell on ,her dark
dress.

“ Ianthe, your time shall be ours,” cried the
delighted Squire. “Your wish, my love, our
law.”

He warmly embraced her; then, as she enter—
ed the drawing-room, went to' find Edward
Churchill with the good news. _

When the young man sought Ianthe half an

hour later, raising her hand to his lips with a ,_
tenderness and [respect that touched her, ,hd‘?‘ ;

said, “I was a coward, ‘lanthe, to intru‘st my
cause to another, but'you have made me the
happiest man on‘earthl I will try to prove
worthy the honor you, do me.” ‘

“And I,” murmured Ianthe, in a low tone,
“will seek to be to you a true and faithful
wife 1" v, 7. 

Before a week was over all Eastshire‘ kdew
that a bona fide engagement had taken place
between Ianthe Heath and Edward Churchill, '
who was much flattered by the almost ex~'
travagant delight and congratulations of Mrs.
Mortimer. On his own part, his, self-con—
gratulation was unbounded. He already re-
garded Ravenhall as his, when one morning a
letter,» the postmark “Pietermariizburg,” rec
aroused all his terrors. With trembling fingers
he tore it Open. His fears were realized. It
was from Sydney Cargili—‘he who had per-'

formed the secret marriage between himselgiF ,,

and Mary Blair. ‘5
It'stated that the writer was about starting
for England, owing to an uncle’s most serious~
ly failing health, and that, during his stay, he,
Sydney Cargill, hoped to be able to pay a visit
to his old college friend, Edward Churchill, at
Ravenhall. ’

 

u.

CHAPTER VIII.
wnnmno aunts.

Two menths had passed since lanthe’s so-
ceptance of Edward Churchill, and the anxiety

and fears of; the latter respectingthe return '

of Sydney Cargill had somewhat abated. He
had received a hurried letter from the young
clergyman, announcing his arrival in Glamor-
ganshire, and stating that he had found his
uncla in so precarious a ‘conditiOn, ‘recovery
being hopeless, that he must defer his visit for
some while, as he could not leave for even a

day. .

This letter brought immediate relief to Ed.
ward Churchill. He hoped “even that Ianthe
would be his wife before Sydney thought of.‘
coming, for Ianthe had consented to a' quiet
union, at the expiration of her tw'el‘vemonths’
mourning. Then they should be abroad, and
he could put the young clergyman’s Visit ‘oii
altogether, and by letter lead him“ to believe
that Mary Blair was dead. '

Ianthe Heath gladly would have postponed
their union to an indefinite period, but again
,sacrificed herself to her guardian’s' wish. The
Squire had been slightly ailing, and openly
expressed histanxiety to see her. his nephew’s
wife ‘ ‘ r ' ~13; " 3

smiliugly, as‘the three sat together: i “What

is the use; ‘when I shall have to merit“! ~' and F"
what is'the use at. all, when you and Ted, save . .' ‘

Wiley; to my old servants, will inherit ‘au
n y ‘ ’ _.
So Ianthe, too listless, too indifferent to re-

I

.. ‘5’,
f ., Ma .. M,_e- a- “hum .n..-

‘ U
‘- .

a 03'."

“l have made no Will yet,”‘he' ten-invited;

:' Jig 

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'5! _
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1‘2

. HER HIDDEN FOE.

 

sist, yielded. How could a few months make
a difference to her? '

Not even a line had she had from Mark
Glendenning. She did not even know where
he was.

Mrs. Mortimer waited the union with as
great impatience as did Edward Churchill.
The arrival of Sydney Cargiil in England had
given her exceeding satisfaction, for he was
ready to her hand. When 'she met Ianthe
Heath, and exchanged their customary distant
bows, a smile came ever to the widow’s red
lips, for she felt her vengeance was almost as
good as accomplished. Indeed, everything
seemed to promise favorably. Even in the
case of poor Mary Blair, Mrs. Mortimer had,
by displaying a sympathy which had won her
much praise, kept a careful watch over the
girl, and had come to the same conclusion as
Ianthe Heath, that Mary’s reason was slowly
but rely returning.

“ t them once he married,” reflected- the
widow, one morning early, as she drove her
little pony-carriage from Blair’s cottage, “and
I do not mind how soon the child is herself
again.” . V

Mary, after Mrs. Mortimer’s departure, had
resumed her place by the window. It was
open, and the soft, warm, bright sunny morn-
ing breeze came in across the flowers ranged

, In the sill.

flfier reason being dormant, had prevented
any feeling of care and trouble; thus, in bodily
health, Mary had not much suffered. Her
twins rounded, a delicate color was on her

ycheek; only the wistful, vague expres-

_ _’of the large clear eyes told the mental de»

V privation. But that apparent eflort to catch

fl 'passing thoughts in their flight, to summon

back memory, was very frequent now.

Suddenly, Mary, raising her head, listened
attentively. There was a sound in the air,
filling the place with music~the music of
church-bells that rose and fell, now loud and
vibrant, now low and flowing on the breeze.
The girl, as entranced, leaned"‘forward, drink-
ing in the sounds.

‘ * “Ah, listening to the bells, Mary?” exclaim-
‘ed a neighbor, pleasantly, as she passed the

palings of the little garden. “They’re nice,
ain’t they? They are wedding-bells. Why,
there’s a big marriage to be today. You ought
to go and'lee it; it would ‘do you good—rouse
you a bit.”

Mary’s pretty face made no response, and the
woman went on, murmuring a compassionate

»“ Poor soul!”

But the girl had heard the words, and grad-
ually they worked their meaning into her
brain. ‘

“Marriage!” she repeated, in a vague tone,

drawing back and pressing her hand to her

day.

temples. “ Marriage—she said marriage! I
was to go! But it can’t be mine! No, no, no;
mine—mine- ~There were no bells. It wasn’t
I There were candles. No; not .mine.
Whose is it? Why ought I to go?"

The word had awakened a sudden train of
thought, a memory of the past. But at present
the weakened brain could not grasp it, to piece
link by link together. "She leaned back, shak-
ing her head’ as if the effort was useless. But
the words would not leave, they haunted her.
They forced themselves into her ears with the
ringing bells, and again and again, with petu-

Tlance, she repeated, “ Marriage -—marriage!

Whose? Why did she say I ought to go?”
Abruptly link by link of the past returned
to the stunned brain, bringing connection,
reason, and Mary sprung from her seat with
a cry. She had remembered—it had come
back to her—the cruel scene that had first
made her reason totter; the interview with Ed-

, ward Churchill down by the river, where he

had tried to make her behave she was not his
wife, and she had accused him of desiring to

‘ cast her oi! that he might marry Ianthe Heath.

‘ “That is itl—that is it!” she cried. “My

Nmsban‘d is marrying her! That is why the

‘,.
9

woman said I ought to go. I ought to he tbre
a stop it. It must not be? No, no! How

if..

' . .13,  
w -. “ ' .'  :- .

 

can Edward have two wives? I must go—I
must go! He is my husband—mine!”

