 

W‘ ‘ > ‘ I
p . ,
- I  III
I“ 1*. III (I l. "

. ,II o g ., ,
s 021100 at Raw York. N. Y.. at Seco

 y ~""I I h I.. .  .',HI I v-J ~ . -- .u I< . ..
nd Class Mail Rates. Copyrighted in 1883 by Bunny. an Anus..- Februarjyfm. 

82.50 a you. Entered at the P05

   
N0171. VOL. VII. PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST., N. Y. PRICE, 5 CENTS

EyOMAN’S WITCHERY;  

{j} -16' I524._[iA CYJinngIZ’OA/L

AUTHOR OF' “ WHICH WAS THE womm’!" “FOR mm DEAR SAKE,” “ mum YEAR,” ma, ETC.

 
k ,_I

...I .‘0...

“YOU ARE NOT AFRAI‘D Now. ARE YOU?”

 
on

ughuuemteaeon.
SARA 'CLAXTON, "'

 
N

 
 artisans

 
GHAIfTER I.
THEY MET BY CHANCE.
 and the Grand Central

~  in'yNew York, of the Hudson R. R. R...)

‘Tﬁé‘motley crowd of travelers of every de-
jascription; of ofﬁcials in uniform, civilly or un-
V civilly, as was their mood, trying to answer
 thehundred and one bewildered and bewilder-
.i.rhig‘jquestions ‘of ﬂurried and inexperienced
‘ mic "hurrying for the outgoing trains; the
. inevitable baggage-smashers, who, endowed
, ‘. with Cyclopean' vigor, shoulder and toss over
 trunks as though they were indie-rubber balls,
' .»- yould. rebound unhurt from no matter
wﬁat‘bollision; all, this, and more, will present
ité‘elt‘tothe eyes of the reader, and make fur-
tther description of the scene where our story
opens, useless.

 But fortunately for the interests of human-
..ity‘ in the shape of railway employees, there
are travelers who, before they start on a jour-
ney, make up their minds not only as to what
- their destination is to be, but also as to the
best means of reaching it.

 ﬁnch travelers Were, to all appearances, the
, two young men who drove up in hacks at
‘, about the same time, and, after a short greet.
" jag, delivered their portmanteaus, with per-
e’lifect nonchalance, to a boy to carry, and made
w their way to a smoking carriage. ‘

{:1 thought you had gone yesterday, old
‘mﬁaﬂ said the younger of the two, as they
:strolled leisurely along the platform.

 managed to get out of that, thank
 J’re‘sslng business kept me in town, and
 of my devotion to duty is that I

, {aﬁjti‘svd 'down in a smoker, and enjoy -my
‘ "  of being obliged to entertain half

. "f‘ 1; .ladleqeach blessed with as much bag-
 gs the celebrated wives who encountered
messaginst St Ives,” ' ‘
  whsoorﬁglhle Dug-an; you’re 
 . , fellowfl ever met in‘my life.
 one . , 'would havebeen only toodellghted’

a

 
l .

 
 .a‘chanm,” .  andboth listeners were thrilled by her
IV  “I, I I  “:9”ny  to  musicalvoice. . '
cargoes? was the reply. molly : : , . "I shall coma-basket  when you mom.
    [I V, ., V » f  y papa,’”'*she Was  ' "  won’t have you

.7 , pf] ‘  you right it Miss“   , shut  up,  , great city.”

 over after all.-; If she did    imam ‘  {"he replied, witha
 surprised. It     L   smile at the beauﬁdds, Winsome young
W'who has had the best}? ﬁts in ﬂeet: , [e  “I am dad is
 ﬁling-feet, win putup'wi‘th such cavalier?  mu when

 
 which, from"its beyisli
 apparent; , I
 {Wished laughed matrimonda

 
 manom- she 7' 
 worthy momma ,

-;‘ » : *‘tfl’heu why. ammonitemia such.
It: up to y0W._le0.   allowed
" to talk about we , * ‘ ‘ 
f' f‘ A8 tor the I V
talk; and she  _
y, ' mymother has determinant», q x, _
'13s, and that she will W'tofalcrisis
,  muss . 4
Christmas festivities is highly probable."

  
 “‘Dugan, it’s detestable. I cannot  to.

‘thinkotsyour acting like this to 
 remember, if Constance Ramadan has
team, they are the result of her training. It

must-be a-“pertecty woman: who would not be;

 
‘ rzutaneearnuses me, andlsheis gloriously lovaly; ,

. nay/liberty, and- am in no“ hurry topl‘ecipitate

oiﬁiféwmou was ran wow,” are. .
 _ r4 . , W I v = the thingis impossible.”

with all    
 sees, me"

  
the opportunities  the .

 
.« ‘ v, -
 welt? ,, ‘-
Ought to marry." "ﬂies Con-

  
.s.

 
says, I
sd’Ihave no'doubt thatfgwhen (my, fate is do-

cided I shall do the devoted in quite orthodox
style. Meanwhile, I must make the most of

matters. If I could put you in my shoes, old
fellow, I would, upon my soul. But, you see,

“To transform Herbert Horton, a younger
son ofplain' Mr. Horton, into Dugan Shtre, only
son and heir to banker Butte, with arent roll of
fifty. thousand per annurh, and without that
transformation,” he addeda little bitterly, ‘ ‘ the
rest would be equally impracticable. I am not
a fool, Dugan, but, by Jove! it isn’t pleasant to
see what one prizes so much one’s self, neglected
by another, and especially when that other is
your oldest friend, with whom you can’t very
well pick a quarrel.”

“I should think not, old man. Very few
over this infatuation soon. Remember, there
are as good'ﬂsh in the sea as ever yet came out
of it. ” ’- ‘ ‘

“Apropos of Whicb,"seid the other, willing
to give the conversation a turn, “just look
there." .

He pointed to two ﬁgures just passing the
car, at the door of which they were standing.

They were those of an elderly man and a

young girl, both of striking appearance, and
evidently, from their mutual resemblance,
father and daughter.
\ The girl was the one‘who had attracted their
attention, and thatof many others who could
spare time from theirfall-engrossing occupation
of worrying the train hands.

She was a slim, graceful girl, of medium
hight, with a face whichxwas only equaled in
beauty by the perfect symmetry of her form,
set outta perfection by the dark, closely-ﬁtting
ulster which she wore. ' V '

The regularity of her clearly~cut features,
the soft, melting, dark eyes, (whose beauty was
enhanced by their long, drooping lashes,) were
set OR by her peculiar complexion, which was
of a clear ivory white, scarcely relieved by the
faintest tinge of color.’ . ‘

Her hair was dark, but had a sunny gleam
here and where it fell in graceful, wavy
curls} over an, forehead, or round the delicately
formed she‘ll-like  " ,
She'was'speakingto her companion as they

     
 been _¢r:‘eiuh as her country
if"  enjoy myself, but I Ashall 
, you all the same, and quite ready
minty” .

ﬁfe, is mines little bit of ﬂattery,

 
 of  departure “of the train, pre-
veuhtdﬁa  ‘ ' I
Info, few moments the long line of cars rolled
slowly out or the station, and our two male
  small gloved. hand wave a fare-
welgﬂfronfthe one next to their own to the
 who remained on the platform
l " '  after the train as long as it remained

  
‘ i "ht. .

ItseVen‘hefore the train drew up

at theiittle station at Raybourne; but the

 brightly on the gleaming snow,

which lay, soft and thick, all around, that it
was quite possible to distinguish every object;

_ and as Eugen issue lazily. roused himself from v

 
earnestly, to the staﬂogﬁaster. Rx." '

women would be worth that, and you will" get .

; for negleoung you, as it has given me th

   
‘fYou erasure  is;
said,finteorogattvelyi  » . . r . «
, “ Quite, miss; Mr. 'Challoner drovevin to
meetfthe midday train,_but there hasn’t been
any enasinoeil , ‘ ' l

ter,” she said, looking perplexed. _‘.‘,Is it very
far from here?” -' " ' '
“High uponrthree miles, miss.
' walk through the snow.”-
“ Three miles! Is there any
about here which I could hire?”

side.” ,
“Well, I suppose I must walk, then, with
the hope of meeting some one on the way.” - .
“ If you will allow me, I shall be Very imp.
py to be of service to you.”

bowed slightly as the stranger continued:
“From what I ovarheard, I see

by assisting you I shall hava the double pleas- .
are of also obliging them.
cartxhere,but if you do not mind riding in

Rectory. ”

I shall be giving you so much trouble.”

"Not at all,” he answerd, promptly.
houses are quite close together, so that it all
lies in my way.”

which Mr. Sutre noticed with satisfaction. .
“ This is your ﬁrst journey into this part. of ‘

mounted and were starting oﬁf. I , ,

v ‘5 Yes,” she answered; “ I have only been in .
the United States a short time, and my’omzsins’
were anxious for me to spend my  angst
mas here “ith them.” '  \ ’ 

‘f The Challoners are ' your cousins, then?
You can scarcely have met them before, if this .‘
is your'ﬂrst visit to our country.” x ,

“No; they are all strangers to me as yet, ,
excepting  '
“ all, you to be disappoint»;
ed, however brilltaatgﬁre‘ _ tions may be;
whichyou have  -: draw no family 

which» one   like so, heartily '

Mrs. ,isa modal old My, 38(17me
*my  ideal of a person.” ’  v.‘  1

“I” so glad wheat you-sayso, for Ilia
them just as you say. And when
found myself deserted in  way;
'bﬁggu to wonder it  mm.,¢m
,a . , . . - : . - » , ,
“ Byno meana And new. as things, tum
out, I stony rate am rather grateful to them

 
8

 
pleasure of making your acquaintance muc
sooner than it would otherwise have been, and
“in a delightfully unconventional way.”

"You" certainly, have proved a friendin
need, ” she said, brightly. “ It seems quite lit
a fairy tale to be bowled along so briskly
when I had contemplated having to trudge
through. the snow, losing my Way, and arriv
ing at any destination something before mid
night.” . , ,  ‘

“Having fulﬁlled one part of. the 
mean to do my bestf‘toa‘eeomplhh theorist,” l3“
said. “i hopelyou' will allow me to. wormed
friend indeed. You will see shaver-y cite?
’d-ownzaté‘thsdﬁeotory.  .  ‘f alan
solar-«moon "Mother “ "

 glad

 
“I shill] always V 50109 '

 
 Winona adulation

\.

 
(she. hummer v' ,

j the  into which tufted faEenwhmhis,

\ 

“Itelta little anemone his ~

if

:shesaid:

I ‘ V ‘ '

S \
. V _

- . 7:1. . A
'9 one beret“l she,"

_, “They must have’ misunderstood! my lot- 

‘You couldn’t 
:convoyauno”,
' “Ivam afraid not, miss. It just

there is no one here to-night from over  
except Mr. Sutre. I see his dog-cart out-i ‘l

The voice was courteous and pleasant, and 43
looking up, she saw a tall, manly ﬁgure  
her, enveloped in a long ulster, and: withga _~_;
warm traveling—cap dram over the face. aha 

you are . :
bound for my friends the Chelloners; so that v i

I have only a dog-, "
that, I shall be very happy to drive you to the r
“ 0h,’ thank you, it is very kind; but I fear  
“ 
“Then, in that case I shall be very much ctr ‘
liged if you will take me with you,” she said, '

with. evident relief, and without tbeslightest ',
awkwardness or self-consciousness--a factjf-g

’the world, I pummer’ he Said, when they had 

 
their  from papa’s 

 
4

i

l

v"
,u
‘ F
l

\{h

‘i .

i
l‘

l

I

 
.    p Z
, ,m‘ﬂwobelom, and it? “say”,  
_, that! have made one friend already,» I mt

They chatted ‘as naturally as it they Were

 acquaintance instead of. strangers who had
I not that night for the ﬁrst time, and so quickly
[did the timepass that they had done more than
, .twmthirds of the dourney without feeling the
I Slightest constraint.

1 Then, just as they passed a sharp turn in the
, road, the sound of wheels smote their ears,
. and Mr. Sutre said, “Here comes the truant
V at last; I wonder what ho.will have‘to say for
.hlmseu."

’ “Aiew moments more, and a depot-wagon
’. W, the driver of which seemed a very
 f“ Whither away so fash‘John?" called out
‘  r. his friend; “you might stop to wish a fellow

\ ‘ _ ‘ merry Christmas.”

‘5 I didn’t see it was you, old fellow,” called
M the other. “ But don’t stop me now, for I
Ought to have been at the station half an hour

: ‘80 to meet my cousin, -Miss Weston. I had
an accident on the way with the mare, and had
“0 turn back, and I expect the poor girl is wait-
ing there in the cold,» thinking .. all manner of
3killings about us.” , u .

“ I rather think you will overshoot the mark

 .11 you are in such a racing hurry,” said the

-- L; Ml381‘.cousposedly. "‘ What should you say to
 f “1:8 it I tell you the distressed damsel has found
.8 knight to redress her wrongs?”

" » .v "“Have you really brought her with you?”

exclaimed Mr. Challoner. “ Well, I am glad
’Zl  your sake,” he continued, perceiving his
 rcousin now in the dog~cart. “ And I am very
 :‘ﬁuchobliged to you, old fellow, for making
. all for my: remisoness. Welcome to ,Raybourne,

, “1‘33,” leaning forward to shake hands;
., mother and Mabel are longing to see
I.   you will not take this
 .m ”. way in which we are going
' a Thank To“. I amkalso longi to see
the”, “1‘100’31001 put out at all nugliout my
treatment. Now the matter has turned out so

* we“; and I have nearly roached my haven, I
- ,. an: rather”iuclined to be amazed at my little

 3 97th Challoner turned back with them. and
rafter a shortgtime they entered theRectory.

 The lightslhonecherrila in all the Win-
; dam and through open doorywhere,at
the sound of Mtwofemale ﬁgures had
. . Ida Weston caught a glimpse of a snug hall,
, ally decorated with evergreens, and
I. - , Mupbyaroaringlogﬁrea ,
g f _“ I suppose I must give up my charge here,"
_   asthey drove up to the door.
‘3 :Twl‘lnlhall hope to see you again to

 demeanor asked John

 I, had better say good
__ waveform! my peo«
late, Amerry Christ-‘

on.  You

' and sound.” 7 V w,

» There was the hnhbub. ,

attendant on an arrival, an as
lifted his cousin down from her seat beside ML
8%. the was beset by questionnaire commis-

x» ﬁtted On all hands. ' .

 .1 ,‘SBut now you are arrived, come into the
Warm room, my dear,” said Mrs. Challoner,
leading the way to the easy, prettily-tumishad'

.d’ﬁvviug‘room, whither Ida, having taken

Behave or and again thanked her charioteer, to}-

: 10355.  a , ,

_ ' ,‘ Ito/waste pleasant to meet with such ahearty
‘ welcome that her eyes ﬁlled with tears as her

“339: Williarmotherly tendernesa, helped to re

mm becomes, and Mabel pressed her hand,

Wise. shyly: “We will be great friends if
some gist me,  1,1,,  gogladﬁo

when.” i V ‘ ‘

 
> when  we we 

..  m, the,   mth “With

remanded niece  enjoying the bright
glow of the ; ﬁre andwarmly‘ reopen - to
Mabel’s aﬂectionate advances. _

She turned round quickly, and let the full
light {all on her features, and certainlythe re.
sult was. one which should have satisﬁed the
most fastidious of beholders. ,- -

But Mrs. Challoner, who regarded her in—
tently, as though seeking some resemblance to
her dearly-loved sister, Ida’s mother, said, with
a slight tinge of‘ disappointment: “You are
not at all like your mother, dear child.”

“.No, I am afraid not. Papa has ,always
said so.” ,

“As long as you resemble her somewhat in
character, darling, we will not mind about the
appearance. I have let you have her room, as
I thought you would like it better than any
other, although it is very small. Mabel sleeps
there generally, but she was very willing to
give it up to you.” ,

“Thank you so much! Oh, auntie, you are
kind to me; I feel I shall love you dearly.”

“I hope so, darling; and evenwwere I not
kind for your own sake, I should be for your
mother’s. She was my only sister, and more
like a daughter, for she was much younger
than I, and our mother died when she was
born.” , -

“ Yes, dear aunt.
of your goodness to her and to him, too. He
sent his love, and is so sorry that he was un-
able to come to you, but hopes to do so later
on." ' ‘

As Ida was left alone in her room thatmight,
she looked round on everything it contained
with deeplnterest, and tried to imagine toher-
self the young girl-mother whom she had never
known. '

\

, Mrs. Weston had gone to Cuba directly after
her marriage, and had died in giving birth to

her ﬁrst child. ,

Her husband, who was of Cuban ,origin on
his mother’s side, had remained abroad since
that event, and only brought his daughter to
the States for the ﬁrst time in her life that
spring- , '

He had come to NewYork to collect docu—
ments for a book which ’be was writing, and
had not been able to spare tune to accept the
oft-repeatedinvithtion of his wife’s sister for
himself 'and daughter until this time, and now,
oil, the last moment, pressing business in con-
nection with a‘ small property which he had in

A the South called him away, and, much to her ,
grief. and his own, Ida was obliged to pay the

long-promised visit alone.

In spite of his protestations to John Challe-
ner, that his people would not like it, Dugan
Sutre did join the family party on Christmas
Eve; but he did not hurry himself in doing so.

He lingered idly over his dinner, which he
took in solitary state, the rest of the party hav-
ing already repair-elite the drawing-room, and

i made little eﬂOrt to overcome the distaste

which he felt for having so to do. 7.
He was a man of reﬁned, studious habits, and
had little pleasurein the ordinary small talk of

society.