Mechanically, but hastily, she put on her
cloak and hat, and quitted the cottage. No one
saw her. Crazy Blair was in, his workshop,
and the villagers were at the church to see the
wedding, the bells for which were yet making
the air musicaL ,

Mary, however, engrossed by the one
thought, seemed no longer to hear them.
Neither did she make her way to the church,
but directed her steps to Ravenhall. Swiftly
she went, never swerving right nor left. The
carriage gates were open, and she passed
through.

“ Goodness gracious me!” ejaculated the
lodge-keeper’s wife, hastening to the door. “It’s
poor Mary Blair!" -

But Mary paid no heed. Quitting the
avenue, she crossed the lawn, toward the house.

In the morning-room Ianthe was seated with
the Squire. Chancing to look up from her
drawing, she saw the girl approaching.

“Look, dear guardian!” she exclaimed, ris-
ing in surprise. “Can it be possible that you-
der is Mary Blair?”

“It is, indeed! Whatever can bring her?
I trust her madness has taken no worse phase!”

“ Oh,” remarked Ianthe, “if her reason has
but returned!”

Advancing to the window, she called the
girl, who had ascended the terrace step, and on
her coming, drew her ,gently into the apart-
ment.

One glance at the dilated eyes showed reason
had not yet resumed its throne.

Clasping Ianthe’s hand, Mary gazed round
with a half-scared, half-frightened expression.

“ Where is he?” she whispered—“ where?
He is not here.” .

“ Who, dear Mary?” asked Ianthe, softly.

“My husband 1”

“Your husband!” ejaculated Ianthe, in a-
maze, then looked to the Squire.

He had risen, drawing" away from them.
Sadly he touched his forehead.

Mary, apparently, did not see or‘heed' him.

Clasping Ianthe’s arm more tightly, she pro-
ceeded. , ’-

“Yes, yes! I know he loves you, now, in-
stead of me. He wants to marry you, but he

cannot have two wives~can he! I heard your.

wedding-bells—hark! there they are—and I
came to save you! I like you; ou are kind to
me, and—and I wouldn’t have arm come to
you; and—and tell me—-” Her expression
grew fretful, as if the thought were slipping
from her. “ I—I don’t understand; but would
it harm you if you were to marry him, while
I his wife, was living?" .

Ianthe’s eyes were full of pitying tears as
they. looked into the sweet, pretty face turned
questioningly to hers.

“ Oh, is not this sad!” she murmured, in an
aside, to the Squire.

Squire Ravenhall’s countenance was dark, his
brows knit. , I

He signed to Ianthe to question her visitor.

“ Who is your husband, Mary?” she said.

“ Don’t you know? But how should you?”
with a faint laugh. “He told me I must tell
no one, not even my father, and we'were mar-
ried in secret. And, oh, I was so happy! I
loved him so much—so very much! I do love
him still, though he never comes near me now.
You see, you came; you were handsomer—
better than I; so that he wanted to marry you,
and told me it had been all a deceit-I wasn’t
his wife. But’l know I am. Am I hot?” And,
pleadingly, she gazed into Ianthe’s face.
“Therefore, he cannot marry you. That is
what I came to say; and—and you will stop
the marriagebells, won’t you? You will not
wed him now you know?”

“No, most certainly, my dear Mary,” said
Ianthe. Then to the Squire, “0h, sir, there
sounds truth in what she says!”

“I fear there is only too much truth,” re-
joined the Squire. “ Ask the villain’s name!”

“Mary,” said Ianthe, “ you'haven’t told me
your husband’s name.”

 

“ Haven’t I?«—no. I thought you knew. It
is Edward—Edward Churchill, the Squire’s
nephew. He told me not to tell; but unless
you knew, how could you know whom you
Were not to marry?”

“I believe, indeed, that this poor child’s
story is really true,” said the Squire, stepping
a little nearer. “Even a mad brain could not
put such a one together.” 1

“Then, is Mary Edward Churchill’s wife?”
exclaimed Ianthe.

“Not that. I could the mere easily forgive
him if she Were.”

“ Then, dear guardian,” broke in Ianthe,
with crimsoning cheek, “ I could not! Has he
not dared to offer love to me? Think if Mary
had not spoken!”

“Ah! at the moment, I forgot that!” re-
joined the Squire, with indignation. “I was
absorbed by the sorrow of this poor girl, whom,
evidently, he has basely deceived by a mock
marriage—”

“It was no mock marriage!” cried Mary,
suddenly turning upon the speaker, her listless
apathy gone. .“ It was true—true! We were
married in a room—not a church. I had no
bride’s dress; the bells didn’t ring for me; but
the words were the same. Who dares say he
is not my husband? Look—look!" and from
around her neck she drew a little silk bag.
“Here is my ring! I hung it next my heart,
because he said I must not wear it. It’s true
——I tell you, it’s true!”

Quickly she turned from Ianthe to the Squire
as she spoke, and chanced to glance out of the
open window that commanded almost the
whole length of the terrace. A cry, wild, yet
full of delight, burst from her lips.

“And there—there is the clergyman who
married us!" she exclaimed. “ Ask him!
He will tell you—he will tell you!” >

She moved forward, but her strength, al-
ready overtaxed, gave way, and she dropped
insensible on the carpet.

Ianthe flew to her assistance, while the
Squire, looking in the direction Mary had
pointed, perceived a gentleman in the garb of
a clergyman ascending the terrace steps.

“Oh!” he cried; “Edward Churchill is a
scoundrel, indeed; for surely here comes con-
firmation to this poor child’s words. It is
Sydney Cargill, a friend of my nephew’s. Not
'another moment shall elapse before this is ful-
ly explained.” «

Stepping onto the terrace, he hastened to
meet the guest, and led him back to the robm.
As Sydney Cargiil’s gaze rested upon Mary,
whom Ianthe was tenderly supporting, he
started, and drew back. . ‘

“ Mr. Cargill,” said the Squire, gravely, “is
it true that, during your late visit here, you
performed the marriage ceremony between my
nephew and this poor girl?”

“ Mr. Ravenhall,” replied the young clergy-
man, “ I hardly know how- to answer you. It
is a question you should put to Mr. Churchill.”

“And do you think, sir,” rejoined the Squire,
scornfully, “that I should get truth from him?”

“How?” ejaculated the clergyman. “ He

,does not deny it?”

“ Apparently so, sir, since he has wooed my
ward, and in a few months might have led her
to the altar, but for this poor girl’s statement.
Mr. Cargill, as a clergyman and a man of hen—
or, I demand and expect the truth from your
n 'n .

P‘s‘ You shall have, it, Mr. Ravenhall, after
what you stated, and I hold no promise bind—
ing with your nephew,” responded the young
clergyman, indignantly. “ When last here,
Edward Churchill requested me to do him tnis
service. I refused, not liking the secrecy of
the matter, and aware of the difference in
his and Mary Blair’s social pesltion. , He, how-
ever, entreated me, and, as a final argument,
told me it was to save the poor girl’s character.
Mr. Ravenhall, I yielded then, and I wedded
them.”

“Do not think I blame you for that, sin”
and the Squire held forth his hand. “You

did right. Then this young girl is———”

 

 

 

 

 

 

ff.
,
2
.


i?
s
i
g,
F

,i!

 

' Mary.

.1

“ Edward Churchill’s lawful wits.”

There was a pause, a temporary silence, dur-
ing which it would have been difficult to divine
the thoughts 'of the three. Ianthe’s were grati-
tude for the escape she had had, and ineffable
relief at the knowledge that she was free.

Thestillness was broken by the door open—
ing, and Edward Churchill’s entrance. He
came in hurriedly, but stopped, surprised at
seeing his friend. He did not at once perceive

‘ ‘ What i” he exclaimed; “ you here, Car»
gill?” . .

“Yes, sir,” answered the Squire, sternly,
n‘otioning toward Mary. “And your wronged,
unhappy wife! How dare you, Scoundrel that
you are, place foot beneath this roof? How
dare you?
again! From this moment you are to me as a
stranger!”

Edward Churchill had turned red, then of a
white, livid tint. He seemed about to speak,
but his pale lips refused to form words.

Turning, he dashed from the room. Recall-
ing the groom who was taking away his horse,
he rode from Ravenhall. ‘ I

As ,the Squire sawhim galloping down the
avenue, he said to the young clergyman, “Sir,
you will have to regard me as your host during
your stay. My nephew shall never return!”

“Mr. Ravenhall,” replied Sydney Cargill,
quickly, “my visit this time is to you, not
your nephew. I bring you a. communication
from the dead!”

 

CHAPTER IX.
snor IN ran BRIDLE-PATH.

FOR some brief time Edward Churchill rode
recklessly on, urging his horse to its fullest
speed, while, in a stunned, fierce Way, he kept
heaping curses on Sydney Cargill. /

Of course. the discovery must have come
thrdugh, him. Cargill had revealed everything,
and he, Edward Churchill, was ruined!

0n the crest of a hill, crowned by a group
of trees, he finally arrested the speed of his
panting horse. Turning, he looked back at
Ravenhall.

There it lay in the bright sunshine, its roofs
rising from a sea of verdure. Only a few
days ago he had regarded it from the same
spot with the elation of a. future possessor, and
now it was lost forever!

Yet was it lost?

When he had cast 03 Mary Blair, he believed
that the ceremony had flaws in it,_whieh, in
law, could release him, set him free! Had
not that been the widow’s idea also? .

Why had he fled so precipitately, confessing
thus guilty intent? Why had he not braved it
out?’ Should he goback and explain? Even
as he reflected, he knew perfectly well how
useless‘was the reasoning.

Did he, could he even prove the marriage no
marriage, it would make no diflerence to the
Squire. He had acted a villain’s part, and
never again would he be allowed to place foot
in Ravenhall. ..

“ Which, by all the laws of justice, is mine
by inheritance,” he muttered through his
teeth, as, his horse secured to a tree, he lay in
the long grass, his haggard gaze directed to the
home lost to him forever. “ I am his nephew,
his own sister’s son, yet he would rob me for
Ianthe Heath! What is she to him? If he
had been but fair—if he had not put that idea
of marriage in my head, this would never have
been. We all his fault, not mine. Ah! if
only he had died before that" girl had come
across his path 1”

He was silent, but his thoughts ran on,
grewiug wilder, more despairing, more fierce-
ly grand control- . g . v -

e cursed every one,respecm.ll' y.“thecreep-
ing informer,” Sydney Cargill; eVen Mrs Mor-
timer~—every one but Mary. '

Strangely he wished her no ill; suspected
not that the truth had come from her lips.

Go, and never cross this threshold ‘

 

The sun passed the zenith, and began to J

.4‘ ’ .
’ ‘r
5' «l 

HER‘ HIDDEN“! FQE.

decline. Yet Edward Churchill still lay under

-the tree—his gaze on Ravenhall.

But his ideas had taken a new and danger-
ous turn. There was a white, set, desperate
look on his face. Some time back a thought
had entered his head, which had lfild possession
ever since, strengthening and enlarging under
the bitter sense of that which he- termed
injustice. V

If the Squire was dead, by inheritance Ra-
venhall must be his, Edward Churchill’s, for
the Squire had made no will.

Sometimes the white, set expression of the
young fellow’s countenance seemed to relax—
it might have been with fear; but one glance
at Ravenhall, one remembrance of his penni-
less future, brought it back.

The hour was about four when, arising ab-
ruptly, and mounting his horse Edgard
Churchill rode now at an ordinary pace and
with his ordinary outward expression into the
neighboring town, drawing rein before the
chief hotel, where he had a room, and kept a
change of dress and a few other things for his
own particular pu . '

Alighting and entering, he requested the
waiter to bring him information when the
next train departed for London, as he had to
go by it.

When the man brought him the intelligence,
which Edward Churchill had known before,
that it left at 4.50, he found the young gentle-
man flnlshing packing his portmanteau.

“ Then I have no time to lose,” he said,
rising. “It is important that I should be in
town to—nigbt. Let some one please bring this
portmanteau with me.” I

A porter was summoned, who raised it on
his shoulder, and started, Edward Churchill
following. Reaching the station, he said to
the man, “ Give the luggage to a porter, and
have it labeled; then come to the waiting-room.
I’ll pay you.” '

The man complied, and Edward Churchill
held him in conversation until the train came
in and then took his place in a smoking car-
riage. .

He had paid the man well and, in respect, he
stayed until the train mo ‘ rawa .

But Edward Churchill did not proceed to
London. He alighted at a; bustling junction
nearly twelve miles away, and at about eight
o’clock stdod once more in the Ravenhall
grounds. A felt hat was now pulled over his
forehead, the collar of a long coat turned up
about his ears, while he appeared, by keeping
among the trees instead of on the bridle-path,
desirous of escaping observation.

Why was he waiting there, his back against
a tree, his arms folded, his chin on his chest,
never movi g? '.

The church clock struck nine, half-past, ten,
and he had not_ altered his position. Soon
after the last hour, however, he bent forWard,
listening intently.

Some one was advancing along the road.
The footfall came nearer. A spasm twitched
Edward Churchill’s pallid features. Soon, the
man—for the step told it to be so—was in
view; merely an outline in the dark, but re-
cognizable.

It was the Squire returning from the
Rectory, where it had been” his custom every
Thursday, for the last ten years, to dine and
have an hour’s backgammon with the rector.
But there had been no backgammon that even-
mg.

The Squire’s lawyer had been summoned for
the morrow, and the Squire had visited the
Rectory to request its master to be one of the
executors to his will, at-onm to be made.