I: bored him, and he had fostered, instead of

having discouraged this feeling, by withdrawing

4 himself at times almost entirely from  fel-
lows, and wandering about in unknown but

beautiful or interesting regions, or spending his
time in study and writing. ' ,

He was universally considered eccentric. but
there was a charm in his manner that made him
a great favorite whenever he chase to come out
of his retirement and. mingle in society.» , A

Although; blindly devoted to him, his mother,
a thorough woman of the world, Was greatly
troubled by his unsettled habits, and looked for-

.ward to his making a suitable marriage; which

she trusted would introduction element of re
pose into his life. , ' _ '
The 09117300 and heir to ' a large estate and

influential position, he felt that it would he, in«'
- cumbentnpen him to marry;- anﬂ ﬁlm-1mm"
, in the course of .hisfﬁandegdsgs he, had met

  ewudefiselissverr;

‘i
1

Papa has always told me '

 akinjo lovaheébad never 
 who entirely satisfied his   5
He had begun to grow rather cynical cm  , 
subject, and told himself that, having nearly
reached his thirtieth year without loving or .
meeting a woman he could love, he must. 
sole himself for his want of the romantic ole?
ment by3making a highly prudent and mum;
tional marriage. I. ._ '
Thus he was in some respectawilling to [all 
in with his mother’s schemes concerning  ?
Constance Ramsden. V . 
This lady was beautiful, witty and Well-bred. ; =
and would worthin ﬁll the place as head of his: 
stately household; and yet his own innate  I
feeling made him shrink from a marriage of ‘.
the sort, and had caused him to feel the  
of his friend’s reproaehes, although hehadtrie‘d 1 f
to laugh them of! at the time. ‘
This evening he felt his :old samples «n
greater force than ever, and as he sat  "
smoking, his glass of wine untouched  '1,
him, he felt he would give up much to, have 
been able to spend that eveningunder  I
other roof than that which sheltered Miss 
Ramsden. ’ I * *
, “I wish I had accepted Challoner‘s infi; ' 1
tation, after all,” be inﬂected, as at length 3
he rose to go, unable to defer doingso any ‘
longer. ‘ , , __' 
The drawing‘room was full of people,
paused for a moment on the thrpsbold ,and'
looked toward his mother, who, arrayed info“.
rich black velvet dress, did the honors with
queenly grace. , , j ‘
There was a deep affection between 
two, despite many radical differences in their
dispositions and the little outward showsaud
as he looked at her now be reﬂected with deep
.pain the grief it would give her shmsld be?
again start oil! on his travels without netting:
down at home, or bringing hera daughter when
.she might look on with pride, and who might.
fill the place of her own little daughter, 
died just as she began to blossom from 
hood into maidenhood. , ‘ _ *  ‘ 
Constance was near her, and looked, “utié'
iul andfascinating enough, as she bowodlher'
Stately head in, responsetoMr. Sutre’e, 
ing, to satisfy the, requirements of the 
exacting of men. ' ' ' _ 
ﬁne was one of those women who are
liarly the "product of the upper circles'oi 
ciety. Tall, graceful, and beautiful, with  ‘
voluptuous yet well-trained béautyf which,
seems to spring as much from perfemion'of ~
breeding and surroundings as from i , ‘ ,_ 
charms, she united the culture of a 7!! 
cated woman, always used to the 
reﬁned people, to the natural aptitude
sparkling wit which rendered her hearty In}
cinsting' and dangerous to manyfmen‘ 
would'have lain aspired to, try for £19 f  
apriaehadshe not been sorter 
reach. ‘ "  7.
All~powerful as she was with otherjss‘n, 
always felt her weakness beme 
--a feeling which piqued henpridc named
it pained her heart. {or whatever. oi 
 Cosmos, had ever 
had undoubtedly bestowed on 
suitor. . ‘ i '-
It was not that she ever feared he 

l

r

1

 his mother’swishea, er 
convenience and proprietyof a y 4 ' _: f
herself ;_ but somehow this, ,did not We?»
her, and she laughed scornfulbr 
romantic folly of longin ” .l hat when 
ask her for her hand, the he might another
some eagerness that the, heart :shouidveccm -
puny it. 2 " ., r a , _ 
To—night his \manner, if possible, was 
courteous, and yet colder than ever; and'oho
strove in vain to fascinate him! by those green-f
ful little wiles which had broughtnearly every"
man who crossed her path to her feet. ‘  o ,
“Your, train was 'late,.i presume?” share?
marked, as be seated himself near her. 7; ‘
- Grier very. considering the season,” 
gm ' ; ’ “Ihovo beenround toChallouer‘I' " 

 
ms'mrimeihemﬁi’h” 

 
, .¥' 1 ,1: H . .y y. r .   V1 1 V‘,
   

m. "r f L

 
I

  
f‘h‘an cousin of whom Miss Ohailoner has so
 {much to say just now? Do tell me about her?
-  .1 am dying of curiosity.” -
 ' “I have traveled down with Miss Weston,
 the honor of driving her to the Rectory,
. I as anaccident happened which prevented her
, Jh'iends sending for her in time. I am sorry
V. not to be able to satisfy your curiosity, as there
f ' was nothing so extraordinary in Miss Weston
. -" as to impress me very forcibly, unless it be her
. decided beauty and ease of manner. HoweVer,

 row, as I suppose'she will join the Chailoners’
- ‘, party here at dinner.”
r  , “'And you drove her home from the station,
' than? How odd! But, of course, you had met
xw‘her'vhefore in the city?”
: “ “Iliad never seen ' her before, but in my
' ‘  there was nothing odd in my offering
' , my services when I discovered the dilemma she
was in." a
 “ “Oh, no; of course not,_if you put it like
'5 thanbut I wonder she liked to go with a per:
 foothill-anger.”
, ,  ;“I introduced myself, as a friend of Challo-
 ner’s; but even if that had not been so, Ishould
;, have felt. it incumbent cum to oﬂer my ser-
 vicegvas I was the only one with a conveyance
» '_.’ there.”
' - “Certainly; but it was much more interest
, ing that the distressed damsel was possessed of
'y . remarkable attractions. I certainly did not
knowthat you were a knight-errant, but I as-
‘ . sure you the new role is wonderfully becoming.”
ﬁle did not know why she should be, piqued
*  attention to the Challoners’ cousin, and
told herself that she must indeed have fallen
‘  so  the rivalry 'of is music-teacher, or
  ' " feesionai singer, as she had heard that
   was; but still the annoyance she
-’ "secretly  made her raillery a triﬂe more sar-
cutie than her own worldly knowledge told her

, _  compatible with good taste.

CHAPTER II.

« ~' ' . mums rod men swarms.

‘ ”“ 03' course you heard. of your son’s romance,
 Eats-e,” said Constance Ramadan, as they
halibut for church the followingmorning. “ I
 we shall have the pleasure of seeing the
“'- I V . ladyto day l” '

i. 73 f‘ I am quite in the dark note your meaning,
 dear,” replied the elder lady. “ Dugan has
  use his conﬁdant.”

 “Kitchener. told you that he drove Miss.
 e  the Challoners’ cousin, home last night?
Re found her dissolved in tears, or, at any rate,
"in great distress, at the station, not knowing
,  on her journey, having, I ex-
'  missed her train or made some
 mistake. I don’t know whether
 his protection or if he first of-
ﬁrsditﬁgutﬁ any rate he drove herto the

wﬁﬂew  strange! Young girls really
 not  alone. She ought to consider
 in’having met with help.”
,  party had not arrived when
-,  the ‘ehurch; and two pairs! eyes
,,  the little door in the chancel
.: Thy which they would enter, although both
 would scarcely have admitted that
 felt any extraordinary interest in the

. [1. Gemstones Ramadan felt‘with the certain
instinct of a woman,- tbat Miss Weston was,
or mid eventually be, her rival, and was,
 anxious to use her; while Dugan
 had found that the reﬁned, delicate face
,‘of his traveling companion had ﬁxed itself in-
“.édelihiyon his memory, and he felts. more than
.gordinar'y anxiety again to meet its owner;
' Both the watchers were disappointed, as
Mrs. and ma Cballoner walked into the church
plane, and Mr. Butte regretted that be halal.
lowed himmlf to bebeguiled by a false hope
into-leaving his comfortable study for the little?
 church and the tortur'eof rural at-
 to be disappointed  all, ,

I
,4;

 
x l.

  
Won-nee yam " probe" stomach

 you will be able to judge for yourself to—mor- ,

{entices a m   the littled’oer
opened, and  Chaneaer appesred, accom-
panied by Miss Weston. . '

“ Looking lovelier than ever,” reﬂected Mr.
Sutre, as the plainly yet tastefully-clad ﬁgure
glided past him with a slight smile and bow of
recognition, a touch of color brightening the
habitually pale cheeks. ‘ .

" Is that all?” reﬂected Miss Constance.
“ She is lady-like and pretty, certainly! but a
beautyi—oh, no! Mr. Dugan must have been
deceived by the moonlight.”

The service commenced, and was like most
services are in country villages; and yet Mr.
Sutre, whose patience was generally tried by
this ordeal, did not ﬁnd himself at all wearied.

Certainly when the cracked voices of the vii-
lage choir raised a melancholy sort of wall,
entreating the congregation to “ Hark! the
herald angels sing,” a noise which was sug-
gestive of anything but angels, he felt in-
clined to make a bolt of it, and could not help
responding to the smile which wreatbed the
full, beautiful lips of Miss Ramsden, and show-
ed oﬁ' her gleaming white teeth to advantage;
but after the ﬁrst few bars, the rustic singers
increased in conﬁdence, and made up for the
deﬁciencies of their performance by its heart-
felt earnestness.

Then it was that a full, rich, contralto voice
arose, ﬁlling the little chancel with glorious
melody, insomuch that it made the other singers
pause, and to fancy that it Was indeed an angel’s
“voice which they heard.

Dugen Sutre, whose car was ﬁne and cor-
rect, was enchanted, and listened with rapt at-
tention, scarcely less touched by the beautiful
expression ofrthe singer’s face, as Ida Weston,
headless of the notice she was exciting, join-
ed in the ﬁne Old Christmas hymn heart and
soul. '

The service over, a group soon formed out-
side the door, and good wishes for the festive
season Were heard on all sides.

‘ Mr. Sutre at once made his way to Ida, and
inquired if she Were fatigued from her jour-

ney.

“ Notrat all. I am so interested and pleased
with everything, that even were I tired I
should not have time to feel it.” V

“ Of course we shall see you with Mrs. Chal-
loner at our house this evening?” he asked. “If
this frost continues, you must come to-morrow
for some skating. We shall have a large party
on the ice.”

“ I can’t skate," she said. “ This is the ﬁrst
time .I have ever seen ice; but I shall like to
look on. I saw some boys on the ice this morn-
ing, and it looked very enjoyable.”

“Oh, but you will soon learn, and I shall
delighted to teach you."

“Thanks; I am afrcid I should be too
vous."

“ Won’t you introduce me to your cousin,
Miss (mallonerf’ asked Miss Ramadan. »

“ Oh. certainlyl , Ida, dear, this is Miss Con—
stance Ramsden—Mise Constance, my cousin,
Miss Weston.” " -

They bowed, and Miss Ramadan said, gm:
ciously: ‘ g r

“ Miss Challoner has told us so much about
you that I seem to know you already, and
directly I heard your voice in church I knew
mwho it was. You quite surprised the aborig-

I think." ,

I a smiled, and said:.

“I did not notice any

among them."
- “ Ah, that was your modesty. I am a little
bit musical myself, although a very humble
amateur; so if Mrs. Challoner will allow me, I
shall pay a visit to the Rectory, and we will
have some music r.” *

“ I shall be delighted!" said Ida, pleased
at the decided friendliness of her new acquaint.
once.

Constance had decided to take the bull by
the horns and make a friend of her rival; for
 feminine, instinct told her ﬁat/she would
 to rising be'betterzahic to ﬁght her battle;

great astonishment

ner- ‘

’in venturing to reproach you; but you are so

  
" “We is: really a . pretty-little   ,,
I  30,  ﬁntrei "G! can  ‘i'
- foreign~looking, but that makec‘hcr 
among our buxom, rosy country losses.” ‘ -;
“I don’t wonder at your enthusiam,”.shog
continued, as Mr. Sutre held the gate, open for 1:
her to pass. “Her voice, too, is lovely. If it,
sounds as well in a large room as it did in the.
Ichurch,'she certainly ought to succeed in he, i
profession.” , ' 
“ I was unaware that Miss Weston
professional." ' . ,
“Oh, yes; I think so. Miss Challoner toldx
me something about it. She said the fatherly
a very delicate man, and Miss Weston had:
always been anxious to be a help to him. But ,;,
considering her great abilities, I dare say her.
natural longing for admiration would make;
such a duty as very pleasant one to her." :,
As Constance Ramadan dressed for dinner)
that night, she chose one of her most becoming ;
toilets; and certainly the effect was satisfactory.
As she entered the almost empty drawing-i
room Dugan Sutre thought he had never seen.
her look more beautiful.

She wore a long train of terracotta velvet,
with a tunic of satin of , a much lighter shade, I
the bodice being so cut as to show on her meg
uiﬁcently—formed arms and shoulders to every
advantage. I

“You are early this evening, Miss Con—‘3‘
stance,” be remarked, placing a chair for hers:
near the ﬁre. . '. 

“ Not earlier than usual, I think. But it is:
so seldom that Mr. Butre honors as with his.
company so long beiore dinner that he lays the.
blame of tardiness cums.” ‘ , " i 2

,She knew whathad called him from Marco?
tirement so soon, and, it‘  berth fresh
efforts. She determined that at least he meld 
not speak to Miss Weston before dinner, 
as he would take her, not Miss Weston, in to?
dinner, she thought that it would not be edit
ﬁcult matter to keep him at her side for the 
of the evening. ' - I;

_“I want you to tell me the'story of that”
picture in the library whose history you press
ised to relate to me when We were [in New
York. You interested'lme ‘ in it, and: I 11W},
long to know all about it. There ion are in /
the room'where it is; will it he too much “trou' it
his tocome and tell me now?” ' > P 

“Trouble is out of the question where ﬂies:
Ramadan is concerned,” he answered, gaiiunt- '
1y, at the same time looking uneasily at the
door. “ If you are really desirous of knowing
the story I will tell it to you now.” '

She took his premiered arm, saying gently;
“I don’t know what Ihave‘ done to 
At one time I thought I might reckon you

among my friends. ” r
I done to lose that privi

was a".

 
a

 
“And what have
legal" he asked. - .

“ You have done nothing; but you w 
feel like a nanghtychild- who iain'dihgmf
When we were in New York last 
scam Ir a day passed without-our meeting 
and now, that we are in theﬁsame 
scarcely ever speak together. I ﬂail 
think that you are very changeable, and: 
care about old friends.” a ‘

“That would he very cruel." - ‘ ‘

“ Now you areal-castle. But perhaps I- was
premature in reckoning myself among your!
friends?” - " ’ ”

“ I shall be always proud to be counted wot
thy of such an honor.”

“Of courseyou say so, and no doubt I am
stepping. beyond the strict bounds of proer

  
different from other gentlemen of my acquaint
ance that I can venture to speak more frankly
to you, and I had determined not to let any
misunderstanding spoil such a pleasant relis—
tionship.” / I - . _ ..
“ I should be very sorry to do anything {0
lose your good opinion,” be repeated. : > ,
' “Well, then, please don‘t leave me ,toth?
[tender maples of captain Barnes, who z " 
nothing to say, but “Alli woolly, my 

    
Will-lib? Y“? twvim-8W» 35"“  T ‘

  
, /

 how vesvy malt? V I, g

  
l

  
 ce’vsvmimicrytref. the  ,
, speech was,»  and.clever,that
.  one could Whale laughing and tooling
1% tie flattered at her preference for himself.
.2‘: She is beautiful i" be, reflected. ‘-‘ I Wonder
by I can’t love her.”

. .‘g’Kor the time being, at any rate, she had
Succeeded in fascinating him, and as she lis—
1m9d with intelligent sympathy to the old
family history she had asked for, he almost
I Oil the party whose arrival hehad been so
ran oust expecting. .
'V :Wheu they returned to the drawing-room
(the dinner had just been announced, and he
I  ,pnly time to greet the strangers before
, [paired oil? to the dining-room.

‘ ;  Weston, who had fallen .to the lot of a
Wary young and bashful man, was just in front
1' OZ’VMiss Bamsden and himself, and when he
 that their places were so arranged that
W Q, ’1“! Was just removed from her by Constance
s‘;  ‘nd' the bashful young man, it must be con-
5 ""W that for the ﬁrst quarter of an hour he
-‘, exceedingly morose and uncharitable. _

‘ ‘Stupid idiots!” he reﬂected. “She will be
: , todeath.” .

' - "twilen, however, after a short time, he found
 instead of allowing herself to honored,
 'Was talking with gentle cheerfulness to
g . ,xhy young man, he was more annoyed
gratiﬁed at the disappointment of his pre—

  
f“; suppose she is one of those girls who
“allot help trying to elicit admiration from
’ “ ml?! man that they meet, even. though he
_  the Veriellt dolt,” was his mental comment,
‘5‘! turned round to devote himself to his
 with an ardor which surprised her.
bog“?! nowand then he looked at the couple
, Willem, and listened to theiroonversatlon,
.  imsbeooming quite animated, the beeh-
‘ y -  me having quite thawed under the

<, ,1

  Wine, of his beautiful companion’s

~ shg‘iagl‘gwlng-out prooem to which
“Went young puppyl” thou ht his-irate
' . ﬁgmmhlnm Ida‘Weston’s hgautiful. eyes
. , , encouragineg at the youngfellow, who
,_  aridently that losing his heart to her.
‘1 a   his ill-humor, Mr; Butte wasonool
.  ‘1“ last to leave the dining-room, and ache
  80. the passionatestrainsof “Ghefarol
W Eurydicel" came from the 
. i  a rich, glorious voice, which he 

 
 I. More entering the room the song. "was
“ﬁled, and Ida Weston was standing. beside
 Bamsden, looking through some music;
 ‘ A‘stronger contrast it would have linen 
s”- - Peuihle to imagine. , ’ _ .
e- _'   Sutre thought he had never seen any-
 more exquisitely reﬁned and delicate
r 1  slightyﬂgure of Ida Weston draped in
of  Without the relief of a single piece
_m,wmtér  .munded arms looking all
. and tmeother from the somber hue,
_y of the transparent glam. ,
 . Ber smart.th wens combed straight
 ﬂ“ 309 9‘ h” M and twisted into a mas.
“.75 9°“, in Which Mind a. few dark crimson
zines, the only color which she had about
. 'She glanced up with a smile as
and for a moment he almost believin 3:??th A
. _ cheek was tinged with a slight shade of color.
I ,: ,At' any rate, such a pleasant supposition had
 effect of melting the gloom which was op.
infusing him, and he at once Went 11th her

 
V “I am so sorry I missed your song,” he
:Mid. 1‘ Will you notsing again for my ben-
ﬁitl’.’ .
'} "‘fre‘sently," she answered. “‘Now‘people.
Want to talk, and myperformanoe would only
. ‘0: nggution.” ‘
 m9, ‘talk'to‘me then,pleaee. Here
is) delightful little corner, I have some
" .,  ,I‘want toshow you. Theywlll
  as; I gottlmn all in

  
iSutre asked. us all, and
large party.”

 
a: 

 
J v “0...,” '

inclined fortalkingthaainspeetl them.

“I am afraid it was'very dill? for you-at
dinner,” ' he said. “That fellow must hare
bored you awfully.” ,

“ Not at all. we not on capitallyeafter the
first shyness were off.”

This was a decided check to his returning
good humor, and he said, “Perhaps I had bet-
ter vacate my place to him now, since his so-
ciety is so enjoyable?” , _

“I don’t think I said it was enjoyable,” she
said, gently. “ There is a great deal of differ—
ence between that and being wearisome.”

There was a certain dignity in her manner
which recalled him to himself, and he said,
penitently, ,“ I am very rude; pray forgive
me. But remember, you have promised to be
my friend.” /

“ I, do not wish to forget it; but that need
not prevent my having others.” ,,

“ Not if you promise to like me best. Will
youl’? . , '

She colored deeply, and looked intently at
the pictures before her, trying in vain to make
some suitable remark about them.

“I am afraid I have oﬂended you again,”
he said, in a low voice. , “ Tell me is it so?”

“ No; not exactly offended, but—~”

“ Well, but what?” .

“Please don’t say such things any more. -e I
don’t think it is uite right.”

‘f Why not, iftl mean it? You promised me
your friendship, and must allow me the privi-
leges ofa friend”.

“Miss Weston, will it be troubling youltoo
much to ask you to sing this duet with Mr.
Forrester?” asked Constance Ramsden, coming
up at this moment. “Youknow it, I think,
and we want so much to hear it.”

Mr. Forrester was the bashful young man;
and Mr. Sutre,‘ angry enough to have the teta-
a-tete broken up, became angrier still when he
knew the real cause.

CHAPTER III.
~ CROSS-PURPOSES.
“ WHA'; a splendid day for the ice!” cried

 
fast. P‘Of course you will come, Ida? Mrs.

there issuretobea

“ I cannot skate,” said Ida. e' “ Besides, cone-
in John promised to introduce me to some of

,his old people today. "

“011, John will. come on the ice too; won’t
you, old man?” ,

“Certainly when I have been into the vil-
lage,” said he. “ I must go there, first, and
shell of course be very glad of your company,
Ida; but don’t come simply to keep to your en—
gagement. I am sure the ice will have greater
attractions.”

“ Not at all," she responded. “ I shall only

. get cold it ,I stand about too long, and 1 really

   
   (other

, Mabel Challoner, the next Morning at break»

want to go with you. I shall see plenty of the»

skating if I gumbon you do."
“ So be it, " said John, looking unmistakahl
gratiﬁed. ,“ I cannot be so unselﬁsh as to try
and diesuade you, although I fear it will be
rather dull for you.” v
There was, as Mabel had predicted, a large
party when Mr. Challoner and his cousin ar-’
rived at the river some two hours later on, and
Ida uttered an exclamation of delight as she
stood still to take in the eﬂect of the pictur—
esque scene. ‘ , <
Pure, spotless country snow lay sparkling

- with myriads of crystals as far as the eye could

see, while the feathery branches of the trees,
incrusted with boar-frost, formed an exquisite
semen. through which the golden sunlight
Poured on the gay, motley group of skaters
lither and. gracefully gliding over the frozen
bosom of 7 ,water.. I

“ It is beautiful,” she cried. “ I have never
m'mythihg lovelier. I wish I could skate,

"‘    you,”  ,Joha. .

.“I dare  homespun of

.4

  
' 1'

  
looks, while John busied himself with his

- reproachful tones, “At last!

air. ” »

quite. helpline."

 
 I i,

. ifDlathheekxyeul I  ~;
on. l'daresaythe realitwa not-in. so!
pleasant as I imagine. But don’t let me keep ,. ‘ 2
you. I want to see you enjoying yourself , ~
also." ' ‘  
“I am,” he replied with a significant smile» ‘ 
“Your enthusiasm is infectious”. ‘ r_  3
“ There is Mabel!” cried Ida. “ How-beanie, 
fully she. moves! Who is that young fellow  ‘
she is skating with? I don’t think I‘knowr 
him.’.’ ' ~ - 
“Oh, that’s young Herbert Horton. He it v. 1
a ﬁne young fellow, and a great favorite of
mine.” I r ; 
“And of Mabel’s too, " thought Ida, shrewd- ' 
ly, as she watched the pair glide, hand-in—hand,
over the ice and under the drooping boughs of
the trees. ‘ . _' a. -
She stood eying the Scene with appreciative; V ’

    
skates, and having screwed them entailed v
himself to his feet, and left her toherself.  A 3
But presently another ﬁgure came toward V t
her, and a familiar voice was heard to say, in r ‘
I have been look; ,3
ing for you all the morning. I shall begin  ;
think you wantto make us feel the worth
yourbf‘ompan, , yby giving us as little ofxitas
) .

“ That is not very charitable, ” she 
lightly. “I had promised before to 
John, andas Ican’t skate, Ishouldnotmetog
stand here too long.” ‘ r ; a 7' 

_“But you are going to skate,”heea‘id,u
cisively. -  » r .

“I have no skates.” _

“But I have "—going toward
and chairs on the bank, among whiohnlha
saw a new pair of lady’s skates. “ I rode Mo 5
Raybourne an get these for you before break—A . ' 1’
fast this morning, and have been  'y 
ward to the pleasure of teaching you. 
confess you are very ungrateful.” s - _ , ,A '.

“ It is very kind of you; but, indeed, I don?! .
like to come on now, for I have refused 
already.” I r ’ .r . ”

“Nonsense; that is no reason whyryoa ‘
should refuse me. Comeaow; I_will '
ofyou. WOn’tyontI-ustmei”,  _ l  ..

He was looking intoth eyes to W,
that she felt. she. could not  , I
and said, “Yes, if you really with it, an A 
sha’n’t spoilyyonr sport.”   r

“Of course I really wish it. Don’t: you,
knowthat it will aﬂord me more 
all the skating in the world?" . ., ,V .  .

“ But if I fall?” she said, evading a 
his last question. 2 y l .  

“You won’t if you treat yourself tome. 
will» hold you quite ﬁrmly.’ $5.8m 
other hand too,”——having put on 
and helped her to rise. “ Hm 
ﬁrmly and boldly. I won’t let you iall.”;:g _

He held her firmly in his powerful  .
guiding her footsteps, givl'ng her every new
and then anadmonishing word.  ‘; ".i r 'r .

After a time she grew quite bold, 
ing implicitly on his support, allowed homing;
move swiftly and smoothly along at bﬁm‘
The keen-air and rapid motion broughta,wi »
care color to her cheeks, and causedher dark:
glowing eyes to, sparkle with enjoyment. 

“ There, now! are you not glad you allowed:
yourself to be persuaded?” he asked, as, aftersa
few turns, she began to fall in with bloom
“ You are not afraid now, are you!” ' e, 3;” ‘

.“Oh,-no; I feel perfectly safe.” . v

“ And happy?”——interrogatively. , '3 .

“Yes, and happy,” -—-laughing. “tam-mg
glorious sensation to go so swiftly lthrough 

a heap 

i .

           
“Will you try it alone?”—~mischievously. 7” _
“ Oh, no; please don’t leave me. .I should» 

“ Don’t be afraid. I don’t think I would,“ 
yougo if you wanted to.” ‘ " , 'y
“I don’t want to now," she said decidedly: 5
“I am sure .I should he like Mr..-,Winkleaif,
you did, and want to, dash my head on.  "
k6), ‘ u ‘ l   i  ~ 
Q.“  Eiffel—~30  you tacompleto

       
‘ ‘ V T

 
  of  whohad been,
{pertaining wonders in the fancy style: “ Come
.oh,there7s a good fell-owl” , ‘
 $89,” said Ida: “ I Will rest. Please don’t
.stay,” as be hesitated while the call for him

‘ was renewed. . ’

'  . “I shall come backseon,” he said. “,Try to
=get m with this chair; it will help you won-

 dextully.”

_ l ' - She followed his advice, and was astonished
f "at her own progress, but found it much duller
” '  than when skating with a companion. There-

V {are she was not sorry when Mr. Challoner
came up to her and said, “ You would not give
the pleasure of teaching you, but I hepe

‘ -‘ 7  won’t deny me that of skating with -you;”

and, uttering her his band, led 'her away to a.
Jess frequented spot, Where they were able to
nhave it all to themselves.
, g“. What a splendid man Mr. Challoner is!”
"said MissRamsden, who had, been one of the
r'flgure-sksters. “ He is a thoroughly good
,specimenof the muscular Christian, and seems
tube» enjoying himself as thoroughly as though
She  on it as a duty. I see he is teaching
"HII Weston.” ‘ 4
“Man Butte, whom she was addressing,
. looked toward the pair with no great urbanity.
f‘ﬂha might have waited for me," he reﬂect-
ed; t‘when she b'egged me to go.” '
{f i ,“They get on splendidly tagether,” she con-
tinued; "‘1 hope no one will intrude on their
imbued.” ‘ ‘ ' I . ‘
"This was only a suggestion; but it was so
hilltully’ introduced, that it had the desired ef-
. ,ect. constance had been watching her op-
. “We accounts for her anxiety to get rid
 use: but she sha’u‘t have it all to herself. I
 allow any, woman to play fast and
" with met.” ‘ , '
 was moving OR in their direction, when
ﬂyiuatanee said, “Will you kindly take my
stateshm« I strained my feet at lawn-tennis
in the summer, and it is still rather weak. I
' "afraid'I must give over skating for to
)9

. A Share, was noheip for it but to comply, and

it knelt down to fulfill her behest, murmuring

a  of condolence. \

‘ ,ii‘hank' youfﬂiu her sweetest tone. “ I am

fronts-owls you, but I am so lame that I

as  walk, and must ask you to give
 your arm up to the house.” .

:With Wain-awaken“ that he should

to strangle her for ‘falling lame so inop-

tpncly. '
do waited in vain for him to return, and a
' feeling of~ disappointment suddenly

I" ' all her sunshine and mirth as she:
unsightsight of «him walking up to the house
, p cutaway withiMiss Ramadan. -

' ‘ "5-38 might have let me know, at any rate,”

r ' “It is very rude, after asking me to

, frost continued for some da 5, and the
mound: cad toassemble to ms the most
 much was the innocent pleasure de-
, vtmm'the healthy pastime.
atale began there which would, run
I ‘, h the changing scenes of ‘the lives of~
'thu'sowho'now, hand in hand, gave themselves
 to the, enjoyment of the hour.
;, T finding how ‘well they kept together on the
[they conceived the notion of continuing the
experiment through their more serious occupa—
mm .. ‘ .
 libese young careless people were
Mbertl-Iorton and Mabel Challoner.
after day the young fellow cameover
 Icamt to forget the dangerous fascination
Constance 'Ramsden in the gentle, unso-
 oharms of the country maiden.
, Degas: sutre looked on at this little by-play
itﬁsl‘he 'keenest satisfaction, and could not
_ other congratulating Horton, who had been
’ ‘  chain” at- eollege, whom he really rc~
, ‘ ' with great aﬂ'ection. ' '
'  is quite oﬁwith the.
 , '0“ 131,10???”

heat-idiom da, .

Y

‘61s lore, nee:

indentations: no new  is?  

BI reellasuazned to'remember what a £001 I have
beenyl’,‘ ,, ‘ I V >

“ Miss Ramsden would not feel herself every
ﬂattered if she heard you just now.”

“ I‘ have no wish to disparage her. On the
contrary, I still admire her very much; but

‘ admiration ,for love. ”

“It was something very like it, old» boy, so
I don’t wonder at your mistake. But, at any
rate. I wish you luck this time.” _

“Thanks! I suppose we shall soon have to
congratulate each other. "

The time passed, tolerably happily for Dugan
Sutre. Although he was daily becoming more
devotedly attached to Ida, and allowed his
jealous fears to listen to every prompting of a
rival, yet, on the whole, he Was pretty well-
satisﬁed that she understood him and returned
his affection. ' '

When he joined the party he felt periectly
secure, but as she was often absent either with
her aunt or cousin John, who, although never
intruding his companionship on her, contrived
to monopolize a. good deal of her attention,

ing a wound on Mr. Sutre’s amour-propre.

On New Year’s Eve there was to be a grand
ball at the Castle, and on the following day, if
the frost broke up, an expedition on horseback

“ I wish you could ride,” her cousin said:
“ then you might have gone too.”

“I wish I could,” she responded, “ but I
shall have plenty of fun in watching the others
go’and return.” ‘ ‘

That was one of her great charms—the
pleasure which she always experienced in
simply witnessing the joy of others. ‘

As John Challoner reﬂected on her sweet,
sympathetic nature, he could not but feel what
a help she could be to him in his parish work.

Nor was John Challoner a hypocrite even to
himself.. He did not try to think that“ he
wanted only to win the heart of his cousin be—
cause she would makehim a suitable wife; but
recognized that'she had wound herself into his

very being, so that a warm, passionate love

thrilled through his heart, and stirred every
ﬁber of his nature with a deep yearning to
possess her for his own.
CHAPTER IV.

' THE woorno o’r. , .
“How well Miss Weston looks to-nightl”
entered the ball—room. f‘Sbe will be quite a
loss when she leaVes us—that is, if she is al-
lowed to dose!” .

“ What do you mean?” asked Dugan Butre,
his eyes ﬁxed upon the girlish form, with its
loose garment of soft embroidered silk. “ Miss
, Weston is free to do as she chooses.” >

“ But'perhaps she may prefer to give up her
liberty, and it isn’t very diﬂlcult to see that
some one is quite ready to ask her to do so. I
am awfully glad, for John Cballoner is a
thﬁronghly good fellow, and deserves a good
* w e.

“ You are a little bit unreasonable, I think,
on that head,” said Dugan. “You seem ‘to
think that every one, like yourself, is intent on
matrimonial purposes.” . ‘

“Wait and see,” returned the other, with
assurance. “It’s as clear as daylight that he
is smittenrand I can’t help thinking that she is
not heart-whole. Look what an interest she
takes in his parish!” ‘

This was quite true; and as Dugan Sutre
could not very well deny the fact, he preferred
to let the conversation dr0p.

But he was fated to hear more of the matter
that evening, for no sooner had he" escaped
from Herbert Horton than his mother bore
down on him, and motioning him to her side,
said: “1 Dugan,‘I think it Would be well for you
to pay Constance more attention. You have
neglected her shantel'ully;  considering all

A

‘ things, the gnotioethlef

 
W sidelined. on. 

new hinder-Ms.
& ,x ‘ ‘ '

what I feel ashamed oils, that L mistook my]

Constance had many an opportunity of inﬂict~

remarked Herbert Horton as the Rectory party ‘

you "have bestowed on.

 
' ~l am  inseam "tliﬁll

‘l

,ticular attention.” ‘

.  Lani" Alias:
v'judgadh’e said, decisively.” d"! have 

tention of paying Constance Ramsden any par-:3

“ You must forget,all that has passed when
you say so,” she said, with hauteur. ' \

“ Not at all. I know you are desirous of an
engagement between her and myself; but ,
grieved as I am to thwart your wishes, such a,
thing can never be.” i ,

“It must be. Your honoras a gentleman ,
demands that you shall not draw back now.” '

“I have considered that matter, and hav
decided that my honor would be more com
promised by proceeding than withdrawiu‘
from the affair.” . ' ' 

“ You must be mad, Duganl” she said. ,I
“And although I have no intention of work-g?
ing on your feelings, I must own that I'had- 3
thought my wishes would have been of more 
moment with you. If you are uncompromis‘ed,’
remember 1 am not.” 1‘ .

“ Mother, let us drop the subject. I should 
be sorry if it be the cause of alienating us, but 
you must allow me to judge for myself.” , '-

1 “ If it is your acquaintance with Miss Wes— 
ton which has worked this change, I shall  
still sorrier, Dugan,” she said,'gently. “For
believe me, dear boy, she docs not care for you.

I verily believe she is almost engaged" to her .,
cousin, and I know dear Mrs. Challoner’s 
heart is ﬁxed upon the match. You have no
right to supplant your friend, and especially .
such a friend as J obn Challoner.” ‘ v '

“It is no question of supplanting,” he so ,
calmly. “Miss Weston has the right of ..
cheesing for herself.” , ‘

“Is it fair tolput her to such a test? ,You
must “know that in such ‘a matteryou and.
John are unequally matched. I belieie her ,to’
be a geod and pure girl, but can scarcely le-
lleve she would resign such a position as would"
be hers as your wife for that or \an obsoure
country person’s.” ‘ . ’ *- '.

Dugan made no answer, but a hidceus trains .
of reﬂections ﬁlled blended. ‘ ' I 

a“ But no,” he said, vehemently, to himself,”
“I will not be so blind, nor will I slander her
so even in thoughtl Buch, a base suspicion’j
shall not sever me from the only womanwh'omj
I how ever cared to win! I will snow to
night what my fate is to be, and something tells ,_
me that I have not much to fear. I do believe‘
she loves me.” , ‘ ‘

“Have yen saved me a dance?” lie/asked,
going up to her a few moments later. “Let
me look.” , V  , .

And be‘ held out his hand for her pro—N
gramme; , ‘ -

His face darkened
place ﬁlled up. \

“ Am I only to have onePhe-asked. , ,

“I could not know how many ’ you ex-
pected,” she said, slightly injured. “Every
body also has been asking me, and you thigh
have been engaged.” K‘ 1 ' "; .  ‘

“Did you not know that I'should, leave my~ ¢
sell free for you? I don’t think you have '_
quite kept‘to our compact; unless," he added,
jealo’usly, “ you prefer to dance With some one I

r

as he saw all but ‘

‘ else.

“ I do not prefer to dance with any ore 
else,” she said, quietly. “But I had no rig-ht T
to expect you to dance with me; and amino.
did not come, I concluded .you did not wish to‘_
do so.” , ‘ I ' 1

In spite of the quietness of her tone, he sawi-i
that she was hurt, and that something had becnj
suggested to her which was raising a barrier}
between them. , ‘ 

“ How can you think that I prefer to dance."
with any one to you?" he asked, reproachfully.’ '
“ Ida”, do not let any one suggest ‘ that to , you. ,
I cannot say more now, but let me lave that »
dance, at any rate. and then you; mustlisten'to
what I have to tell you. I cannot keep- silen‘
any longer; although I believe’ my'secr‘et is 
secreti‘rom you.” - y r  ,  W, '

Ashe placed the programme agdin in ‘
bendable ﬁngers tor onermﬁ, ’ t closed '”

rrd I , i

\’a

 
'_ J,"


, ell‘that he needed. ‘

«

,  knew till now that it was so.”
 ‘ 1‘5“!an be my one aim to make it a reality,

\

l

f“ ‘ continued, for then she would have spent the

   
  Ydull, spared? into her.

’ “Ibelieve my secret is no secret from you,”

,  felt he was going to make to her.
 and the next moment his arm was round her,

. ' . “ Come, my darling," he whispered; “loan-
not do without you any longer ”—leading the

 ; .sbe trembled violently, and dared not look
~ the passionate love was streaming eloquently

’ 3 “Is it not sol I have not been mistaken in

 :1 ghich she felt she should never tire—the story n

 H     
eltvnomensstetoremd   so, I.  I

. A few moments later, her next partner came
to claim his dance, and she was led away-
through the whirls 'of’ the many waltz, listen-
ing and answering mechanically to his unin-
teresting small-talk, while Dngan’s words,

were ringing in her ears, and she was trying to
think how she should answer that appeal which

Their dance was nearly at the end, and it

seemed ages to her before they got to it.
V At ‘last it came, and with a strange medley
Of emotions she saw him approach to claim it.
v " We will take one turn first,” he whispered,

and his hand clasped hers, and she felt that
never before in her life had she known the full
poetry of existence when two souls move to-
w in perfect unison, in feeling and in ac-

“ e shall be alone

7!

Way to the conservatory.
[and you must hear my appeal

“1), even though she felt his arm pressing her
closer to his bosom, and knew—ah, so well!—

‘ﬁ'o‘ln his eyes.
“Sweetest, you love me,” he said, softly.

you. Tell me, my darling, that I mayhope
“at you will be mine. I know I have seemed

and exacting to you. Forgive me, and
believe that it was my great love for you that
 me so jealous of my own happiness. I
was afraid that you did not return my love;
“d yet I have loved you since the ﬁrst mo-
most I saw you, as I have never till now, nor

@791" can again love another woman. Ida
“Wynn not answer me? Don’t reject me:

a?! darling, for life would be torture without
your'love." \
30 was bending so fondly over her, and
118 to look into the sweet dark eyes for
“the response to his passionate pleading. With
9, ‘ tearful effort, she gained control over her-
. ’  raising her eyes, looked into his face
‘1 a glad, radiant happiness which told him

“I knew it,” he whispered, rapturouslym
1., knew that you would not play me false.
931, my darling, you do really love me, and
new ' ‘ '
  Bayou, and you alone,” she repeated so
9031? that he had to bend quite down to catch
thebwords. “But I cannot realize it “all. I.

a

“random one; and such a reality that it
M  :1! ideality, as you surpass all

' in her n in his arms and show-
md  lags u n her lovel face
mnrmuri -' pa y ’
“138 We of passion asonlya
man 0 5°? '01:: can utter at such a mo-
$30113$bﬂsten$ed to him with the fullest
a
tations. y conﬁdence in his pretes-
v The rustle of a dress aroused
their intoxication of joy, and they had scarce-
ly time to recover their composure ere Miss
Ramsden and her partner in the late dance ap-
peered, the former exclaiming, “ Ah, there
on are, Miss Weston! I hope you are enjoy-~
_ g the awning. What a pity that you» can-
not join our party to-morrow.” -
 How, differently Ilia thought of that ride
now "
She would have been glad had the skating

them from

joyous hours gliding at his side. their hands.
locked together, and listening to the story of

his love.