As he passed, Edward Churchill bent still
more forward, and his hand clutched some-
thing in the long grass at his feet. V It was a
gun. A moment after, its report rung through
the air, and, with a quick, sharp cry, the Squire

. thrfiwing up his “arms, fell face forward an the

wt. he’,,deaail Edward, Churchill law he
Wash good shot, yet-suppose—if not! Dared
he ascertain? ‘ Already had he made astep for-

 

 

l?

ward, when he was startled by the sound of
crashing bushes at the opposite side, and a mo-
ment after a man sprung into the path.

“ The keepers!” hissed Edward Churchill
through his teeth, as he fled.

 

“ A gentleman, miss, wants to speak to you
particular,” said the footman, nervously finger-
ing the handle of the drawing-room door.

“ A gentleman at this hour. Francis?” re-
marked Ianthe, amazed, raising her eyes from
her book to the clock marking ten minutes to
eleven. “Has he sent no name?”

“ No, miss; but he is quite a gentleman, and
says you know him.” . -

“It is singular. I wish the Squire were
here; he is very late,” thought Ianthe. Then,
aloud, “ Show the gentleman in, Francis.”

Then, with a cry of surprise, she advanced,
exclaimiug, “Mr. Glendenningl Is it possi-
ble?” '

“ My presence beneath this roof, Miss Heath,
scarcely can astonish you more than it has sur-
prised myself,” he answered, pressing the hand
she had extended with much agitation. “ Why
I am back in England, and in Eastshire, how-
ever, I must explain another time. At pre-
sent a more important matter claims your at
tention. Mr. Ravenhall has, met with on
accident—” " '

“»An accident!” cried Ianthe, her aflecition, '1

for her guardian making her forget eventhe
joy she felt in again looking upon the  she
loved. “Oh, what is it? It is not anything
serious?” , if, '

“ I hope not,” was the grave response; “but
a horsc is being saddled, for medical aid=is
necessary.” '

“ Ah, then, it is serious,” cried Ianthe. “Tell
me—speakl—where is he? I must go to him!”

“ The, truth is, whether intentionally or not
I cannot tell, Miss Heath, he was shot as he
came along the bridle-path.” . ,

“Shot!” 

“I heard the report, which drew me to the
spot, and found him on the ground. He still
breathes. With some diificulty I found help,
and he is now on the sofa in the dining-room;
and I myself shall proceed for a doctor, that
there may be no unnecessary delay. ”

“Oh, thank you!” said Ianthe, tears in her
voice. “I will go to him.”

“Yes; but be calm, I pray. Control your
feelings. Remember the servants have only
you to rely upon for directions.”

“Trust me,” she rejoined; and as Mark
Glendenning hastened out, she entered "the
dining-room.

The Squire was on the couch, pale and still, .
and but for the hurried and temporary smarts
Mark Glendenning had made to stop the
hemorrhage, there was no sign of violence-
about him. ‘ ' ‘

Kneeling 'byithe couch, Ianthe, her  I‘M

flowing fast,- pressal his hand to her lips as "she
cried, “Oh, dear friend, my guardian, my
second father, whom all loved, who could have
done this? It must have been accident. No
one intentionally would harm you I” ‘ ‘

‘ “It’s all them darn'd poachers, miss, that’s
what it is,” remarked an old servant standing
near. “The Squire alwayswotes againstthe
Game Laws, and won’t punish the villains.
And this is what comes of it!”

“ They could hardly raise their hand against
him for that, John. No, no!”

: A weary twenty minutes’ waiting, during
which the Squire showed signs of returning
consciousness. Then the medical man arrived,
and Mark Glendenning led Ianthe back to the
drawingroom. "

“ It is not a moment for me to speak of my
own affairs, Miss Heath,” he said, when he
found her more composed; “but, as upon

hearing the doctor’s report I shall quit Raven-

hall, I must explain new.”

7“ Surely you will remain to 

guardian’s thanks? she pleaded, ’with  v.  

‘31 did but perform an act of ,

 

 
  

 

mwvswuaa‘. ....-,«.   . . -m... ... .r m“,

my—WJ- A.

i

« :.. as 

 

 

rue.

5,.

14,

humanity—nothing more. You received my
letter?” -

“ I did.” " J

“Well, I started for my new home; but the
ship I was in was wrecked of! an island in the
Pacific. The first vessel that came to our
relief was homeward boi'md, and we had to
return;_but merely for a time. I shall depart
again shortly.” .

Attentively she had watched him, and per-
ceived the violent emotion he with difficulty
could suppress, and that he never met her gaze.

“ Mr. Glendenning,” she said, quietly, “ you
once rendered me a. service. I am about to
ask another at your hands. Once you said

‘ "that you would aid‘me should I need help.

“ I have not forgotten,” he rejoined.

“ Then I ask you to remain. I ask you to
support me by your presence and advice in this
trouble that has come. I am alone, friendless
once more, now that my guardian is ill.”

“You alone—friendless?” he repeated. “Mr.
Churchill—”

' ‘.‘ I never regarded as the friend, I hope, Mr.
Glendenning, to be allowed to consider you.
And today, for a most shameful act, has he
been banished from Ravenhall altogether.”

“ Can it be true?” he ejaculated, tremulously

,. touching her hand—-“ can it be that your com-

, " passion, your pity goes so far as:— Dare I—

What am I saying?”

iii-Say nothing,” she interrupted, in a low
tong-Thar cheeks suffused by a delicate blush;
only prove yourself my friend and remain.”

“fivwill,” he cried, “though not at Raven-
hall 
, “in he moved back from her; for, the door
owning, Dr. Gray entered.

V it “What news? Oh, you smile!” exclaimed

lanthe.
“ Yes, Miss Heath; with a cause. A doctor’s

countenance is the preface to his opinion, and '

his patients anxiously read it,” said Doctor
Gray. “I am delighted to say the Squire’s
wound is not at all of a dangerous nature. The
hall fortunately glanced off at the shoulder-
blade. In a few days he will he himself again.

.My message is to you, sir,” he added, turning-

to Glendenning. “ Mr. Ravenhall wishes much
to thank you for your kind services.”

A flush passed over the young man’s cheek,
which then turned pale.
refusing to comply , with the request; but,
glancing at Ianthe a second, he replied, coldly,
“ If the Squire desires it, I will go; but I have
a request to make ——that I may see him alone.”

.Doctor Gray gazed curiously at the speaker.

M I see,” he thought. “ This gentleman
knows something about who fired the shot, and
doesn’t wish it to get chatted over by servants.
Very wise, too. As you please, sir,”.he added
aloud. “ Follow me.” v

Mark Glendenning did so, halting outside the
door of the bed-room to which the Squire had
been removad. Soon Doctor Gray returned.

“You may enter, ‘sir,.”-he said. “ Mr. Ra-
venhall is alone”. '

v “ Stay one instant. Do you assure me your
patient is inno danger?”

“ Not the slightest. To one of his hale and
robust constitution, even the shock will be as
nothing.”

“ Thank you”, ' '

And Mark Glendenning, entering the room,
closed the door behind him.

CHAPTER X. _
um omnnaxnme’s msroav.