   
' 7Wivﬁlilnihgf brilliantly, and there  he

«lemmas..- Wm stimulant
we shall have a delightful drive,” continued.

Missﬁamsden. “I hope Frishet‘is in good
form.” _ ' , , ‘

“The only danger will be that she may be
goo lively after her long rest,” answered Mr.

utre.

“I am not/afraid. We have always been
such good friends, and after you have had her
so well trained, it would be a pity to miss the
opportunity of putting her good qualities to
the test.” '

She stayed there until Ida’s partner, John
Challoner, came to fetch her away.

Ida did not see Dugan again until they were
leaving, and then a soft voice whispered in
her ear as she looked round for her cloak, “ Let
me help you, my own 2” And she suffered him
to wrap her up tenderly, and felt that it must
be some glorious dream as he walked by her
side to the carriage awaiting her party.

There he held her for almoment by the hand
until the others had come up; and, printing
one hasty, passionate kiss on her upturned
brow, whispered, “ Until tomorrow, love! 'I
can scarcely let you go!”

The music of his voice was still in her ears,
his kiss still warm on her brow; and the voices
of her companions seemed a strange sort of ac—
companiment to the refrain of the glad song
which her heart was repeating—“ He loves
me—he loves me!"

But suddenly and strangely the accompani-
ment seemed to preddminate, and her own re-
frain to cease, as she listened with strained at
tention to the careless chatter of the rest of
the party. ,

‘»‘ I never saw Miss Ramadan look more beau.
tiful than she did tonight; but I mustlsay
that, little as I like to ﬁnd fault with Dugan,
he does, .not pay her ' proper attention,” re-
marked Mrs. Challoner. '

“ I don't believe he cares for her a bit, ’f said
Mabel, confidently. “Do you, Ida?”

“I--—I really don’t know,” said Ida, tram»
bliug, with a sickening, foreboding fear. “ I
did not know they were engaged.”

“ Nor are theyl"? said Jack Challoner, in his
quietly authoritative way, which he always
adopted when he did not approve of the style
of conversation. , ‘

»“ It is a pity for peeple to settle the busi-
ness of others for them 1"

“But, John, every one knows that it is to
be- Mrs. Sutre has made no secret of her
wishes on the subject; and unless she had Du-
gan’s sanction, she would scarcely haVe invited.
Miss Ramsden there.”

“ It is not truel—it is not true!” cried Ida,
passionately, to herself, as she ﬂed to the little

room which had been her mother’s, and bolted

herself in.

“He said he loved me, and he cannot be
false! Oh, Dugan, be true to me! I cannot
do without you now! Mother! mother! oh,
that you were alive, that I might tell you all
now! Watch over me, mother; guide me to
that which is right. 0h, do not leave mel"

She walked distractedly up and down, trying
to regain composure, until, at last wearied

. out, she sunk down by the side of the bed, and

it seemed to her over-wrenght mind that the
spirit of the mother whom she had never
known was really with her.

A sweet sense of reassurance gradually as.
sorted itself, and she said:

“,1 will not believe it! He said he loved
me, and surely I can trust him more than any
one else. Oh, my darling! I will be patient,
and it will all come right, I know.” '

Thus comforting herself, and pressing the.
ﬂowers he had given her to ‘her lips she fell
into the quiet. health-bringing sleep 'which only
comes to the young and buoyant. ,

Little, ah! little did she deem what the next
tel” 78818 had in‘ store for her!

, _ CHAPTER .V. ’
   .
Eli’s wish was ,veriﬁed."- The

 
’ I will believe him until he himself 

' turned his horse’s head to the spot shawl

V slight rosy tinge, and she smiled with tag

         
"sign 01‘ storm when, the marine inﬂame»
hall, the riders  at Some Tahoe;   w
Ida had resolutely put, away all the 
doubts which had tormented her list", 133:; L.

     
her check was ﬂushed with joyous hopes, ,.
she nodded cheerin to 'M'abel, who  V
sweetly pretty on her little chestnut hos-so, and ». W.
was of courscnttended by her ever-dorm,
cavalier, Herbert Horton. _ 1 ' A P

A‘pang of jealousy shot throughlda’h 

“ How ‘1 wish I could ride!" she said, “Ea/f“

    
would have been with me then.” ‘ r ,
Just then Mr. Sutre rode up, side by older
with Miss Ramsden, looking anxious, gently
touching her rein. ‘ ‘ v I f
He did not see Ida at ﬁrst, and the of
lastnightbegantoreturntoheny ' '
“What if he really dues love "her?" _.
thought. “What chance can I have!  is
so lovely, and every way more suitable, for v5
him. But, then, why, oh why did he  to I
win my love, and tell me that he loved met";

     
me, no matter what the world may Say?”  ‘  
Mr. Butre was speaking earnestly to hiseome 
panion, and Ida heard himsay: ' I , 3,
“ I wish you would ride something  
day; I havo an uncomfortable sensation re."
specting Frisket; she seems so  if
“All the better,” she res ‘ ded,  the
neck of her graceful but highspirilnd 
caressingly. “ it is very kind of, you tom;-
bls about me, but I feel perfe'ctljysécuia‘i  
He gave up the attempt to 
Challoner had drawn up, looking, 
still very quiet and serious. _ .  
He felt to a certain degree for
the danger to which he knew Misé 
was exposing herself, since Frisloet‘wasof his
own choice and recommendation;  
had her expressly trained for i 
days before he had known Ida, and 
had thought it possible that he might day,»
present it as a gift to Constancegwlm Vang.
consummate horsewoman. ‘ ‘ ' '  *
But he shook of! the  of 

took Ida’s hand in his. . \ , 1,
As their eyes met she felt reassured: ; 
saw the same passionate, tender genesis 
which had thrilled heriastnight.‘ ' A '  ~ 
“You‘are not going today, John!”  V' '
marked. “Neither'shonld I heif' it , ' W
that mother wishes me to take thelead", ;
lug to entertain her guests.” 1  .
Ida felt the explanation was ‘_  b ,J
and smiled gratefully. as she said, ‘4 

I am the cause of John’s inactivitydosddfyr

 
has kindly giVen up his own _ 
me here, as I cannot ride, and 
you start oﬁ.” ’  V q
“We shall soon teach youto‘rlde‘,’ 
stay among us,” said John. 
am onlytoogladto have the ‘  
giving you any pleasure." '  
“Thanks! Don’t yonagree {with 
that would be charming?” turning to 
“ It would he more charming to me 
in John's place and he in mine,” he i
a low whisper, bending as near to her fat,
could. “Would you be contented  "
change?” - ,, r ,'  i“
A beautiful blush and tremulous smile}:
him the answer he needed, and with , a"
pressure of her little gloved hand hewh , 
“I know I can trust you, my darling.”-
“And I, you,” she thought, as he 'was __
away from her side. A l ‘13. ,
A few minutes after they were 93, ‘31??? I.
felt a certain blank as she saw him ridega‘
with a group of ladies and gentlemen; ) -'_. jg,
“ We Will drive along hefty”, iii 313M
“They are’g-oing to take the river marge:
we will drive’ through the village and mess
them on their return route.” v ‘ ; i“ a 
The fresh wind blow in her face, giving it ~79.

 
ness and excitement, keeping still 
ever in view. _ _ x, t   I
John was gratiﬁed at her eﬁdﬁﬁh’“ '

 
 may: think we could manage 

 
V 't
v—v

.. this; a...  to' ion it

. x y  stayed
M “with  «Shank! you be ‘
‘ “dull!”

  
" _, flea-Wrasse she reﬂected upon the probabil-
,' . ity [of her being there for a great partof her life.
c ' The blush, however, was quite misunderstood
 by John, and his heart swelled with happy
 hopefulness for the future. He would fain
i ' have said more, but the utter unconsciousness
‘_ other expression told him that any declaration
'- _ .' on his part at that time would be premature,
:1, and hepossessed his soul in patience thinking
' that the time surely would come, and soon,
 whomha could speak without fear the words
; Whlph  in his heart. ' ~
" ' “How I wish papa were here,.’”she cried, as
they howled, merrily along. “ He would enjoy
itimhsenselyl' It is good of you, John, to give
{womb a treat. ' I feel that Iam quite depriv-
 ing youof your own,plessure."

“Yes, it is enjoyable,”_he said. “ But still,
I would rather be here. I would rather be
Withyou, Ida, than anywhere else in the world!”
 An uncomfoi'table tremor came over her as
she realized the drift of his words, and she
 to change the subject. .
5  all they failed to meet the party, which
(had  I decided to return by. a more
 route,» they set their faces home-
{reaching the Rectory a little before
luncheoutime. ‘
 “A latter 1for you, Ida,” said Mrs. Challoner,
,as her niece entered the drawing-recur. Bennett
brought it from Raybourne about an hour ago.
 ﬁle from your father, and hope it is to
ptolong'your visit."
, {:9‘,Thauks, auntie dear; that can scarcely be
 I have enjoyed myself so much. 
am qliiteinisorable at the thought of going, un-
 as it seems to poor papa." ‘
f‘ she cached herself as she reﬂected
how little‘thought she had bestowed on her dis-
tant father inhis loneliness. , :
“Flam afraid my happiness has made me
selﬁsh,” she thought, breaking the seal of her
letter. , “,Poor papa! I will not. be so wicked
asxto feel sorry at returning to you, and yet it
isallse different. I cannot hear the thought
ﬁliﬁng our old life.”
:  these’thoughtsvanished as she read her
father’sletter, while her remorse increased.
.  all. darling, What class he say?” asked

- , ,, loner. ,“I hope that he will come
, you, 'or at, anyrate allow you to pro-
 wluisih” , .
a ‘f  no, auntie, I am sorry that it is
 ther heart growing sick with a fore-

 ."ol' she, scarcely knew what. “He is

 and would like me to return on Thurs-
my I '

 first is unwell, he would do much better
doWn here and try a little rest and

  
 of scene. .

i Ididld not answer at first, but throwing her
 Mrs. Challoner’s neck, she sobe
bitterly; . ,  r i
 ,‘j‘ darling, what is this?” cried her aunt,
 “surely you have no ill news?
' Hiylfi'ead your letter, dear?”

.- yes; but you will not understand!”
ease the girl, her lips quivering with sorrow,
and henbeautiful eyes full of tears. “Oh, I
hate  selﬁsh and cruel to leave him so
 and to be so happy while he was alone!”
 “Hy dear, I cannot see what reason you
have, to reproach yourself,” smoothin the
proud: brow fondly, and speaking reassuringl y.
“Your father was obliged to leave you, and
would, I am sure, have been very grieved had
you spent all your time in mourning for him.
 simply says he is a little indisposed, and
will be glad to. have his little nurse.”

' 9You do not know papa as I do,” said Ida.
Ke‘would not have complained even as little
 he not felt very ill. Ikuow that
ﬁe isalinys afraid that he will not live long.
 he tries fin-hide his anxiety from me;
 new}: not come down here because
 wants-to ﬁnish hisworkbe-
M",ngp - . ‘ v ' .

   
r,

 
15.

 
i ' , 01, being ’
‘ ‘ “  he!” And a blush spread over her down- ‘

. understood her,'and felt that perhaps her grief

\tion from whence the cry came, and her atten-

 
view to take of your father’s letter; .He. has
been a delicate man for years, but that need
not make you anxious. Such men often live
much longer than those whoare more robust.”

“I know it may seem extravagant to you,”
she replied; “ but papa must be very ill to
complain, and I know he would come down
here had, he not some weighty reason. The
night before I came away we had a long talk,
and he spoke then for the ﬁrst time of his fear
of never being able to ﬁnish his book, although
it is so near completion. That is what he re
fers to when he says that he has much to ac-
complish in a shorttime, and dare not take a
holiday .now." \ _ l _

“Well, I hope you are wrong, dear child;
'but if it. be -that there are grounds for your
fear, remember that yen have always friends
here who will ‘sympathize in your troubles as
though they were our own.”

“Thanks, dear auntie! You make me feel
what it would have been to have a mother!”
. “I would be one to you if you would: let
me, darling.” .

Ida crimsoned, for the words recalled John’s
in the dog-cart that morning, and she could
not answer, nor look into the calm, aﬁection-
ate eyes which she felt were looking into hers
so searchingly. ‘

“ Oh, if they but knew!" she thought. , “I
cannot hear to deceive them for a moment!”

“Why, what is the matter?” asked John
himself, coming in at that moment. “ Are
you in trouble, Idai’L-tenderly taking her
hand in his.

“ Yes, cousin John,”--hastily, but not un-
kiudly, withdrawing the hand which she felt it
was almostsacrilege to let him touch. “Papa
is ill, and I feel anxious about him.". ,

“I am very grieved to hear it,”—~in his own
grave way. “ Will he not come down to us,
and let us see what our country air will do for

iml

“ Oh, no, I think not. He returns from
Cuba on ,Wednesday, and wishes me to return
on Thursday.”_ ,

“ Then we shall only have you two days
longer! Oh, we cannot let you go so soon I”

“But I must, indeed," she returned. , “I
could not leave papa alone.” ,‘

“ But surely he will come down here if you
write how sorry we shall all be to lose you?
And you would be very sorry to go—eb, Ida?”

“Yes,"-’—in a low, troubled voice, as she re-
membered what she would leave behind her.

And for the second time that day John mis—

might have been more for the, prospect of leav-
ing than at the illness of Mr. Westdn, which
be imagined not.to be very serious.

If only Mrs. Challoner had not been there,
he would have spoken out then and there, much
as he feared to alarm Ida by a too hasty declara
ation of his love for ‘her. ‘ ‘

As it was, he only said, “I am glad you re-
gret to leave us. Rest assured we shall not be
happy till we have you again among us; '
shall we, mother?”

“ No, indeed, John. I think Ida knows how
precious she has become to us during her short
stay. ’ -

And then, fearing that she would rather be
impeding the progress of matters by her pre-
sence, she opportuner remembered some house-
hold aﬂairs which required supervision, and
retired. saying, “You must comfort the poor
child, John; I leave her in your hands.”

This consummate generalship was, however,
doomed to be frustrated, for 'Ida had scarcely
time to realize the awkwardness of her predic-
ament than a cry of distress’ was heard outside
in the distance. 1 ’
She ran to the window, looked in the direc—

tion was quickly drawn to a horse which was
tearing down the road at a terrible pace. ,
Herbert sickened asshe 

   
.« l5 in

r 
“‘0' V  - w A. ~  v2     death». 3,
u Believe inc; dearest, this is,  «a ,

    
  we 
 7 kittens? Midwestern, " ‘3
ail’control.'

  
She was rearing and plunging
frantically, resistingall eﬂ'ortsto foroevor 
su'a’de her to quiet down into a moderate pace.

Suddenly she Wheeled straight round, , and 
came thundering along ,toward ,the Rectory 
garden, which was separated by a hedge from
the, street. I .

At that moment,'Ida saw that some one
had perceived Miss Ramsden’s dilemma, and
'was coming to her assistance, and her heart ,
beat painfully with agonized attention .as she
saw it was Dugan. , , I

“ Oh, will he be able to save her?” she cried.
“Heston, oh, hasten, or she will be killed!
She~shevcannot hold her any longer! Merci-
ful Heaven, it is too dreadful!”  

Jehn bad rushed out, and was making his
way, bareheaded, to the spot; but it ' seemed-
that he could ,not reach it in time.

All took place so quickly that. it seemed but‘.
the work of a moment for the more to rush fran-
tically toward the hedge, and, rising rapidly,
take it with a high leap, her exhausted rider
dropping like a stone from the saddle onto the
gravel'path below. ‘ '

Ida covered her face with her. hands for a
moment, and, turned sick with fear at the
horrible sight; but resolutely recovering her
selfpoommand, stepped quickly through the
easement, and made her way to the prostrate
form, whose awful stillness thrilled her with
terror. .. , :

“Oh, dear, is she dead 3’ And I almost ' .3;
hated her this morning!" ' , I ' '

But quick asrsh‘e had been, she had 
time to bend over the form of Constance and *
place her hand on the heart to ﬁnd that she", '
was still living, when Mr. Sutre' came up, look}
ing stern and awful in his anxiety. .

“ Is she deadi”, he cried. “ Would to
Heaven I had never left her or let her ride
that accursed beast!” ’ I .

“ She‘is alive, and only fainting,” said Ida.
calmly. “Will you not bring her into the
house, and then we can see what injuriesshe
has received? Can you and John carry her,
or shall I get a stretcher?” , " '

She shuddered with horror at the thought. I

“ We can carry her, I think,” said John.
“I hope she has sustained no serious injury
beyond a severe shaking.” I

“I will take her,” said Mr. Sutre, ﬁrmly "
setting his teeth. “If she is vitally injured, I
am her murderer, for I was a fool to have left
her. I . knew she could not manage the _
animal.” V  L . ,

He lifted the unconscious form in bloat-ms, ’
and a faint groan burst‘frOm Communal; pala-
lid lips; but as her eyes opened for an instant,
and she looked on her bearer, a. faint smile
played round her mouth, and she murmured,
“Thank you, I am not much hurt.”

They took her up at once to a large'spare,
bedroom on the ﬁrst ﬂoor, and laid her on the
bed, while Mrs. Cballoner' hastened in, and,
assisted by Ida, administered the proper restor-
atives. ' , , ‘ ‘ , ,

The patient soon « recovered consciousness, ‘
and they were able to ascertain to a certain ex~ I
tent the injuries she had received. _, Beyond a
dreadful giddiness she complained of no bodily.
hurt until she tried to move her left, arm,
when the pain she experienced caused herto
utter a sharp cry. ‘ . “ _ ,
Its swollen and inﬂamed condition convinced
them that it must be either dislocated or fr’w
tured, but they felt thankful that nothing more
serious had occurred, and Ida went at once to
tell Mr. Sutre, who was impatiently waiting,-
below. , . .
She was quite calm, but a dreadful pallor tea 
vealed the awful struggle which was going on.
in her own breast. _ V . 
Those passionate words of his, uttered lna. ’
moment of unguarded excitement, ssemed‘to
have darkened all her own life. , -
“ It intro?” she murmured; “ beloveéher as
their on ed. 1 «so only his alarming memoir

  
1'9"“  has; is m 

  
1

/

 
him for "a time, and than to be’ 

5, I

 
W

 
If“ . .,
John ‘Challo'n‘er was in the room and her pride
Game to her rescue. "At least no" one but her-
lﬁlf should be conscious of her suffering, and
last of all he who had caused it.
hard.

f‘f‘ She is better now; we begin to hope that the
only injury is a broken arm, but of course We
cannot be certain until the doctor comes. Mrs.

,lloner asked me to come and relieve your
.ﬁnxlety, but I must return at once, as Miss

V " Eden seems to like me to stay there."

. i .“That' is not necessar , if she is better,” he
Said. “ You must not over tire yourself.”

" “Docs he fear to leave us together?” she
“might, bitterly- “ He need not; his secret is
me enough with me. I have no wish to pro-
claim to the world my folly in believing all the
“Net words of the ﬁrst man who made love to
Wily But she onl said aloud: 

“I am not afra d of fatigue, and aunt will
need help."

4 '“L “ Will she not be able to be moved ?” he asked.

V I will send the carriage at once, or we can
_ “Ian carry her on the couch.”

 7 “Oh, that is not at all necessary,” she an~

*‘Wﬁl‘ad. “Miss Ramsden prefers remaining here

“‘11er her fall it will be better for her to
g V quite quiet.”
‘ . l‘Tl‘umk Heaven, it is nothing worse," he said
“Neatly. “Oh, Ida, I feared she was dead.”
Shode back haughtily as he uttered her
_ “Mlle, but he scarcely noticed the action in the
\Sffmng dusk, and continued:
«could never have forgiven myself had it

3'", so. 7 Can you spare me a few moments,
/, and  Will tell you why?”
' 13°13?  quitted the room, and they were

momentary relenting softened her heart
 him, but she steeled herself, saying in-
, ‘ “no; no, better not; I dare not trust myself
I, to‘hiln awn}!
»; ,m‘l must return,” she said aloud. “When
' dilator. comes we will send you word."
“1-348110 was going to leave him when he in!
, 1;, pted her. I ‘
. have you nothing further to say to me,
“lid this the first time we have been alone to-
_ Chi?” he asked, pleadingly.
_ ‘ What should I say, but ask you to forget
Wﬂllthatlhaveeversaid before, as I mean to
m to'fbrget'you." , ' ' ' ’
I, “Ida, what is this madness? Explain what
 Menu, of I will not let yougo." ‘ ‘
“How can you ask?” she said—“you who
 , 3: thatttillas passed between us!” ' ‘
j ‘ -  ' Won. you recall it?” he asked tr in
*   again in his. “Surely,ym§
“mxtigl dog‘not t so soon? Would
7° W Wiley all you said last night?”
the use of unsaying it if I

“ What would‘be
cannot unthink’ it!" she said, sadly. “012. Mr-

‘Sutre, I Would that I had never seen youl‘

-- And yet I was so happy!"
, -“ What have they been '
own?” he cried, drawing %§"&gﬁ“ﬁ{
head to his breast, and kissing her passionate.
'1 . “ Will you let anything come between
us! My child, if you play me false, I shall
 Bil faith i? womankﬁld.’;
, ugan. i you ran Y 0V6 me n ‘
shall part us. But, tell me, is it not ’mgulm
on are. to marry Miss Ramsden? I would not
 Hermit, until I saw your grief when you
thought she was dead, but then I could not be-
‘vbel‘leve in you any longer.”
- ‘I thought your love was stronger.” he
“tam-- “ Surely it is natural that a man should
moved when he sees’a woman in such a con-
lQn without being madly in love with her,

“*1 especially when he feels that the accident,

, Great Part owin to him?”
[01" F331“ me, gan my love! I see I
  But, in  have snd'ered, and
m hawtb "thishfadlnotheard

' luv  ram speak,  1 t6 
  -  u, w,“ .1, . _ ,

 Eowis she?” cried Mr. Sutre, coming for"

 
.. ,mr'eres

"‘ I I forgive you, ' my .meet'; but “remember
you must trust meteors  this. I" 
be'contented with your love unless I also have
your conﬁdence.” * ' I

“ You‘have it indeed, Dugan. I will never
waw‘mr again in my belief in your love."
“ That is right; and’ ’now, sweetest, listen,

and I will tell you why I reproached myself

for Constance’s unfortunate accident.”

“Oh, no; please don’t. We will forget her
entirely and eﬁ‘ace her from our life.”

“Unfortunately, darling, we cannot do so.
There is a great deal that I must confess and
which will try your faith to the utmost. Only
you must believe in me, my darling, spite of
all. I love you, and you alone. Remember
that: and now, sweet one, listen."

“ Ida, dear, I am sorry totrouble you,” said
Mrs. Challoner, suddenly interrupting their
tetc- -t to, “but our invalid keeps calling for
you, and seems to be getting quite restless an
excited. Can you come to her?" '

“Oh, yes; I will come at once. Goodvby
for the present,” giving her hand to Mr. Sutre,
and whispering. “ You must tell me an-
other time. I can wait now that I am sure of
your love." '

CHAPTER VI. ’
DISENCRANTMEN’I‘.

Consume Ransom was tossing restlessly
about on her pillows when Ida entered and stood
quietly at the bedside, ﬁrmly but kindly mak-
ing her lie still and compose herself.

“ You are a good little creature,” said the
invalid,j with one of her most bewitching
smiles. “You will nurse me, won’t you? I
feel that I can’t bear any one else to touch.
me.”

“I shall be glad to do all I can,” said Ida,
gently, and feeling truly that she would, now
that horrible jealousy had left her. “ But you
must really obey orders or you will make
yourself ill. Now you are to try and sleep till
the doctor comes to sot your arm. I am afraid
there is nearly an hour to wait.”

“ You will stay, then? I am such an awful
coward, I could not bear it unless you stay
near.” ‘

“I won’t leave you again,” said Ida. “See,
I am going to write a letter to my father, and
I will do it beside your bed while you sleep.”

Reassured by her presence Miss Ramsden
really did remain quiet, although the intense
pain of her arm prevented her from sleeping.

She bore the operation of setting the bone
with much more fortitude than might have
been expected from her protestatiOns. “

When it was all over and the evening was
far advanced, she called Ida to her side, say—
ing, “1 have rested a long while now, so you
must let me have a good talk. When I tell
you what an eventful day this has been you
won’t wonder at my being rather excited. I
am going to make you my confidante—may 1?
You know I never had a sister; but if I had I
think I should have wished, her to be like you.”

“ It is very kind of you to say so,” said Ida,
yet feeling almost embarrassed at such un-
wonted gushing protestations of friendship.

“Come and sit'on the side of the bed,” said
she. And Ida did so, with a strange fear and
distrust of the smiling, beautiful face in her
heart. “ Sit where I can see you. Oh, Ida—

,I may call you Ida, may I not?”

“Certainly.”

“ Well, Ida, although you may think it is
very unpleasant to be thrown from one’s horse.
and to have one’s arm brOken, do you know I
think I am the happiest girl in the world; and
if it had all to come over again, I would not
have it different, not even if the pain were to
be muchmore several” 6

‘5 Not" interrogatively. “I should not like
to see it, all over again. :1: was an awful

» sight."

Constance laughed. -

new W ' “ht’im

mus _ that   
    it'lbe

’l.‘

 
“memes!” 

 when he, wascarry  ' _, 
knev’vhehauherﬁea    '  
Ida’s breath'came‘quic‘kly, and her   _.
intends/he'd each other with painful tremuio‘un- _
ness; but she dared not truer. herself mspem- » "
“ You must not think me unmaidenly he tell ’
you this, dear,” continued Miss 
each word was like a dagger-thrust in hear-j
heart. “Of course you know, as everyone ' '1 
else does, of my intended marriage with,  ,_ ‘5.
Sutre; and you will understand how I love him,
for you are his friend, and it is for that reason
that I like to confide in you. But until my ~
I haVe always had a fear that the marriage was "
partly one bf convenience on his side, and that
be was actuated by 'no warmer feelings than
esteem and a sense of the suitability of the '
match; but when be bent over me 'so' tenderly '

and passionately, I saw how I had  g 9 ‘

him, and that be really did love me as I 
him. Now do you wonder that I am thankful , ~
for my accident?” . ‘ "‘ , 
“1—! do not know. .I, did not   '
were engaged. ‘No one has told me.” , ‘-
“ Have they not? Well, it has not been pub-_ .

licly announced, but both of our families. in 
quite aware of it, and are delighted. It ia‘tohg‘
made public as soon as I return. But you 
congratulate me now; dear Ida, I know}; a g  i,
 '

“I hope you, will be very happy,” 
bewildered, scarcely daring to trulst he? " ,
speak, as the horrible truth ﬁaslmd  " la.” 

This was what he wished to explain, » "
that he was engaged to Constance ‘ '  
although his heart was hers; and then  “ '
lection that in all his protestations he had have?!“
asked her to become his wife  t6 her‘ ,,
mind, burning into it with torturing ﬁvidnees, L

“ What did he take me for?” she grossed ill:
wardly. “Oh, Dugan, how could you  a“.
me so?” '  '

Every trace of color left her set face,  
sat with clinched hands while  cone 
tinned hereonﬁdences. _, ‘ *

“I knew you would be glad for our  5
Dear little Ida! I hopeweshall seealot'ofyon; 
Come, won’t you return my  
you think I have been so engrossed with my  
own aﬂairs as not to notice yours?”   j," "a.

“I have nothing to confide,”   ,
@31le- . ' , ’. ', i ' 

“Nothing? What would John say was:
heard you?” “ _ " " '

“ I should be very sorry for him to" do 3 . ~
There is nothing between us at all, and I  
surpr' that you should think there ls’i,_  7

“Ah, I see; you will not tell    ,I

y . x ,

know all about it, and shall not give up
tion of having you quite near, to  [A  " .
always. We shall form quite'a devoted ‘  I or;
te'tte. Can you not imagine iti’l ' “I  'f
Ida laughed bitterly. , H ,  {r a
“ I’m afraid I cannot; my imagination  .  *
quite so vivid as yours, MissRamsdenﬂ _   A”
“Please don’t call Ide- by that reruns! r
I am Constance to you. ‘ ButhI thinkfI  “‘
rest now, Ida; I am getting very tired.” ' ’ ,_ \
That was one reliefrat any rate; and  ‘.
in fact, after the lapse of an heuror 
really dropped off into a light doze,,‘IdaJwas l
able to withdraw from the room, and summon-f"
ing some one to take her place, to retire to the"
privacy of her own, there to try and-shape  '
future course of action. , “  .
She did not weep. The burning, dryé‘eye‘il '
showed a grief too deep to find vent in 
and she felt a stony indifferenw was  "

.over her, stupefying and numbing every mag; ’.

bility except that of acute mental agony. ‘ .,
“Oh, for utter annihilation!" 'she  I
“To vanish body and soul from this Garth,  , 
to be as one who had never been!” ' . , I" ‘
One thing was certain-she dared not see ‘
him. Under no condition whateVer dared  .
trust herself to the fascination of that, 
ning. tender voice, which had seemed, like.
music to her only a few‘ short hours 
She shuddered as she thought of his inﬂuence
“‘ r Mimi km! I “Matt you a 

it

 
I“   axes 

is!» Why “have! given youcanse to bu.

 . ,   so? Oh, that ypuhad never told me
, of love, nor asked for mine! But I could
 y  ,help it——I must have loved you!” ‘
 . “There was still one day more to be spent at
the rectory, and it was the fear of what she
‘ ’sbould have to undergoduring those few hours
" which’ﬂlled her with such terror. _ '

~ “Noose must know,” she cried; “ and how
_'  I let him know that all 'is at an end for-
. everbetween net—that I will never see or speak
 atohim again? Idare not—I dare not!”

‘l  3  morning she lay down on the bed in,

Matte disarm suspicion, buono sleep came to
- he; relief, and she felt that she would never
"  or-rest again. . y
.‘ ‘, ‘U Thank heaven, I cannot go on long like
 ,Death must soon come to my relief. Na-
..  cannot endure it.”
 Every one noticed her pallid cheeks and
\‘ﬁoavyeyot at the breakfast-table, but fortu-

naesly, it was put down to over-fatigue, and
  peremptorin ordered to absent herself
,   ,thesick—room for that day-—a command
  quite ready to obey, although Miss
"  on had'expressed a wish to see her.

“It is not at all necessary,” said Mrs. Chal-

._  “Kiss constance is much better, and
f, Wyeth“ wishes her to return to Sutre Ter-
 .  today. Besides, I cannot let you over-
?‘ tire yourself, the last day, and return home ill
 ,tofgyour father. You must go back looking
'  and cheerful, or he will think we
  not made you happy}? ‘ _
W ' ‘-‘f‘liofearor that, door auntie. I shall tell

\ of the good friends I have made down
. M” , ' 1 ‘
"   you want to come back to us?”
_ this t ~ I

,Wyetfell. _ r

,. .I‘. , ‘ \ f , bejust yet,” she said. “You
.  come and'see me in New York.”
" “Can “really not be that you will return

to'oaf’said John Challoner, a few moments

wanker: he found himself standing alone
enema.

 speaking 'very quietly, but as she
 eyes to his face she saw that the
Q  was come, and that the words he was
' tofliddress to her would be the outcome
,  and honest a love as ever any man
, bad then came an awful temptation, which

‘ to oﬂ'er a way ofescape. *
Mymld one better convince Dugan Sutre
cruel injuryhe.‘had done herthan by

'  to John? ‘

would,.not deceive him; she would tell
', t her heart Was no longer hers to be-
,onlgggeerving thename of him who had

' ' a 1! “he should take her as she was, why
 911°  W make his [life happy?
  hwful moment.
' . beating of her heart was almost audi-
 she: rapidly thought of What she should

. g'wlll be'fsdfe‘r,” she thought; f‘ but how
-,"-HoW"can I give myself to any other
new! Iv‘dare not do it”,
‘ quietly watching the struggle
I I plainly in her face, and
, ﬂy taking her listless hand in his, said:
nip-“:71 you very dearly, Ida! Can you be

,wi e ,
“ﬁll, that he had put the question differ-
“$33214: ham said ‘ Will you be my
a? '
Gould’she be his wife with that awful secret
“weighing on her mind? ‘ '
_ ,‘fI-‘fear you do not love me as I love you,”
he said; “but, dhrling, I will try to win your
.' ‘ 8 my Wife. _ It shall be my pride tosbield

om every ill, to make your life as sunny .

 happy as it. is possible. ,Will you trust me
With" darlingl”._ ' ‘ " .' "
or trust you, Jgh

t.

ram #9  

. , , . l . , .. mamas
but what {should care for loony wife! . Come

to inc, dearest, and you shall never, never reg“ 1

‘ any

 
pent it. I will teach you to love met”

‘ “ You cannot, dear John, teach me to love]
you more than I do now; but yet I cannot love

you in the way you mean.” I
“Will you not try, Ida? I cannot do with
out you. Tell me, dear, are you not unhappy?
You seemed once the brightest and gayest of
all, and yet now, it seems that you are sad.
May I not know? Give me, dearest, the right

'to share and soothe all your sorrows.” .

It was a temptation, and yet she shrunk from
it with inexpressible dread.

How ‘could she yield herself up to him when
her every thought was devoted to that other
man, whom it was sin even to think of! Still,
she knew she would be safe in his keeping, and
he looked at her with such yearning in his deep
gray eyes that she could not doubt the sincerity
of his love.

“John,” she said, brokenly, “will you take
me for your wife when I tell you that I have“
no heart to give—that my love has all gone
out to another man, of whom I dare not even
think?” ‘ ’

He sunk down upon the sofa beside her, and
encircled her in his strong arm, his touch thrill.-
ing her with horror.

“ My own, I will take you anyhow. But
tell me, who is the person that has dared to
triﬂe with you? Is it really beyond all hope?”

“Never speak of it,” she said, shuddering.
“ I cannot eventell you his name.” ,

“Do I know him?" ,

“No.” '

It was the ﬁrst lie Ida had ever told, and she,

loathed herself as it passed her lips.

“I dare not let him know," she moaned in-
wardly. ,

“Thank God!” said John“ “I feared I
knew; but I know you would not deceive me,
Ida. My poor, poor darling, I had not pic-
tured our betrothment thus. To make you
happy I would even now relinquish you. Tell
me can I do,nothing’i",

“Nothing!"-—with an awful stillness which v

seemed almost like death creeping over every
nerve.
“ Then at least I will try and make amends

by my own devotion; and, Ida, you will try to

love me,-_ won’t you *1”
“Yes, I will try.”
But she shuddered as he drew her White

face to him, and kissed it passionately again

and again. ‘ I - '. g .
Oh, God! and the kisses that that other had

printed there seemed yet warm, and his w’ords

were still ringing in her ears. ' '
“ May I tell my mother, or will you?” said
he

'“You do it, if you please,” the said faintly.

‘ “And, darling, I shall go with you to New.

York-to-mOrrow, and (haul can speak to your
father.” ’,
To New York! Ah, it was not yet a fort-
night since that me'morable journey when she
had met' Dugan for the ﬁrst time!~
must be a hideous dream, and she would
awaken sdou to ﬁnd herself alone with her
father, contented in‘ his love, and his alone.

CHAPTER VII.
THE VALLEY or uumm'rION.
«MRS CHALLONER was sitting alone in the

dravving-room," reﬂecting with intense setisfac-_

tion on the news thather son had just conﬁded
to her, and looked an even beartier welcome
than usual when, Mr. Sutre made his appear-
ance, coming in, as usuil, without waiting to
be announced. ._ _ ,x v

“ How is the invalid?” he asked.

“Oh, decidedly better! She has passed a
good night, and is V‘sleéping quietly now.” , ,
‘ “ And the nursel I hope she is not very
fatigued.” ‘ ‘

 
,,  '

surely it ‘

' “.Iam afraid She .was‘; quite worn out, she '

. harmonisatioth  it?“ 

“he said. i ‘ 1 ﬂ : , 
W‘Did‘you not know she returnetc town H

marrow? Her father‘wrote yesterday.” ’ I

b “,No; I did not know. Can I not M
erl’ , " ,

“ She has gone out with John i’é-elooklng 8w,

little surprised at his request——“ to Say food-b

to some of her village friends. Perhaps shoal ,

not say ‘good-by,’thoug'h, as she returns, 

hope, very shortly to us.” I y I '

And a pleased look of importance shone
the kind, motherly face. ' . V _

“ Then this call to the city is quite sudd s»,
I presume, as you expect her to return ' so,
quickly?” _ ‘

“ Oh, no; we did not dare to hope for a long:
visit this time. But when I talk of returning ""
I mean that dear Ida has promised to return to
us for good.” . . ~ g

Mr. .Sutre looked mystiﬁed, and asked a
explanation. '

"I know you will be so glad to hear 0
John’s happiness ”———with the blind love of the
mother which, dwelling with delight on the jo
of her boy, ignores, or rather does not eve

/ know, the agony which that some joy is in

ﬂicting on her bearer—“that I cannot, help »
telling you of it, though, of course, the matter
cannot be locked upon as ﬁnally settled unti ,
he has spoken to my brother-in-law.” .   ”

“ What do you mean! For Heaven’s sake
tell we quickly, and. let me know on what
 of good fortune I am to congratulate

m « u ! , ..

Mrs. Challoner did at last notice that seine.
thing was wrong; but thinkingthat perhaps
Mr. Sutre might have been attracted to Ideas?
to any other beautiful girl, ando’nly sofa
touched as to grudge for the timeheingto,
any one else what he could never have. for...
himself, she continued: ‘

“Ida has engaged herself to John; hehao"
been with me telling me all about it.”  ..

“Ida! Miss Weston engaged! You must
be mistaken, Mrs. Challoner. The thing is ab— 1
surd'!” . - , y , ‘

‘ “ I see no absurdity in . it,” with ,quiet A
city. “ John is in every way a suitable, 1;
band. and I am not at all surprised. Indeed
may tell you .I have expected it ever since Id
hasbeen here. It was quite plain to, seehow
things were going.” ' ' \ :,

“Pardon me," recollecting himself, “1 di
not intend to hint that John was not ail/t per
son to gain Miss Weston’s heart, ‘hut‘I waster
prised, for I had some reason to think such,
thing could not ,be true. Can I seeheri
'suppose my adieux and congratulations ,‘mus
be paid together,” with a bitter  no he re
ﬂected on the inconstancy of women. . g

“ A shameless jilt! But she’sball not coca. ‘
me thus! I will force, an explanation from
her!” he thought, burning with indignation.