Tan Squire lay on the bed, his fine, hand-
some countenance, with its heavy, iron-gray
mustache, relieved against the snowy pillow.
He was pale; but a kindly smile was on his
features as be regarded Mark Glendenning.

 

 f  J a As to the latter, a strong, violent agitation

. d him when he saw the Squire; but by
 effort overcoming it, compressing his lips,
his gaze partly lowered, and taking a step
nearer, he said, “ You desired, Squire Raven-
hall, to see me?” .
“Not 'a very strange desire,” smiled the

, ,  man. “Considering what I owe you—-

He appeared about .

She prayed investigation.

 

"WWW  ‘ I M I

g  HIDDENTQE,

probably my life, for your presence must have
scared the villain who attempted it—I wished
to thank you.”

“There is no need, sir. What I did, any
other would have done, or I would have done
for any othe.even more readily.”

The Squire, knitting his brows, looked at
this young man, who, cold, erect, stood so
aloof. ,

“Pardon me,” he said, “but your manner,
as your words, are peculiar. . We are stran-
gers, yet you speak rather as if the service you
rendered me gave you no pleasure.”

“It did not,” was the response.
formed it as a duty.”

“A duty? As that, I suppose, of man to
man? What other could you owe to me?”

“None but what the world would easily ab-
solve me from, Squire Ravenhall,” proceeded
Mark Glendenning, his manner changing to,
one rapid and vehement. “I, who, as you
say, probably saved your life to-night, as a
youth, once vowed to take it.”

“ You?” ejaculated the Squire, rising slighti
1y on his elbow. “Who are you?”

“Let the name of the woman whose heart
you broke answer you—the name of my
mother—,Josephine Woodleigh l”

The Squire gave a quick, sharp cry as he
dropped back on his pillow.

“ My son!” he ejaculated.

“Yes, Squire Ravenhall—your son. Your
lips have ,owned it. The son you repudiated;
the son you covered with disgrace, giving him
shame as an inheritance; the son upon whom
you have never looked till this moment! You
comprehend me now when I say' duty, and no
kinder feeling, actuated me in the service I
rendered you. Now, too, you will understand
when I say this interview has lasted long
enough; that I go, for the air that I breathe
beneath this roof stifles me.” ' _

“Stay; I ,entreat—I command you! Yes;
my son, whom I never till now have seen—
Whose name even I do not know. Listen,” he
proceeded. “Did it never strike you that you
had heard but one side gt a story, and that not
mine?” .1, ,

“ I heard that ohaédying mother.”

“Even she did no know all. I acted pre-
cipitately, perhaps. Her guilt was—I should
say ”-—noting the crimson anger on the other’s
brow—“- peered so clear. Tell me, I entreat
you, the ry you heardfrom J osephine—my
wife’s lips l” ‘

“I was not fifteen when my mother, having
but a few days to live, told me her history—
that you, Aubrey Ravenhall, heir to this place,
were my father. We were living, for the sake
of economy and my education, in a small Ger-
man town. She told me how she hid given you
her love; that she, married you, and in Italy
passed with you eight months, the happiest of
her life. At that period you had to go to
Rome on business, leaving her at the villa. On
the fourth night, at midnight, she was startled
by angry words and ascuflle in her sitting-
room, adjoining her chamber. Throwing her
dressing-gown around her, she ran in, in time
to see a man descend over the balcony, escap-
ing the shot you fired after him. She ran to
you in alarm, asking the reason. You casther

“I per.

‘ ofi', and charged her with the knowledge of the

man’s presence in her room. She denied it;
declared it must have been some thief. She
had never even seen the man.” ,

“ Well?” asked the Squire, as Mark paused.

“ You, sir, proved he was no stranger to her.
You declared him to be a‘former lover; one to
whom she had given hope,,before she met you.
You accused her of having jilted him becau so
you Were a more wealthy suitor. You accused
her" of having every night been visited by this
man while you were'at Rome. That an anony-
mous letter, acquainting you with that, had
caused your return.” 3 " . ‘ '

“ Well?” ‘ ‘_ ' ‘

“ Your wife denied it. Declared that she
had not seenthe men since she ad wedded on.
, . as“ would ear
nothing; you quitted the house. ' Next?

.». i“ -u-. - ; ,.

.v U

 

 

 

wrote, saying that you would not disgrace
yourself nor her by making her infidelity pub-
lic, but offered her a separate maintenance. She
mturned your letter, and left your house for:
ever.” ‘ .

“ All that is true,” said the Squire. “Now
listen to my story. Your mother, my wife,
was the only child of comparatively poor but
worldly parents. When I first knew her, I was
instantly struck by her beauty and amiability.
I procured an introduction, and speedily grew
jealous of a certain captain, who was ever in ‘
attendance upon Josephine, who evidently
loved her, and was favored by her parents.
The question was—Did she love him? _

“Before a month was over, I told myself
‘No;’ that it was I who possessed her affection;
also that the parents had transferred their
favor to me, and looked coldly on the ofiicer.
I'shall not enter into minute details of the fierce
hate and dark looks I received from the man
whose placeI had taken. I was too happy.

“ Josephine and I were married, and finally
took a villa a few miles from Rome for a few
months. Business calle me to the last-named
city. Hardly had I arrived there than I re-
received. an anonymous letter. It informed
me that Josephine had loved, and been as good -
as engaged to, the Captain before my arrival,
when, by her parents’ orders, she had been
forced to jilt him, and pretend regard for me,
her wealthier suitor. Did I wish to prove the
truth of the anonymous information, I had but
to return secretly to the villa, when at mid-
night I should see the officer climb the balcony
of my wife’s room, which he had done every
night of my absence.

“ I need not say I went. I saw the man
enter. I followed, in time to arrest him as he
had his hand on the handle of your mother‘s
door. On perceiving me, he gave a long whis-
tle and mocking laugh, and would have passed
me. A struggle ensued, I stumbled, and he
leaped to the balcony. Then he looked back.

“ ‘ Idiot!’ he exclaimed. ‘A woman may
sell herself for gold; but her love will ever re-
main his to whom it has first been given l’

“I had a pistol in my hand. I fired; int he
had swung himself ovar the balcony, and was
gone? '

“ Now you have heard my story,” concluded .
the Squire. , “ Was I all to blame?” ~

“ No,” responded Mark Glendenning, who
had listened with much emotion. *

“ Only tn-day did I learn that it had been a
plot to destroy your mother’s fair name. and
ruin her and my happiness-a base plot con-
cocted by the man, my rival, out of revenge.
It was he who tracked us, and waited his 'op-
portunity. It was he who penned that anony-
mous letter. It was he who bade me return to
the villa, and who, to make me believe, scaled
and, for the first and only time, entered my
wife’s reom." '

“Curse him!” cried Mark Glendenning, or,

.rather, Ravenhall, rai ng his clenched hands.

“Hush!” broke in t e Squire; “he is dead,
and had repented. The confession of his
guilt and my wife‘ innocence was brought to
me this morning by his nephew, and is in
yonder desk.” .