“She is out now "—in answer to his! use
tion—ﬁ‘ﬂand I scarcely know.when they 
back. At such a time even the‘sternest house.
keepers are obliged to make allowances” _ . ,

“I will go to meet them,” he said. fiAnd
Ishail be able to speak to both, then. 
by,‘ Mrs. Challoner.” .

“ Good-by.” Reﬂecting with, considerab
uneasiness on his mariner as the door closed
behind him, “I’m afraid he must have cared
for her too; and if so, that accounts for hisir»
attention to Miss Ramsden. But of 
such a thing could not be, even had he gained
our dear Ida’s heart. .His people would never
havo countenanced such a marriage, ands-she
and my John are made for each other; but!
am Sorry for poor Dugan.” ‘ V'  , '

While, good Mrs. Chall‘oner was I hugging. 
herself these comfortable reﬂections ‘poor
Dugan was moodin striding toward the-Arilﬁvk
la‘ge, scarcely conscious of his purpose inding
so, but vaguely resolving to ﬁndputvlda , 
upbraid her for her ﬁckleness. .  r'

' ‘f I will never See her again,” he said.

 
‘ warm: moisture;

self, r “And Ifwsnld talisman. tast-
faithful, and true-l? Ida‘; r  '
vely, face 1'eiyours migh ' he

 
 ' , you mam-er  'lure men, to

. ' destruction as you have lured moi Ids

   
 Wald I believe that it was all acting? I could
not now, were it not for your Own act proving
 your treachery to mel" «

, _ It Would have been more comprehensible
  she, by relinquishing her engagement to
‘ I, but), madea better one in a worldly point of

 View That would have been only in accord-
ﬁnce with the experience he had gained in the”
Ways of the world; although it would nevar-
fibeless have utterly blasted all his conﬁdence
., In her simplicity and purity. But it was not
'30. In choosing to unite her lot with, that of
301m Challoner she was condemning herself to
j 3 life of comparative poverty. And bitter as
,Slleh a conviction was. Dugan Sutre gradually
yellowed himself to be convinced that her
“.Worldliness had been shown when she had ac-
 hls attentions, and had promised him
' herhand while her heart was given to John
7, Challoner, and that her love had now tri-
- “lllphed over her worldly wisdom.

Z, " "P Then, when I thought her the simplest-
": minded of women, she must have been acting
a part, and dissembling every look and word
m‘Vhile she strove for the prize of—how can I
,ﬂven thinkgit? it is too horribleI—of becoming
the mistress of Sutre Terrace. But what an,
.Slctmss she must be! If ever 1 could have
,B'Worn'that love was written on a face, it was
, ‘on hers thatnight when I asked her to be mine.
' Ida, Idol. can you not clear yourself? Can you
 again be the pure, angel—like woman ,I
fﬁpught you l” . I
1 _.'But he was too deeply stung to be able to
give way to tender feelings; and his one thought
.._'now was that .of resentment and contempt for
,1}; the woman who had duped him.
_ ' .He had not gone far into the village before
 Pﬁen'ught sight of her and John going into one
 9%!“ cat gee, and saw that she had noticed

 the sudden way in which she turned

mum! and began talking to her companion. ,

“ 1min wait outside here,” be reﬂected, “ un-

. : “1 they come out. John Challoner’a friend
‘ « 'VSbouldrbe the ﬁrst to congratulate him on the
a, , dbndehe has won for himself.”
-. r ; The cottage was a corner one, surrounded on
, .  sides by a garden; and he Waited there
.] a {91' more thanhalf an hour,.but still the visitors
* 5: wild not-appear. .
. . ~ _ > At , , growing impatient, he knocked at
«3.1556 door and asked of the wetnan who opened

,:  it if Mr. 'Challoner were there. v
P V, _ “He washereahoutaquaner of‘anhourago,”
,  -; wavered thewomen, “ with the young lady-
 ‘ Ileana bless her, and him, tool—but they went
' 2 ’ In to see Lucy Wright, next door.”

_. g .»“I did not see them come out, and have been

 gf‘kwﬁ some time.”
 ‘ ; -  811‘; they didn’t go out that way.
. In“; ‘3'. slate leads into Lucy’s from my
> W, , _ r 33% Miss Weston asked to go, that

‘ are 

m ‘70 , t she f '

,   1‘63:er , cared to meet him in
K  - e than a woman and retin his ate 3
" WWW “’9 MWW— “ She. shall not escage
 xme without some explanation. 1 mm 399 be, H
‘hewrieeolved. i  r ' ’
, hen hearrv ‘atvthe Rector he fou
;  up and ready to deparz,‘ Shani:
  with, a bright smile, and said, sweetly,
_ “ see I have been punished .for not taking
' ‘ KW advice. Another time I shall have to
" l ﬁwou to judge for me.”
 . 5.“ e‘mayhe thankful the results were not
.""m0rev,86fi0us,” be said. “I trust you do not
“ ’ ‘991 V9”? much shaken?”
1 ’ ; “011,110, thank you; and I had such a dear
' little 1131798! Itpld her I should have to tell
yoga” “30% it, especially as from the way
,_ matters have turned out since, I cannbt think
‘ the can have-“bad much heart for nursing. You
have heardtbe news, of course?” ‘ ‘ x ,
,' es,”hesaidhearse 3 “,Isuppose‘it will
, w a l - 4 ‘ '

 
y,’ . >

 
" Ion answered me so sweetly and tenderly, howr

   
z

 / 

 lightfully happyselovelier, if

even thanked you for coming to my assistance
yesterday. Believe ma” givingth her hand,
a “ I am grateful. When I saw you coming afs

right, although a moment befOre, I was horri—
bly frightened." ‘

“I wish I had been in time to prevent your
falling,” he said. “I reproached myself for
having given way to you in the ﬁrst in-
stance.”

“ Thank you,”-—gratefully. “It was all my
own fault, so I will not hear of your making
yourself unhappy about it.”

“I will not, since I see you looking so well
again.” He turned wearily away, unable to
feel any interest in the subject, remembering
the grief it had seemed to give to Ida.

“And was that acting, too?"'he thought.
‘ “ Yes; she looks happier and lovelier now than
ever 1” . g ,

“ Miss Weston is going away, I understand,
tomorrow,” he said, turning to Mabel. “I
should like to say good-by to her, if she is
ini)’ ' ' -

“She is tip—stairs,” said Mabel. “I will go
and fetch her.” And she left him alone with
Miss Ramadan. , '

He did not speak, for his whole thoughts were
engrossed with the expected meeting.

It was not, hawever, destined to take place,
for soon Mab l returned with an excuse from
Ida, to the effect that she was very fatigued,
andwas just lying down. She therefore com-
missioned her cousin to say good—by in her
name. ' '

“ If she does not see me now, I will see her
at the station to-morrow,” he reﬂected. “ I
must \and will see her once ragain. Fool, fool
that I am! I hunger for one glance at that
lovely face, beforeIforget it forever!”

In spite of her excuse to Mabel, Ida was far
from resting. No sooner, had. the door closed
than she rose from the bed. and getting her
writing materials, set about the difﬁcult task of
writing to Mr. Sutre.

“It must be done,” she reﬂected; “ but howl
—-—that is the question. I dare not reproach
him for fear that he should come to try and
justify himself, and that must never be. -I dare
not, cannot see him.” " ’ ,

.Many, many were the attempts she made
but each production seemed Worse than th
former.  ”

I “How canJ appear not to mind at all, when
it is kzlling me?” she cried. “ Dugan, my love
--my lovel how can I relinquish you, when I
really believe you do love me? Would not
your love satisfy every longing?”

She recoiled‘with horror from herself at the
hideous thought, and covered her face-7
blanched and drawn with mute misery—with
the hot, trembling hands. The one thought
that brought relief was that of her speedy de-
parture. Then at least she would be far from
the place where she had eXperienced the great:
est happiness and the greatest misery, of her
life; and then, too, she would be parted from
John. ’ ‘

Already the burden she had laid on herself
had become almost insupportahle, and she
loathed even the sound of his voice. It was
useless to reproach herself with ingratitude,
for she could not 'school herself to hear his
caress or fond words. : ,

At last, after many attempts, the note was
Written, and placed in the postbag; and than
she felt the relief of knowing that what she
had done was quite irrevocable. . r '

“I wonder if he .knows yet aboutJohnl”
she thought. “If so, oh, grant that he may
understand me!
think I was false when I vowed to love him,
though ‘I wish now I had never done so.”

Began Sutre received the note with apacket
of others thenext morning at the breakfast:
table. Instinct told.him who was the‘sender,"
left the  in order to 

. Va, .

 
ever. But I am chattering on, and have never .

for me, somehow I felt that it would be all

' ‘Sutre, she felt glad that he was not 
witness her emotion. v v . 'i , .
“ Troubiel” he echoed. “ Do m'ﬂiﬁtk 

‘ She cowered back in a corner of

I cannot bear that he should ,

  
‘ u “.u. "

      
.v

‘ l

“You ' without mwamnm ' ’ ' ,Ifé'elj,
“use when a“,
e a .’
you may forget tint.
, y never meet again; 
enters.th must mm garuyegieg'gﬁ; the; , is 
ilsmthe wish or’ r 7. my  r‘y. '
“Yours faithfully. g '
‘ \ _ “Ina Wheres.” .
"What can. she mean? Surely she 
have some sense of shame for her broken faith 9'}
And yet not one word of excuse from begin- .. 
ning to end—merely a cold wish that I may be is
happy, when she has taken every opportunity ,
to blast my whole life! Ida. Weston, we Ml '*
meet before many years; this very day .
shall meet, and then look me in the face 
repeat that wish if you dare!" ‘ ‘, ' 

o...
latio

           
As Ida and John drove up to thevstation, 
thought that the first and last time  '
been there was the occasion of her meeting 
Sutre, made the place seem cruelly familiarise
her. ‘ ' v ' f 73

“ I shall remember the very spot where 
stood. It seems that he will ever be associakd“;
with it,” she thought to herself. “It was
just in the doorway leading,,fo~—, Merciful
Heaven 1” as a tall, well-knit, ' ure ‘j
standing on the very spot wher she 
seen him. “ He is there! Be stillwheﬂﬁlél’f“ :
-—to her throbbing heart. “,Oh, that'the  1'
would start at once, and take me 
I dare not see him i” , "

’But, with a cruel, quiet smile, he came»  ,
ward her, and she knew that the meeting“ was
inevitable. I a - , 

“ It is humanly,” she said to herself. , ' 

“She does not look so happy now,” he re-
ﬂected, as her deadly pale. face appeared in—flhb‘
doorway. “ I thought she could ’le:
brazen it out to myface. Thank heavomshe

darenotlookatmel" , v. , ...
Weston,”ho~aaid,

   
§

    
“Goodmorning, Miss , . . , -
raising his hat with stately pews. ‘53.
you would not give me the opportunitydfﬁk
iug farewell, I was obliged to make we? “ '

She murmured something about 
the trouble, her eyes   
her lips quivering painfully. . . . a

John was getting the tickets, and , "
she feared to be alone .for a moment with.

    
with a cruelly sarcastic smilewg“do you 
that I should feel any trouble in . ‘, ' ,, ‘
the pleasant duty of congratulating  
your engagement? The . 
terac'ts the sorrow I might feel at your? ‘_
are. ‘ Allow me to wish you everyha' " '
and a long and fortunate engaganent.”
At his cruel, mocking words a ﬂush of,
dyed her usually pale cheek, and  
beautiful eyes, she looked him  .
face, saying: ’ e ' *
“ Your wishes are likely to be fulﬁlled
am but worthy of the good man whehasM.
me for his wife. Allow me to 
your congratulations.” » g 5 _,
And with a stately how she ,swept ‘
to the waiting train. '

  
Fortunately, she-had a few K, momentel‘hgfﬁg
John joined her to [regain her, self.  "

crying: - ' “if 

“Oh, that I were dead! Cruel, 
suit me so! How could, he speak auto?!» -_;

could not have treated 'him thus, and Hum
knows that thewrong is on his sidel” _ ' ' ‘

 
CHAPTER vm.

m. ovxa. 5 _

Mr..,,WEslrow was at the depot to men
daughter, and it did not need a  ‘_
from her loving, obserVing 038,110 
something musinisewith him. It was 

    
. ,_ . l .
 he knows everywnsf-e? , ,..g .  .
WNW”-  

 
only'aassoaoseag  gin-sealer *
L"  I. ‘_ '

 
pissing him. . = -

 
, herself again under his protection.
“‘ Oh that I had never left you!" she thought
as she looked into the deep-sunken brown eyes,
. and noticed the lines which had seemed to
* , row deeper during her absence. .
’ Bathe seemed .well contented to have his
arling back, and sat with her small hand
tackedfin his, as John told him the story of
« his'lOVe, and asked forhis consent to his union
with Ida. . '

‘1"? And ,what does my pet say?” said the old
man, tanderly kissing the broad brow nestled

   
ng toga,“ Ida?”f ,
I“? pa, I never,,yvant to leave you.”

“Tut, tut, child; I did not mean that. I
daldnot expect to keep my little bird for-

  
Mar protector before I have to leave her.
wasting» was, are you willing to fulﬁll
 " nt with John?"

a!“st papa," very'faiutly, and shrinking as
0313 took her hand in his, and thanked her
will ‘

 
Wit John. after he has heard what I
teeny, is still willing to keep to his part,
is nothing which could have given me
morasatisfaction. But you must ﬁrst listen to
 ‘l‘ .
 dear sir,"- hegan John, “ nothing could
mire me alter.” ' -
r Wireless, hear me. I do not think it
. make you alter, but it is fair you should
‘ V w.’ Ida, my dear, the little fortune I had
'  to leave you, and which would have
 you independent, is lost. to us forever.
 you can’bring no gift but yourself

 husband.” ,
3 Mayan think for a moment that anything
 .is needed?” said John, impetuously.
' yr'Idg‘believe me that -I would rather have
 byth thanrbnrdened with any for-
Withstand”.

’ “ Nor

~ *1 .dotheliove it, John,” she said.
W :1 wrong your generosity by even sus-
' ‘ ,  ofsfeeling any regret; but tell me,
papa, does notthls also mean a. change in
 - Will you too be quite poor?”
\ a, child, for the- short time that I re-
  It‘is not a “long story. You
x " theta claim was raised on our little es-
"  to, 'invastigate this claim, and
 out enough to convince my own
  a well-founded one, although
Mb, I do not think could have been es-
‘I-iafa court of law. Of course there
Menominee open to me, and that

  
‘fii or’esign your own claim at once,” said
‘  “My dear, noble father, you
, rue-the guilty of anything approaching
 ﬂ ' conduct: but ‘I cannot leave you
' John, you would not ask me toleave
 ’"  he lancer?”

ydearest, I will not ask you to leave
Qua-house will always be open to him.
he will make it hisown.”

, , ﬁsh-dear children,” said Mr. Wes-
  moved. “I shall be but ashort
‘   here, and during that time I shall
sanctum: you as I can.”

t do you mean, papal" cried

  
Ida, with

 
. dread.

it 'msdn,:my darling, that soon I shall be
  youfcrever. Ihave, at the long-
, u media few months to live; it may be less.
“we: is“ not  certain, I would not have
'. on; but I would not have it come sud-
‘ “Wnkyouﬁ. , ' .
ﬂavpapal papal I cannot do without you!
go away and leave me!”

, istarling, I shall leave you too better
.‘ﬂnn‘l could have been. You will
‘  husband.” V, ' - v
lelluotbs'your _

 
”   

> x,\

as: that sense unwanted trouble as. pier-i
It was sweet balm to her‘wounded spirit to

‘59 ,couﬂdlngly on his shoulder. “ Are you will- ‘

 and I am thankful that she should ﬁnd.

 
soldering, the  no

,for me directly, you are "in any trouble.
would that I' could stay with you, but my

  'V’

‘v. -bu_lst.

  
dragons, she burst into a
passionate ﬂood of tears, ‘

“Ida.” Said John, reproachfully, “ you are
only adding to your father’s grief. It must
be hard oncogh for him already. Try to be
calm.” ‘ . l . .

“ I will,” she said, bravely, laying ,her head
closer to that food breast. “But, papa, you
will not let me leave you now. I will work
for you now, as you have done‘all these years
for me, and then, perhaps, if you have perfect
rest, you will get quite strong again.” '

“ That cannot be,” he said, ﬁrmly. “I can
never recover; and, my darling, I am only too
glad that you will now have no necessity to
wbrk. It was that thought alone which im~
bit'tered my poverty.” .

“But I am not afraid. I can teach—and—
and sing. Let me do this for you while you
live.”

“ But what will John say i” asked Mr. Wes-

n.

“John will not eXpect me to come to bin
while you need me,” she said. “Is it not so?“
turning to her lover.

“ Darling, you know how I need you, but I
will not tryto persuade you to act against
your conscience. ”

, “Thank you; I knew you would say so.”

When John was going away the next day,

r he said, looking fondly down into the beautiful

face which Was so dear to him: .

“Mind, my darling, I trust to you to sent}
duties call me home. But you promise, Ida?”

“I promise, John."

" And you will try to 10m me, Ida?”

“I do love you, John, and will try to love
you as you love me.”

Then she submitted to his embraces, and
tried net to shrink from the pressure of his
lips on her brow. ,

“ Dugan—Dugan!” she moaned, “oh, that I
could forget you! And papa must go tool
Oh, that 1 might die also!”

 
As so often happens, a very quiet time fol~

lowed the stormy period of Ida Weston’s life

which we have followed. , r

She had little difﬁculty in procuring music
pupils, as her great talent was well known, and
her father had several inﬂuential friends in
musical circles. .

She had also every chance of achieving suc—
cess if she had really wished to sing profession-
ally. , -- ,
She worked hard, grateful for the occupa-
tion, and the fatigue which it brought diverted,
to a certain. extent, her mind from its over-
whelming sorrow. I

As the spring came, on, Mr. Weston grew
gradually but surely worse,‘and before March
had fairly setin he was unable to leave the
house at all. V '

Ida was his constant companion in her mo-
ments of leisure, and tended him with that de-
votion which one pays when one feels that the
object of it will soon be beyond all our cares.

She received long letters from Raybourne,
both from John and Mabel; but it was seldom.
that the name which still thrilled her every
nerve was mentioned. ,

At last, however, a letter came, and as she
read the cruel, cruel words the last ray of hope
died out of her heart-and she felt herself re-
duced to utter despair. V

“It was quite true, then!" she moaned.
“ Ob, Dugan, until now there‘ has always been ,
a doubt that Constance Ramsden might have.
told me an untruth. But now I cannot doubt
for a moment. It was all too true l”

It was a long letter from Mabel, announcing
her own engagement to Herbert Horton.

'She wrote very enthusiastically, and con
cluded aawfollow: . l

‘ era ‘ ’i t on ma rl'
megweha; .secoi'xd- ,

   
 them  

 
t0'take place very  week am.
Italian)": , ,  _’ r v‘ .. ' t
Then the letter went on to describe and
cuss the usual wedding musseau, ‘bridemaids’
dresses, etc.; but thoso had no interest? for
Ida. ’ , ‘

and hopeless misery, when a low call‘from,

the adjoining room summoned her to her fa:- ;

ther’s side.

Then, with an heroic eﬂ’ort, crushing re-
morselessly all her bitter thoughts, she snot
ceeded, while attending'to the wants of her
parent, in bringing a smile to his weary,
Wasted features. . ‘-

Quietly and deftly she moved about the sick-
chamber (Mr. Weston had been conﬁned was;
room for several, days now), but rewwould.’
have recognized in the dark hollow-eyed girl
the beautiful Winsome creature who had stood

by his side on that platform little more than ~

two months ago. ,

“Ida, my darling,” said her father, faintlle , a

“do you think John
again soon?”
" Not before Easter, papa dear, unless you

will be able to come up

want him Very much. He is engaged, I knew, ’ ,  ,

at present."
‘f Easter will do, dear. I shall linger, I hope, ‘
until then, Ida. My little Ida, you have been, ‘
a good daughter, and I grieve to leave ybu;'
but remember, child—as I‘am sure you wilt— ,
that I have done the best I could for you, 'I
know you have neVer had a mother's love and
a mother’s care,.and your life, therefore,  ,
been rendered less joyous and'hapby that: it
might otherwise have been. But when I am
gone do not forget me“ and try to think, "too,
of your mother, whom hope soon to join”: ,
Ida did not weep.
misery, clasped the wasted fingers of her father
more tightly, and exclaimed, “Oh, papal oh, “
that I might die, too, and go and has my
mother!” ' ‘ \ ‘ V ' "
“ Nay, nay! g You have many

a

beautiful to die!”
“Mother was beautifuhtoo,
older, was she not?” _
. “But would you leave John as your‘motherf
left me? Believe me, my darling, had it been “
so ordained, my sweet girl-wife would have 
willingly remained to tread life’s path hand in
hand with me. ”' v A ' '

From that day he grew rapidly wining-and ' 

wouldvtalk more and more conﬁdently‘of: the '

home he was going to, until Ida felt as if 

heart wouldbreak. The and came verysoon.”
It was a terribleday to Ida, for it was the"

same as ﬁxed for the marriage of Dugan Sartre '

to CO! slance.~  ,
Mrs. Challoner and John were both with Ida, ,
and showed her evely kindness and attention';’
but when all was over, and her aunt pitﬂully‘
led her away from the lifeless body, she'en‘titp-f
ly collapsed, and fell into a deathlikej swoon,
which lasted for hours. '  ' ‘ 
The funeral over, Ida felt like one
sorted. and her heart failed ‘es she"thonght of :

one more awful interview that she had tonn- .

dergo. - . - I .
From the tumultuous stale of her 

she was now convinced that she could not he-

come the wife of J ohn Challoner. ' x

The love which she here to Dugan Sutre ‘

too deeply ingrafted into her nature for her  ' ,,

be able to not it out, and she knew that she
would be doing wrong to marry any one else.
And Raybonrne‘ of all places was that she
most shrunk from in the world. ,‘ v,
How could she'take up her residence in a
place where there would be constant Opportun; ,
ities of meeting him and witnessing the happi- '
ness of his wedded life with Constance Rams: 
den? _ . V
“I could hotbenr itl‘lshe moaned. “It
would drive me mad! I should do. something I

1‘

She was sitting, almost stupeﬁed with grief ’, '

She, numbed by her " 

happydaysto' _
remain on earth. You are too young, too -

and not much . .,

 
. w.

.‘s
C.»

 
a

    
in the late summer or autumn. ,
. She must, therefore, speak at once; and much
 the duty, she determined to ‘dis~
.f'tharge'it that very evening. 7 ,
John himself furnished the opportunity by
Injing, as he stroked back the dark hair from
f 1r weary face, “My darling, we shall have
._ to bring back some sunlightto your life. You
_ Must not allow yourself tobe cast down too
much with sorrow at what has passed. Re-
, 'nfolnber that your father may be much hap-
-. Pitu- now than he ever could have been on
earth." ‘
“ I do remember, dear John, and though the
Parting is very sad, I will not grieve for him;
_ mfor myself; I' cannot help it. I have lost

  
:- ,’ “Not all, darling! A home awaits you
 - where you shall ﬁnd that life has still much
 happiness in store for you.”

“John, John, forgive me for what I am
going to say!” she cried, passionately, her face
Working with intense feeling. “ I cannot come
to Raybourhe!”

. “Hot come to Raybourne! Why, my dar-
, hug? You cannot stay here alone, and you
- know that we must return. If you ‘would
rather wait a few days, or even weeks, mother
Wiiljw‘ait with you; ~but I; think the change
' wlildo you good." .
_  “*Oh, you‘do not understand! I mean I can
. ' never coins to Raybourne at all, John! I can
‘ never'be your wife l” »
' “ Ida, what is this?”—-a marble stillness
, . '_ coming over the strong face.
', “How can I tell you? But I must—I must!
I MJOhn, you have been very, very good to me,
 ,bnt'I Gannot love you. and itiwould be wicked
, me to marry you in, those circumstances.”
i g; r Ida, wewill not talk of that yet. Only
  down tOrRaybourne and rest. You are
. . Wang 'now, and incapable of coming to a
, “' conclusion on this matter.” ,
I cannot come to Rsybournel” she reiter-
“ John, I once told you a lie.”

I _“ Ida, Ida, spare yourself and me!” he cried,
“with an awful foreboding of what was coming.
‘ “I darenot. When you asked me if you
‘. w the man who had won my heart, I said,

V No.’ ‘But, you do, for it was Mr. Sutre!”
‘ “My child, my child, what can Ido for you?”
“Nothing. On, John, it was wicked of me
., y to deceive you, but I could not let you know,
 it was so awful! I loved him so much, and he

I  me so cruelly. , I loved him then, and

,Ilove him now too dearly ever to love any

other man, or’to trust myself to be near him.

How you must see that I cannot, dare not go

'* to Buybaurne, where I should see not only him,

 his wife, constantly.”

 ’ anguish which she saw in his face
 her of the sorrow she was inﬂicting.

'" ﬂaccid, “I can never atone for the

‘ done you. I hardly dare even

 
WWness; but, believe me, the pre- '

3"“ “WWW though it is better than
:\ mm unhappinessw I wmd to Heaven I

*' Nd 10“ 3°? 35 I do Began Sutrel’.’

".3? darhngy my darling!” he murmured
onately. “And I can do nothing for you!
‘ _ , cannot 5"“ Shield you from the troubles and
, mieties of your everyday life!”

.73  1 ,.,“x°V°rymind that, ‘39" Jman. I have no
’ » the future. . ’Iilttleachee' ' "  do
good by distracting attention from the greater
evils which almost kill one.” ' v

' “But, my darling, how will you live!”

‘ "‘I must be independent,”—-trying to speak
‘bravely. “ I can earn enough to support my.
self in comfort. and I shall live with my old

' v music-teacher, Miss Bonner.” _
i ? A sigh broke from John as he saw how
clearly ‘she had, planned it all.
 “How eagershe must be,”he thought, “ to
 _ escape from him!” ' .

   
w“
.

301', and the said, “Do not think I am unng
ful, ' John. ,
you ybourneql

   
nonsense-toggle

   
 «at the:  are  mar. '

Her quick intuition revealed his thoughts to ,

Miss Bonner came yesterday to , "
" ﬁlms?!  egg. not knowing .

 
“ And is this to bathe ondl”‘hesald,' sadly. _
“It must. on, John, I have brought much
trouble into your life! Believe m’e,’dearcou-
sin, I would do almost anything to undo it,

and that school promised to‘be your wife I .

meant to do my utmost to be a true one.”

“ I know it, darling. . I grieve mere for you
than for myself. Heaven forgive me, but the
man who has wrecked your life is a villain,
and I hope that he may one day reap the fruit
of his villainyl” ‘ ,

“Oh, hush, hushl. I was wrong, too. I
ought to have known that such a thing could
never be. Promise metbat you will not let his
greatment' of me alter your relations with

im.” ’

“ I will promise I will never allude to the
matter; but do not ask anything further. I
could not give such a promise.”

She sighed wearily.

“Oh, Heavens! what a fate is mine! To
ruin one man’s life, and to blight a life-long
friendship! John, can you ever forgive me?”

“Forgive! I have nothing to forgive. It
is I who should ask forgiveness for forcing my
love 'on you when it was torturing you to
death.” * , I

“Don’t say that, John! Sometimes it was
very sweet, only I could not bear the thought
of marriage. Love me still, John, as a
brother!”

“I shall love you ever, Ida; but not as a
brother, although I will try to act a brother’s
part toward you. If ever I can serve you,
send for me at once; and—and—oh, Ida! if
you ever change, do not fear to tell me. I
will make you my wife whenever you, choose
to confer upon me that privilege.”

 
CHAPTER IX.
AFTER DARKNESS, DAWN.

- Two years have nearly passed away, and
Ida Weston has worked hard, having resolved
that her life should not be entirely ruined by
her earlier troubles.

’ She is already well known in her profession,
and is spoken of as sure of achieving the first
success.

No one who beers that full, rich voice can
fail to be thrilled by it, any more than they
can help being spellbound by the wonderful
beautyof ,the singer.

She hears often from Raybou’rne—not from
John, but from Mabel, who is Mrs. Horton
now—and from _, Mrs. Challoner; and the
former, not knowing the reason of the break-
ing of! of the engagement between her brother

and cousin, often chats of the Rayhourne,

family. ‘

But little is 'seen of Dugan Sutre now. He
is generally abroad, and very seldom accom-
panied by his wife. ’

Mabel writes that there is adecided estrange-
ment between them.

“How can it be?” Ida would reﬂect. “I
know she loved him. Surely she has never
found out about me?” '

She is going to sing that night ata large
musical reception, and on her way there her
thoughts are busy with Mabel’s letter.

The reception is held in a large suite of
rooms, the pianforte being in the furthest one.

In the middle one, behind a screen, is stand-
ing listlessly, looking with wearied indifference
at the brilliant crowd, a familiar form. It is
that of Mr. Sutre.

Suddenly his indifference gives place to ear-
nest attention. . - ,

He listens with heart and soul to a voice
which he knows full well.

He could not mistake it, for the words are
poured forth passionately,” though from the
singer’s very heart:

“ Who knows the time when we shall meet,
Or if we ever meet again . ,

hearts or he one ainf
"I‘ls bettorpgg should be opal-1t ‘p
1- For while the barrier lie between, 7
were...“ is recurs...th- 
. . 91'. / ,e , 0 , 9 _ ' ‘. I '

      
_ her soul. v

.a ., filWhat right, led you week. will?

am  

 
‘ e —   3......  .~....   I
‘Wiilimaeometoolate?’ ~ , 
, No-yvoice replies toycu or me; '
Wecan but hope, andtmst. and
And love, in pity for our team, '
And sweet atonement for the past,
Mam maybe, in after years ., . . v ,
let our pathways meet at hast!” , ,
“It is she!” he cried; and, starting (mills
quiet retreat, he Walked into the adjoining (
room, where Ida Weston had just ﬁnished ,-
song amidst a burst of applause.  ‘
She turned visibly paler as he  \

her.
“ Do you remember me?” he asked,
“Perfectly!” she answered, returning 
salute; and she turned round and 
a conversation with her neighbor, her 
heaving with painful excitement. _ " N; »
Fortunately it was her last song, and she
was soon. able to take her leave. ' ,, l g X
As she stood in the hall waiting for law at- .
tendant, be came up to her. ‘ . '
“I must see you. Let me call on you,”’ho,
said. ‘ I . 5. 1,.)
“ "I‘is better not,” she answered. “ I on .
sorry we have met, andwould rather that  
should never do so again.”  .v
“ Do not be cruel,” hesaid. ‘9 Wehavehoth. ;
suffered. I feel sure that there has 
awful misunderstanding between us." . I '
“At any rate it is irrevocable,” 
swered, “and, only harm i can come 
meeting." _ '  ’lg':
“Do not fear me,” he said. “ I will 
preach you, Ida, though my life is very bitter
But at any rate I must know what induced?“ .
to throw over John Challoner, too, after you *
had accepted him-at such cost to me.” ' f ,i‘
Just then Ida’s maid appeared, and she 
not stay. r r r » I , . , 
“Good-night,” she said. “I, thought you
would have understood it all. I amnesia
to show you I was not what you thought we, '
and I broke my engagement because I ;f
he was too noble to hesacriﬁoed like  
“Isit possible, then, that you really 

me?” he cried. .1 r ., r 
"How could you ileum itl » But"! 

       
say more,” she returned.
“But you owe me an explanation,

shall claim it,” he replied, eagerly. ' ; ” “
“Good—night.” And she walkedsasay.

 
Did she dread or long for the 
She scarcely know. It Would be sweet to, 
that he had really loved her trulyand ' , ’1
ably; and yet, with that barrier between
what good could thy reap from, such“?
ingi . g ’ ' ‘

But come what might, it was in’evillt,‘

There had been a look on Dugnn’sfuoe‘ \_
told her that she must bend to  Will,
felt that she could not settle" to any , ;
wonted occupations with that strange “

 
“What will he say! Whitehall I no? ’
kept asking herself every moment. T, , .
But she had not to wait long. ‘ , ‘ V \ 3
‘Very soon after bmekfesthad been rem
he was announced. ’ . ' , » '
Fortunale Miss Bonner hadbusiuem'
called her out early, and Ida ‘was sitting ,
when he arrival. I 7 -' ' , . 1"
She stood up to receive omens his: 
straight up to her. and win "her from
in his. looked down intently as the he" 1 \
yetsad face. I v  ,
“There cannot be‘untrnth- inyonﬂ  at
length. “Ida, tell me all! You did {not N
ceive me, I feel sure; then let inc know y 
madness possessed you to Sever two 
formed for each other "as ours‘weré ‘v , ' A, 
“ Madness,” she echoed,sorrowful y. 
it not have been madder to have kept. to, 
word when it would have been destruction
us both?” ' , ' v ,. _
_“ I do not under you. Beforeﬁ‘
Ida. you are  in. riddles to. me.’

 
he! /

    
 sanctum  to you?” _, ° _ :
 “5.90" We? 11, Heaven, what have 1

 
 -' g'f‘ What, indeed 2" he echoed; bitterly. “ Oh,
“Ids, why did you not trust ,mei And I had
 just assured you of my level"
 3»“But you had not « naked me. to be your
r wits.” . r- _ I
 ;. ‘Was: not asking for your love the same
thingi, Ida, how could you think I would wrong
Jet's?" .v *" -. . .
._ 3. 7“ I Would not think it at ﬁrst,” she said.
“aﬁut- afterward I was told so certainly, and
 had just spoken so strangely about her, that
imagined so clear. Ah, that I had given you
 then.” A ,'
ﬁend for the ﬁrst time since this trouble had
Motion her, her grief found vent 'in a pas—
sionate storm of tears.‘ , , 7
could not, help it. . , , .
“He had taken her in his arms, and strained
passionately to his breast; and, man as he
was, his‘own eyes were ﬁlled with tears and a
ﬂap-sob shook his strong frame.
-. ,lhwhat can we do?” he cried.
way-tot escape from this fate?”
_ Athletic,” she said. “We must part! Knowing
 the do, we cannot meet as ordinary ac-
‘ ‘ 'n _ and we dare not-meet as more!”
.. ‘5. Tell me one thing,” he said, almost ﬁercely.
,ﬂlmwasthe proof which finally convinced
 crimsoned. '
ﬂeece not tell youl" she faltered.
 me, began!" 3 . ,
” 1:"? Was it my wife?” he said, sternly. ,
-Ji‘ompugan, forgive her! She loved you,
and-I had come between you! She may have
he, ht, too, that ‘a marriage with me was un-

aui : for you.
'  creature!” he hissed, ,
{-“O'h, Dugam‘hushl She is your wife!”
, ,3  . , remind me of that, in Heaven’s
 r, I might have forgiven her bad she not
 that. New, Ida, listen to me. :1 am
 to put your love to a test.”
1 ﬁh‘o trembled with fear.
,‘. Dugan, we must part i” she said.
W‘anythlng “from me!” '
. 5 *9 as, I suppose we must part; but how hard
lit-jfsgalmtwe should do sol I‘am married to
 woman, but it is not a union of souls.
Venous farapart in sympathy, feeling, and
tel-xterm which distinguishes and tends to
 the. bliss of conjugal life as the poles
I *asuﬁder. We cannot exchange conﬂdences;
. ,we cannot look each other in the‘face.
I f‘gshort,‘ we are both, utterly miserable, and,
 I can see, we shall continue to be so
' ﬁlth/end ‘of one or both of'our lives.”
“ﬁdl Dugan, don"t say that! Your wife
., , you; try to give her, if only a little, love
 ‘At any rate, do not make her life
 f'to her.” ‘ ‘ ' \ . i
 it is easyto talk. Suppose you had
ed‘vJohu—” ‘ ' 
1”. Hush, Hogan! that wasimpossib’le. I have
 told 7 you that he was too noble a man ‘
stiletto-incense pride and spite.” ‘ .- v
“Thenl am the victim. ' To you only, Ida,
my life belongs, while I am the bus-
" ’ ofancth'er‘Lwomanl”
 you. must not pursue this matter
 What is done, is done. We have
 itled a sad mistake, both of us, and we
_ new reaping the penalty of it.” ‘
 “But, Ida,,dear,‘you do not know what I
@{gdﬂcringr I am united to a woman who is

 
53..

 
a

“ Is there no

 
“ Do

 
S
5

“ Do not

#4

 
7 E to see me in my grave, Ida?” '-
, ‘0h,;Dugan,why can you ask me such a
‘ , "ion! '1' have told you how precious you
are-in ' my sight.“ If it came to that, I would,
‘ ’ j‘how willingly, give up my life for you.” I
 I know it; yet—” ’i
1 33,812”, Duganl We must part, and must
parchment again-Alt least for, many years. . II
,  swarmed oh. majors. struggle on!
.1 m use W‘WWMMM'M»
’ .    ss~.l.sulwaytﬂloeght

  
'you’ will not go straight away. , Let me have

'will never attempt to see you alone. ”

face the wife who had been the cause of what

’Sutre.

 ﬁme‘headlong'to destruction. , Do you ‘

‘ this world’s goods, to die.

 
, . ’ﬁi‘h‘éitbesoihardiasitm  16?, _ 
new  cleared away, :aandtwje .  ,
know thatour love was strong and true. ~ Let
that be our consolation in the future.” '

, “You are right, my darling. _. But surely

, . making-hergdebut at the?“
Music a few nights later, she received a per
fect ovation, and the critics were unanimouai
their opinions, that never since the: time the
Jenny Lind had visited their country had they ,
listened to a‘vocalist who could sing to‘the»
hearts of her audience. I ‘ M ' . w _'
At the close of the ﬁrst season, having sung
in all the principal cities of the States and,
Canada, she had netted a hundred thousand”
dollars. , , ., 2_ 
Just about this time it reached the ears of Miss 1
Weston that the health of young Mrs. Entire.
was far from being into satisfactory condition;
she was subject to periodical ﬁts of illness, ,
which were attributed to the fall she’vhad ’re-;
ceived from the horse. of which Miss Weston}
had been the unwilling witness. . ' . g - ~
But there was probably another (:ause,‘of~
which the world knew nothing. ' ;'
Though she and her husband continued to;
live under one'roof, and to observe outwardly
the relations which the world expectslshouldm
subsist between husband and wife, they were "
both utterly miserable. ,,
Dugan Sutre never saw his wife unless when A
it was absolutely necessary, and then for as,
short a time as possible; hence she was often
allowed to languish for weeks togethér’ at
Sutre Terrace withoutthe society of her line...
band or any society whatever, for even the
Challoners eschewed her. . - x
Finally, her. health broke down; whether
from the remorse she felt for what she had-
done to Miss Weston, or born neglect, or both,
no one ever knew. ’ 'r " ‘
She was found dead in bed one morning. - i .
This was the event which changed the our?

the happiness of knoWi’ng you to be near, and
seeing you occasionally with others. I vow I

W “ We could not keep to such a compact,” she
said. “And We must forget.”