The young man moVed quickly forward, and
took his father’s hand; but abruptly the Squire,
rising, threw himself on Mark’s breast.

“ My son—my son!” he exclaimed.-

Mark Ravenhall could not remove thathand—
some iron-gray head resting on his breast, nor
the arms so fondly clasping him. His heart
was softened; his tears'fiowed freely.

“Father!” he murmured.

 

The fact of Squire "Ravenhall possessing a son
spread like wildfire through Eastshire, causing
more than a nine days’ wonder, and a curiosity
that neither the Squire nor Mark took upon
themselves to satisfy, when the matter grew
finally absorbed in the news of Mary Blair’s
marriage. a - v 47- 

This the Squire took no pains to conceal.
On the contrary, he regarded the girl as his
niece openly, and sought in every way to as-

. '-
l‘m u
. T ‘

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 more than transient.

 

 

solve, ”

 

, q

HERf’iii’iiiDDEN. FOE.

“’15

 

.L r 1 m“

sist'h’er and Crazy Blair, who was once more
heart and soul engrossed by his inventions.

The dawning of Mary’s reason had 
After that hinting-
in the Ravenhall morning-er her senses
came back slowly, and daily strengthened.
Unfortunatelyttlas they didlso, care came in
their train, and her health failed proportion-
ately, much to the sorrow 0f. Ianthe, happy
now in her own love.

On the eve of her wedding, however, Mary
Churchill wished to see her. , _

The girl’s eyes were sparkling. her cheeks
flushed with joy, her voice tremulous.

“I have come to say good-by, Miss Heath.”
she said. “ Father and I leave Eastshire to»
morrow early.” - p

“ To-morrow—leave Eastshirel ' Where are
you going, Mary?”

“ To my husband. Oh, Miss Heath, he has
written! He owns me foi- his wife! He has
asked my forgiveness! He is ill—very ill 1”

“ And you are going, Mary?” .

“Going,”—-—and the wife looked amazed at
the question~“ of course. Did I not say that
we start for France to—morrowl Ah, I see
what you mean!” she added, rather sadly, but
with deep feeling. “He was not kind to me
once; but he is my husband, and, Miss. Heath,
I love him so dearly!”

“ May he, dear Mary, prove worthy of such
gentle devotion!” exclaimed Ianthe, embrac:
ing her. . “But I must seek the Squire. You
must say good-by, to him.”

She hurried to find her guardian, to whom
she told Mary’s news.

“He has mt for her—he .
her as his wife?” cried the
satisfaction. “Now I can ’ e him. Go,
mgyl’ove; I will join you and Mary in a min~
u

  
 

When he did so, he held an envelope in his
hand, directed to Edward Churchill. ’

“Mary,” he said, “ give your husband this,
and tell, him that not only do I forgive the
wrong he did me on a certain night some time
ago—he will understand,”—Squire Ravenhall
refersiied to the attempt on his life; for never
once had be doubted whose hand had sent the
bullet—“butwhile'he makes you a good hus-
band,-a similar check to that which this enve-
lope contains—it is for a hundred pounds—s
shall be forwarded quarterly.”

Mary coloring, hesitated. .

“ I do not know whether my husband might
like to receive it,” she murmured.

“Poor child!” thought the Squire. “She
has more delicacy and honorable feeling in her
little finger than he in his whole body.” Then
aloud, with a smile, “Take it, Mary! If my
nephew should feel oflfended, he can send it
back.” ,

The check never was returned. On ,the
contrary, Mary wrote a letter of thanks, With
an address to which other remittances might
be forwarded. , ’

Many were the presents Ianthe heaped on
Mary; then, with warm adieux, they watched
her depart. , , 1 .

. “How happy she is!” said Ianthe. “ Who,
to look at her now, would believe that Edward
had so cruelly treated her?” ‘

“My dear, nothing is so, forgiving as the
heart of a true woman. In her love, she for-
gets everything but the object of her affection.”

“Is that really so, father?” said a pleasant
voice by their side. “ What say you, Ianthe?”

“It may be,” she smiled, placing her hand
on her lover’s arm. “But, Mark, it an un-
worthy husband be so loved, how much more
should he be who is worthy o! a wife’s afl’ec-
tion?” I
“ A’ uestion, dearest, I trust our future may
anst gazing fondly on her.

f‘ But fancy Crazy Blair going too l” laughed
Elie Squire". “What our will Ted do with

m a - r

Crazy Blair never made himself a matter of
trouble to this son-in-law. Assured of Mary’s
happiness, he devoted himself to his invention,
and this time with success. ,

 

 

 

The crazy blacksmith of the village was
recognized as the man of genius in the great
city. Friends aidedihim with means and ad-

.vice;.and..when-the'uctive brain was stifled at

last, Crazy.th left a fortune and. a name to
his daughter. ‘ “ l ,

[ This, how'ever,‘  all veiled in the misty
clouds of futurity when father and daughter
quitted Eastshire. They were far away—in-
deed, near London—before Ianthe’s Wedding-
bells broke out upon the air. The church was
crowded, and, as the young girl passed up the
aisle, leaning on Mark Ravenhall’s arm, all
declared never had there been seen so hand-
some a pair. '

All save Mrs. Mortimer. «

She was there in her place, smiling and
amiable, but black jealousy and anger in her
heart. .

Her plans had been baflled, but her secre't
was her own. Not even her tool, Edward

Churchill, had guessed what those plans had

been. Thus she held her place in Eastshire

society, and considered it politic, though

against her will, to be present, and nerved her-

self to witness Ianthe Heath’s triumph, that

she might continue still that young lady’s

hidden toe. l
" THE END.

 

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open 1: , comprisin t e is collection of Dia-
logues mums and citations, (burle ue, comic
and otherwise.) The Dime Speakers for he season
of 1880—43 far as now issued—embrace twenty-three
volumes, viz.: .

1. American Speaker. 13. School Speaker.

2. National Speaker. 14. Ludicrous Speaker.

3. Patriotic Speaker. 15. Komikal Speaker.
4. Comic Speaker. 16. Youth’sS eaker.
5. Elocutlonist. 17. E10” uent .

6. Humorous Speaker. 18. Hal Colum 1a Speak
7. Standard Speaker. er.
8. Stump Speaker. 19. Berle-Comic Speaker.
9. Juvenile Speaker. 20. Select S eaker.

10. Spread-Eagle Speaker 21.
11. Dime Debater. 22. _ .
12. Exhibition Speaker. %. D1 act or.

These books are re etc with choice pieces for the
School-room, the 'bition. for Homes, etc. They
are drawn from men sources, and contain some of 
the choicest oratory of the times. 75 to 100 Declamaf
tions and Recitations in each book.

Th \ Dialo ole. 100

e Dime Dialogues. eac vo ume pages, em-
brace twen -six books, viz.:
Dialogues 0. One. Dialogues No. Fourteen.
Dialogues No. Two. Dialogues No. Fifteen. .
Dialogues No. Three. Dialogues No. Sixteen» , f
Dialogues No. Four. Dialogues No. Seventeen.
Dialogues No. Five. Dialogues N o. Eighteen
Dialogues No. Six. Dialogues No. Nine 1
Dialogues No. Seven. Dialogues No. Twe 

Dialogues No. Eight. Dialogues No. Tw 1 ‘ pile.

Dialogues No. Nine. ,_ Dialogues No. Twenty-two -

Dialogues No. Ten. ‘ ' Dialogues No. Twe rthrec

Dialogues No. Eleven. Dialogues No. Ll‘we dour.

Dialogues N 0. Twelve. Dialogues No. Twe ,-flve.

Dialogues No. Thirteen. Dialogues No. Twenty-six.
l5 to25 Dial es and Dramas in each book,

These volumes ave been - {prefixed with 
reterence to their availabtl 2/ all school-rooms.
They are adapted to schools with or without the fur-

niture of a stage, and introduce a r e of charac-
ters suited to scholars of every grade. 0th male and
female. It is fair to. assume that no volumes yet

offered to schools at an price, contain so man
aoaflableand usetiil dialogues and dramas, sex-iong
andcomic. _ x

rams and Readings.

164 i2mo, Pages. 20 Cents.

For Schools, Parlors Entertainments and the Am...
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and Readings, new and standard of the
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DIME HAND-BOOKS.

Young People’s Series.

Emma’s DIME Hum-Boone ms Youss Pm)an
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Ladies’ Le r— riter. Book of Games.
Gents’ letter-Writer. ' ‘
Book of Etiquette.
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Book of Dreams. of Beauty. . .

Hand-Books of Games.
We Dnm Hun-rith for Gunman» Porous
xscoverava e c We,“ are es-
pecially' ads. to their end. 8‘1“ " . i j »
k of Summer Sports.
Book of croquet. Y _ ‘ and
Chess Instructor. R! n: and r
Cricket and Football. Book of Pedest .
Ball Blayer for 1880.

 

Guide to Swimming. Base
Handbookof inter Sports
Manuals for Housewives.
Bmm’s Dnm Farm «Sm saints to supply a.
class of text-books and manuals fitted for eve per.
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a Recipe Book. {5. Dressmakiy cm"
8. Housekeeper-‘8 Guide. Entry.

 

Lives of Great Americans
Are presented. complete and authentic. biographies
01'. man of the men who havgezgded luster—to the

  

1I’lepu _ by‘thai' “"93 and d ,. The Series em- ;:
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The above publications for sale 

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1-29., 3, \fffi‘l51“*“’.‘:2.i <

   
   
    
 
    
  
  
  
   
    
    
 
    
 

‘11.
S
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t

 
 

4- r

 

 

 

 

 

l WAS SHE HIs WIFE? Mrs. Mary R: Crowel].... 10c
2 FLEEING FROM LOVE. By'I-Iarriet Irving .... .. 100
3 DID HE LOVE HER? Bartley T. Campbell..... 10c

J I _
11—1  J]: __J

0f Notable Works by Notable Authors. Beautifully printed in the popular folio form. from clear,~ open type ,' each
issue a. complete novel and sold at the uniform price of TEN GENTS EACH. No double price on double or contra
size members. THE CHEAPEST LIBRARY EVER PUBLISHED! " '

 
  
  
   

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45 LORD LIsLE’s DAUGHTER. B C. M. Braeme.. 100
46 A WOMAN’s HAND. ’Authoro “Dead Letter.” 10c
47 VIALs or WRAT‘E. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.. 10c

 

   
   
  

715 A lisir Face
.r Hartley

6 Two GIRLs’ LIVEs.

10 LEIGETON GRANGE. Miss M. E. Breddon.  10c
11 THE FALSE WIDOW. Mrs. J. D. Burton.   10c
412-13 LOST FOR LOVE. Miss M. E. Breddon ..... .. lOc
_ 14-15 TOILERs or THE SEA. By Victor Hugo . . . . .. 10c 57 DID SHE SIN? By Mrs.
16 THE QUADROON. By Catharine A Werfleld.... 100 ,
17-18 UNCLE SILAS. By J. 3. Le Fanu .......... .. 10c 1 fig figmm-Sggngfiemm G.

 

37 BLACK EYES AND BLUE.

1 The'Masked Bride' or, WILL SEE MARRY
,Hm. ¥13y Mrs. Mary Real Crowell. ’

2 Was it Love? or, COLLEGIANs AND SWEET-
REARTS. '  11:. Mason Turner, M. D

3 The Girl Wife or, THE TRUE AND THE
Fuss. By Hartley . Campbell.

4 A Brave Heart; or, STARTLINGLY STRANGE.
By Arabella. Southvsforth.

5 Bessie Emmi, the Work Girl. By
Wm. Meson or, M. D.

6 The Secret Merrie e; or, A Ducnnss IN
8mm or 11mm. By re Gluten.

7 A hangar of Fire; or, BLINDED Br LOVE.
By Mrs. ry Reed Crowell. '

8 Heart to Heart; or, FAIR PHYLLIs’ LOVE.

By Arabella Southworth. I

9 Alone in the World; or Tm: YOUNG MAN’s
WARD. Bythe author of “Clifton.”

10 A Pair of Gray Eyes: or. THE EMERALD
NECKLACE. By Rose Kennedy.

1 l Entangled; or, A DANGEROUs GAME. By
Henrietta Thackeray. .

12 His Lawful Wife; 01':MYRA, THE CHILD or
Ammoii. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.

13 Madca , the Little ‘ Quakeress. By
Corinne shman.

14 Why I Married Him: or, TEE WouAN IN
GRAY. By Sara. Clexton.

‘1‘. Camp

* ' "  Trust Be;- Not; or, THE TRUE KNIGHT. By

Margaret Le caster.

Ara. lle Southworth. ‘
18 Hi .Idol or TEEILUSTARREDMABRIAGE. B
Mary Bead Crowell. y

 1,7 A Loynlslover or, TEE LAsT or THE
Gamers-ms. By

A" 


4 A STRANGE WOMAN. By Rett Winwood. .. .. 100
By Mrs. Mary R. Crowell.. 100
9 THE WAR or HEARTS. Corinne Cushman. ... 10c

‘ 35 ANNIE TEMPLE. By Rev. J. H. Ingrahe.m..... 10c
36 WITHOUT MERCY. By Bartley T. Campbell. . .. 10c
Corinne Cushman.... 10c
38 BRAVE BARBARA. Byborinne Cushman ..... .. 100
39 ADANGEROUs WOMAN. By Margaret Blount... 100
40 OUIDA’s LOVE. By Henrietta E. De Condo. .. . 10c
41 Loss: A WIFE. ByCorlnne Cushmen...  .. 10c _
42 WINNINGWAYs. ByMargeret Blount .. .  lOc
43A Wom’s Hum. ByMrs. M. V. Victor... 100
44 THE DEAD LETTER. By Seeley Regester. .. 106

or. OUT IN THE WORLD. By.

 

 

 

19 The Broken (Betrothal; or. LOVE VEnsUs

,HATE. By Mary Grace Helpine.

20.0rphan Nell. the orange Girl; or,TnE
WITcnns or NEW YORK. Agile Penna. ,

21 New and Forever; or, WHY DID SEE MARRY
HIE. By Henrietta. Thackeray. '

22 The Bride of an Actor. By the author
of “ Alone in the World," etc., etc.

23 Leap Year; or, WHY SEE PRorosEQ. By Sara
Claxton.

‘24 lfiler Face Was Her Fortune. By Eleanor

sine.
25 only a Schoolmistress; or, HER UNTOLD
SECRET. By Arabella. southworth.
26 Without a Heart : or, WALKING ON Tn
BRINK. By Prentiss Ingraham. -
27 Was She a_ Co uette ’l or, A STRANGE COURT—
SHIP. By Henrle Thackeray. r

28 Sybil Chase: or, THE GAHDLER’s WIFE. By
Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.

29 For Her Dear Sake : or, SAVED FRO]! Hm-
sELE. By Sara. Clexton. .

30 The Ben net Girl : or, A MILLION or
MONEY. By ePenne.

31 A Mad Marriage: or, THE IRON WILL. By
Mrs.» Mary A. Dennison.

32 Miriana, the Prima Donna: or, ROSES
AND Lamas. By A. Southworth. ‘

33 TheThree Sisters: or TEE MYsTERY or
LORD CRALEONT. ByAlice eming. ‘ _

34 A Marri e of Convenience: o
HE A COUNT By Sara. Gluten. -'

35 Sinned Against: or, TEE WIN :A
By Clare Auguste.

  
   

, WAs

   

 

48 A WILD GIRL. By Corlnne Cushman.....  10c
49 TEE MADDEsT MARRIAGE EVER WAs. Burton. 100
50 LOVE IN A MAZE. By Mrs. E.‘ F. Ellet ........ .. 100

51 CATHOLINA. By Dr. J. H. Robinson . . . . . . . . .. 10c
52 A ROMANCE or A POOR YOUNG GIRL. Mrs. Ellet 100
53 THE LOCKED HEART. By Cormne Cushman... 100
54 THE PRIDE or THE DOWNEs. Margaret Blount. 100
55 A STRANGE GIRL. By Albert W. Aiken ...... .. 100 ,
56 T. ‘HE PRETTY PURITAN. Bfi Parson’s Daughter.. 10c

58 DOUBLY DIVORCE. By Jen Davis Burton. 10c A

61 AN AMERICAN QUEEN. By Grace Mortimer. 100
62 MARGOUN, TEE STRANGE. By Wm. M. Turner. 100
63 WIFE OR WIDOW. By Rett Winwood . . . . . .. . 100

66 THE TERRIBLE TRUTH. By Jennie D. Burton. 100
67 ELEGANT EGBERT. By Philip S. Warne.  .. 100
68 LADY HELEN’s Vow. By Mrs. E. F. Ellet .... .. 10¢

69 BOWIE, THE KNIGHT or anALRY. P. S. Warns 100
’70 DRIFTING TO RUIN. By Mary Reed Crowell. . . . 100

71 THE PARSON’s DAUGRTER‘.’ By A Parson‘s we
r .............  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. I

19-20 DEAD-SEA FRUIT. Miss M. E. Braddon .... .. 10c

21-22 LITTLE KATE KIRBY. F. W. Robinson... .... “10c

28 SOWING THE WIND. Mrs. Mary R. Crowell. . . .. 10c 64 THE 03mm Comma.
24-25 BIRDS or PREY. Miss M. E. Breddon .... .. 10c 65 PURSUED To THE ALTAR.
26 THAT BOY or NOROOTT’s. Charles Lever. . 10c

27-28 CRANLOTTE’s INEERITANOE. Miss Braddon. 10c

29 A GIRL‘s HEART. By Rett Winwood ,. . ..  10c

30-31 RED As A Boss: Is SEE. Rhoda. Broughton. 100

82 THE LILY OF ST. ERNE. By Mrs. Crow ..... .. 10c

33 STRANGELY WED. By Mrs. J. D. Burton ..... .. lOc Daughte

84 THE ersr BRIDE. By M. E. O. Malen. . . . . .  10c 72 THE MYsTERIous GUARDIAN. Co

78 WAs SEE A WIFE? or, The Broo ‘ 
Rett Winwood . . . . . . . . . .‘ . . . . . . . -' La“.
74 ADRIA THE ADOPTED; or, , The M
, Elles 0rd Grange.
Ready October 7th . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. v . _
75 PRETTY” AND PROUD; I or The Gold-Bug of ‘
Fr’lsco. By Corinne Bushman. October 21. 10c

A new issue‘every two weeks. v

For sale b all newsdealers or sent, s 6 id, '
on receipt 0 twelve cents. BEADLE NDQEDXEIS,
Publishers. 98 William street, N. Y. .

ery Reed Crowell... 100

vereux Blake. 100
Halpine.. 10c

B£Phi1i S. Warns... 100
yCus man. .. 100

   
    

 .. . . ; 100 _
story of _
By Jennie Dev 5 Burton. 'wc ‘ 1

 

 

 

36 Sir Archer’s Bride 2 or, THE QUEEN or Hrs
HEART. By Arabella Southworth.

3’1 The Country Cousin ' or. ALL Is NOT GOLD
TRAT GLITTERs. By Rose ennedy.

as nfs Own Aguin; o'r. TRUST Hm NOT. By
Arabella southworth. I

'39 Flirtation; or, A YOUNG GIRL’s GOOD NAIR.

By Ralph Royal.

40 Pledged to Marry; or, IN LOVE’s BONDs.
By Sara. Clexton. -

41 Blind Devotion; Or,‘ LOVE AGAINST THE
WORLD. By Alice Fleming.

42 Beatrice, the Beautitulg'or, Hrs SEOOND
LOVE. By A. Southworth.

43 The Baronet’s Secret: or, TEE RIVAL
HALF-SISTER. BySaraClaxtOn. . .
44 The Only Ban hter: or. BROTHEB. AGAINsT
LOVER. By Alice emine - ,
45 Her Hidden Foe' or, LOVE AT ALL ODDs.

By Arabella. Southwort .

46 The Little Heiress; or, UNDER A 
By Mrs. M. A. Denison. ,, I

47 Because She Loved Him; or How WILL

 

IT END. By Alice Fleming. Ready Cct. 5th.

48 In Spite of Herself; or, JENNETTE’s Rer-
ARATION. By S. R. Sherwood. Ready Oct. 12th.

A new issue em week. "’
THE WAVERLEY LIBRARY is tor‘sale by all News-

dealers, five cents per copy, or sent by mail on
receipt of six cents each. BEADLE AND ADAMS,

“7%.?  " 

' 7 Publishers, 98 William street. New York.