“ Can you do that?” ' .

“ I shall try. I am going to leave America.
I received an offer to do so some days ago, and
now I shall accept it.” 7 ‘

“ But can I not follow you?” he asked.
“These days of steam do not allow even the
ocean to form an insuperable barrier.”

-“ Yes; but I 'trust'your own good feeling and
your honor as a gentleman, will prevent your
taking such a step,” she said, gently but ﬁrmly.

And he who, in the old days, had been able
to make her yield with, a word, silently ac-
quiesced and promised that he would not do so.

“ Is it to be good—by, than?” he asked, sadly.

“.Yes, Dugan; for aye, I fear.”

It was an awful moment, and it seemed that
life was a thing of the past for both of them——
the future at least a dark, impenetrable gloom
which could bring no joy to either.

Again and again he tried to go, and ever and
again turned to her side for one more farewell. -.

At last it was over, and as she heard the
street-door close behind him she fell on her
knees and prayed Heaven to be merciful to her
lover. ‘ -

 
A few days later a paragraph in a paper
caught Mr. Sutre’s eye, “and he dropped it
hastily and left the breakfasttable, unable to

he read there. v , rent of Miss Weston’s future life. . x, ,
She picked up the paper, and read as fol- After the funeral’she had received alstter’
lows:-—— ’ ' from Dugan begging that she would either ai

‘ “ Most members of the musical world will t
to hear that we are to lose, for an indeﬁnite pe 0d,
the services of one of our most promising youngaar-
tistes. Miss Ida Weston has decided to o to I 1y,
where she will study under the famous ignor Ba-
relli, and where we wish her ovary success as would
certainly attend her efforts if she stayed in the
mother country.” ~

“ So she is going,” reﬂected Mrs; Dugan
"I don’t suppose it will make much
difference to me. Ah, well, had I known as
much then, as I do now, my lord might have
had his humble love. The game was not worth
the candle!” ‘ -,

low him to come to her, or that she would re— -
turn to Raybourne and her friends. , "

For a long time she would listen to neither '
proposal. ‘ ~

She was now the possessor of an ample for V
tune, and received the homage of rich and "
poor wherevsr she went. ‘ " “

But one morning, when nearly twelve
,mOnths from the date of the death of Con
stance had elapsed, the New York “Mano.
contained this announcement: ’ a 1

“It is with profound ret that we learn the '/
‘ celebrated ima dorma, Ida Weston, will bid .
farewell to r grofession in a few weeks. The rea- -
son for this (1 on‘ we can only conjecture. _ It is »
whispered that she has resigned the scepter‘of the T
lyric stage to rei n as queen in One mm‘sheartsnd ;
home alone. . o‘the fortunate winner ofisuch a

 
I'r
l

   
Many were the friends who assembled to see
Ida of! on the steamer which was to take her
from America. John Challoner was there.

She had, told him all, and he had told her that prize may be is as yet but a. matter of conjecture."
she was acting rightly. ‘

:ilutthe tapplt'gbatioin ofbher iffﬁnds 3:31:33 hggzgxgsoming was very diﬂerenti
m on or emsera can u 0' v  7,
while sh}; watched the slowly-recedigg shore. “$382111: 3:13:38]; tfhfggnmr  She
u-Shan I ever “tum?” she aSked herseu’ a dear well—known voice whispgredtéxuﬂ
sobbing quietly behind her vail. ‘ u “to; much tribmtion, our  ”§,m¥e,
converge at last!” ' . 7  7 )2 ,V 

  
Not for morethan three years did the answer
come to that question. < ' v
Her fame as a cantatrice had reached the .
United States before her, and : she was met
down New York Bay bya cutter containing
her agent and a number of friends together . ‘ - V ’ x 7
with a brass band, who had resolved to give  
her a hearty welcome to “the land of the _ -' ._ > I“;
frsseé”; th v“ Md u rt 2 Luminous. ByrhomasMoore...;.........ioc
range e css sec _0 um I - - ‘  .
On the same ship was the relict of one of the 2 D” “‘3'  Lard 35"“ ' ' ' ' ' '   we
martyred presidents 01th,, United States... 3 ?LEADXSE Leer. By John Milton ......  100
whosehusband had not only given his life for frame: or m- Lars. Sir Walter  me
his country but had also saved its government , , cm, M - ' ~» ‘ J - 
from total’ruin—who, was returning to her :3” I“. fy 23:11 WAzesstrt‘.” 
native land, broken down in health, poor in  of edema, 
For sale by all newsdealers, or sent. postage paid;
on receipt of twelve cents for single numbers.
double numbersrtwentyffour  _‘_’ I  "2 "
assented!"    ..   . .r . a .   
   >    

  
'rna . 3,, 

       
l Whilebur heroine was, received with music
and kindly‘greetings, there was no one to re—
solve" this poor mam. noon to hold, out to her

  
TR UTE STRANGER THAN FICTION!

 
NOW READY AND IN PRESS.

1 Adventures of Bull’an Bill. From Boyhood to Man
By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.
'2 The Ocean Hunters; or, The Chase of the Leviathan. By
Captain Mayne Reid. W An extra large number. ﬂ
3 Adventures of Wild Bill, the Pistol Prince. Remarkable
career of J. B. Hikok. By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham.
The Prairie Ranch; or, The Young Cattle Herders. By J 08.
E. Badger, Jr. ’
Texas Jack, the Mustang King. Thrilling Adventures in
the Life of J. B. Omohundro, “ Texas Jack.” By Col. P. Ingraham.
Cruise of the Flyaway; or, Yankee Boys in Ceylon. By C.
Dunning Clark.
Joe: The History of a Young “ Border Ruﬂian.” Brief

Scenes from the Life of Joseph E. Badger, Jr. By A. H. Post.
The Plyaway Aﬂoat; or, Yankee Boys ’Round the World.
By C. Dunning Clark.
Bruin. Adams, Old Grizzly Adams’ Boy Pard. By
001. Prentiss Ingraham.
1° The Snow Trail ; or, The Boy Hunters of Fur-Land. A Narra-
1 two of Sport and Life around Lake Winnipeg. By T. C. Harbaugh.

1 01d Grizzly Adams, the Bear Tamer; or, The Monarch of
, the Mountain. By Dr. Frank Powell.
12 Woods and Waters; or, The Exploits of the Littleton Gun
13
' l4

academia

7'
I

Club. By Capt. Frederick Whittaker.

A Rolling Stone: Incidents in the Career on Sea and Land as

Boy and Man, of. Col. Prentiss Ingraham. By Prof.Wm. R. Eyster.

Adriﬁ; on the Prairie, and Amateur Hunter: on the

Buﬁ'alo Range. By 011 Coomes.

15 Kit Carson, King of Guides ;
Prairie Trails. By Albert W. Aiken.

13 Red River Rovers; or, Life and Adventures in the Northwest.

By C. Dunning Clark.

17 Plaza and Plain; or, Wild Adventures of “Buckskin Sam,”
(Major Sam S. Hall.) By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

18 Riﬂe and Revolver; or, The thtleton Gun Club on the
Buffalo Range. By Capt. Frederick Whittaker.

19 Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. By Ed. Willett.

20 The Da, ' Dragoon; or, The Story of General George A.

Custer, from West Point to the Big Horn. By Capt. F. Whittaker.

21 Deadwood pick as a, Boy; or, Why Wild Ned Harris, the New
England Farm -lad, became the Western Prince of the Road. By
Edward L. Wheeler.

22 The Boy Exiles of Siberia. By T. C. Harbaugh.

23 Paul De Lacy, the French Beast Charmer; or, New

York Boys in the J ungies. By C. Dunning Clark.

84 The Sword Prince: The Romantic Life of Colonel Monstery,
(American Champion-at-arms.) By Captain Fred. Whittaker.

25 Round the Camp Fire; or. Snow-Bound at “Freeze-out Camp. ”
A Tale of Roving Joe and his Hunter Pards. By J 08. E. Badger, Jr-

23 Snow-Shoe Tom; or, New York Boys in the Wilderness. A
Narrative of Sport and Peril in Maine. By T. C. Harbaugh.

27 Yellow Hair, the Boy Chiefof the Pawnees. The Ad-
venturous Career of Eddie Burgess of Nebraska. By Col. Ingraham.

28 The Chase of the Great White Stag and Camp and

Canoe. By C. Dunning Clark.-

29 The Fortune-Hunter; or, Roving Joe as Miner, Cow-Boy,

' Trapper and Hunter. By A. H. Post.

30 Walt Ferguson’s Cruise. A Tale of the Antarctic Sea. By
C. Dunning Clark.

31 The Boy Crusader; or, How a Page and a Fool Saved a King.
By Captain Frederick Whittaker.
32  Beaver, the Indian Medicme Chief: or, The Be-
mantic and Adventurous Life of Dr. D. Frank Powell, known on the
3 Border as ‘? Fancy Frank,” “ Iron Face,” etc. By Col. P. Ingraham.
3 Captain Ralph, the Young Explorer" or The Centipede
Among the Floes. By C. Dunning Clark. .u ’ ,

or, Mountain Paths and

 
34 The Young Bear Hunters. A Story of the Haps and Misth
of a Party of Boys in the Wilds of Michigan. By Morris Redw‘lng.

35 The Lost Boy Whalers ; or, In the Shadow of the North Pole.
By T. C. Harbaugh. I

36 Smart Sim, the Lad with a Level Head. 'By Ed. Willett.

37 Old Tar Knuckle and His Boy Chums; or, The Monsters
of the Esquimaux Border. By Roger Starbuck.

38 The Settler’s Son; or, Adventures in Wilderness and Clear
ing. By Edward S. Ellis.

39 Night-Hawk George, and His Daring Deeds and Adventures
in the Wilde of the South and West. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

40 The Ice Elephant; or, The Castaways of the Lone Coast. By
Captain Frederick Whittaker.

41 The Pampas Hunters; or, New York Boys in Buenos Ayres.
By T. C. Harbaugh.

42 The Young Land-Lubber. By C. Dunning Clark.

43 Bronco Billy, the Saddle Prince. By Col P. Ingraham.

44 The Snow Hunters; or, Winter in the Woods. By Barry
De Forrest.

45 Jack, Harry and Tom, the Three Champion Brothers; or,

Adventures of Three Brave Boys with the Tattooed Pirate. By

Captain Frederick Whittaker.

The Condor Killers; 01', Wild Adventures at the Equator.

By T. C. Harbaugh.

The Boy Coral Fishers; or, The Sea-Cavern Scourge. By

Roger Starbuck.

Dick, the Stowaway; or, A Yankee Boy’s Strange Cruise.

By Charles Morris.

Tip Tressell, the Floater; or, Fortunes and Misfortunes on

the Mississippi. By Edward Willett.

50 The Adventurous Life of Nebraska Charlie, (Chas. E.
Burgess.) By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham.

51 The Colorado Boys; or, Life on an Indigo Plantation.
Joseph E. Badger, Jr.

52 Honest Harry; or, The Country Boy Adrift in the City. By
Charles Morris.

53 The Boy Detectives; or, The Young Californians in Shanghai.
By T. C. Harbaugh.

54 California Joe, the Mysterious Plainsman. By 001. 'Ingraham.

55 Harry Somers, the Sailor—Boy Magician. By S. W. Pearce.

56 Nobody’n Boys; or, Lite Among the Gipsies. By J. M. HOE
man.

57 The Menagerie Hunter; or, Fanny Hobart, the Anima;
Queen. By Major H. Grenville, “ Sea Gull.”

58 Lame Tin, the Mule Boy of the Mines. By Charles Morris.

59 Lud Lionheels, the Young Tiger Fighter. By Roger Starbuck.

60 ,The Young Trail Hunters; or, New York Boys in Griuly
Land. By T. C. Harbaugh.

61 The Young Mustangers. By C. Dunning Clark.

62 Jungle and1 Forest; 01', The Colorado Boys in Tiger-Land.
By Joseph E. Badger, Jr.

63 The Adventurous Life of Captain Jack, the Border Boy.
(John W. Crawford, the Poet Scout.) By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

64 The Young Moose-«Hunters; or, Trail and Camp-ﬂue in the
New Brunswick Woods. By Wm. H. Manning.

A New Issue Every Week.
Bmm’s Bov’s LlB‘RARY is for sale by all Newsdealers, ﬁve cent:
per copy, or sent by mail on receipt of six cents each.

BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 William Street, New York.

46
47
48
49

By

  
’ copyright ’Novels and?) the Cream (01‘ Foreign Noveliete, Unabridged,
The Cheapest Library Ever Publi

shed !

  
3'4
\

ﬂm

»

 
, 'il'l‘he  ide' ‘ or, Will Sh a:
. 311m? By , Reédemwelt e x' ‘y
'2 Wan. It Love? or, Coliegians and Sweet...

 
'. . hearts. By Wm. nTurner M. .

‘  r e um Wire; or, The True’and the False. v.
M  Hartley . Cam hell. 3 r ‘
4V “Br-ave ear ; or, Startlingly Strange.

‘. x {'1' y Arabella Southworth.

guakﬂessle Raynor, the Work Girl or,

I  (3:11st of Life. By William ason

men».  D. .
Secret Marriage; .or, A Duchess in
. B Sara. Claxton. .
ve; or, Blinded by Love.
U  V; 'CrOWell. . .
 _ to : artist; or, Fair Phyllis’ Love.
‘ ‘" ‘r ‘ y a uthworth. .
' l 9‘ Alone in the World; or, The Young Man‘s
, .Wand. By the author of “Clifton,” “Pride

 ~ ; and Passion, .
. 1.0". [Pair 01 Gray Eyes; or, The Emerald
V  “an 1'8ng 0 AK?“ y‘ Gam B
I _ r a rous .
' nrietaThackei-ay. n86 e y

18 His. lawful Wife or M the ‘hlld 1
Adoption. ByMrs. Axin e’swyﬁm c 0

" 13* M .d , the Little unkeress or, The

 I .. avai‘ et‘s Woo . Corinne * hman.

lei  'y I Married 1m; or, The Woman in

"Miami yr cmmg'ti h w‘

 _" at new or, u nte ld. B

16 Miyﬁ Gm ’ben' A 'r m: y
u or or or, me ht. B

 ’ »,  Leiceser , y

t 11' A Loyal Lover or, The Last of the Grime

Win Bf Atab‘ih“ ﬁ‘ﬁi‘wmam‘hmge n
o r, e a .
Mrs. Mary heed Crowell y

M
‘ 19 the Broken Betrothai; or. Love versus

v_ .  , By Mary Grace Halpine. r
 .20 Orphan Nell, the Orange Girl; or, The.‘
.. . _ ‘ Heir. ByAgile Penne.
- £1 Now and Forever; or, Why Did She Mar-
. ' ﬂeﬁim? By Henrietta Thackeray.

2e- Bride of an Actor; or. Driven from
Home. By the author of “ Alone in the World,"
 - “ Clifton, ’ etc. .

23. Leap Year; or, Why She Proposed. By Sara

. n.
24 Her Face Was Her Fortune. By Elea—

-z.:  nor Blame. .

, 25 only a Selloolmistross; or, Ber Untold

: : ret. By Arabella Southworth.

='.‘ 36 Without a Heart; or, Walking on the
, , Brink. By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham.‘ ‘

 Was Site :1 Coquette “i or, A Strange

,' .r 00 p. By Henrietta Thackeray. ,

. B8 8 hi! Chase; or, The Gambler‘s Wife. By
. . nn 8. Stephens.

. .whllo ﬁler Dem-Sake; or. Saved From Him-

30 The Hon uet Girl 'or,AMillionofMone
' Bﬁmhggnne. .. ; , y
81 1 «drum-run; or. The Iron Will. By
nm‘&ﬁ%lno ‘
ans“ e ,r ma. mm. or Roses
 end’Liiies’. By Arabella Southw'ort‘h‘. ‘ ' ’
88 The Three Sisters; ‘or. The Mystery of
 _ MODE? .Mi - '~ .
24 A. arrange 0 Convenience; or,Was‘v
 my BeaOeunt BySareClaxton.
. ~, _, .. pellet-tor. 'I'hqunthrop Pride
 r ,Arehergs nﬂdgoilg, The Queen of His

  
 :.. . .»:.' w ' ’ ‘ '

 "ecu “ntr , Cousin or. A“ J3 310‘ 90M

  :1 YBl “ :Huatyii m B
. or. or . .

r'  - aﬁe'mﬂizvgnh ~ ’T

. ﬁﬁmirtntion; or, A You Girl‘s Good Name.

ﬁ gar”; or,  ‘s Bonds.

. Sen (Heston. V
,.%,g;votiong or. Loye Against the.
i~’vﬁﬁm%uwmmm
, l.y.Ar§helloSouthvroéh.d ', x ‘
_ age” Bye”: Seem: regime 8in Bali.
3' . o’ i . ht ’ , ‘ i
A; The An  fBrother agelnst

. 7 ﬁg, . . ,
, er denz'moe or- ,A
‘5 1‘ Ages la Soti'thwo . “I”? t A“ 0d“
or, Under n Cloud.

4‘ The Little Heiress;

it; $32M” M3; $1133.54)me ' n mu
3 ' muse e ‘ ‘ s or, ow

2...”sz  «.‘ I... ..

’ ' o. co. one or, eanne 's n

 ’ ration. By S. R. Shea-wheel. ‘ ' pa

 Heart’s Mistress; othove at First

v.

 
W
o»

    
Arabella Southwort A. .
so The (Bangui: 'Heiress . The Prisoner of
Mrs. A. son,

  
~11‘»? 'I‘we Young Girls, or The Bride of an
.3“! ’3’!!!”  1;. ’ .

   
3A”

 
l l 4 ’Tw a
Besant and Jameq

,_ a I g
5* wmm-«emmw  .

  
at?»

 
5 4 One
. Street.

55 She ma
Conquer. 'B
56 Love-Mud;

and
57 A

58 The

i

60 Cecilio

BWII‘S
61 A icked Heart; or, The Falseand the
B C axton -~

True. y p .
62rTlle Maniac Bride; or, The Dead Secret
of Hollow Ash Hall.

63 The Creole Sisters; or The Mystery of the
errys. By Mrs. Anna E. Box-tor. v

64 What Jealousy Bid; or. The Heir of
Worsle Grange. By Alice Fleming.

65 The ife’s Secret; or, "Twin Cup and
Ins. Bleol. Juan Lewis.

66 A rot er’s 8111' or; Flora‘s Forgiveness.
By Rachel Bernhar t.

67 Forbidden Bans; or, Alma‘s Disguised

Prince.

68 Weavers, and. Welt; or “ Love That Hath
Us In His Ne  By Miss Mi. E. Braddon.
69 Camille; or, The Fate of a, Coquette. By
Alexandre
3(1) The gwo 0r hans. By D'Ene
.L oun
globand. g
72 The Two Widows.
73 Rose Michel; or, The
By Maud Hilton.

Girl.
7 4 Cecil C

of a Broidered Shield. B
75 The Black Lady of

anu.
76 Charla

77 Christian Oak e "s . intake. By the,
' author of “ John *H
78 My Young Husband; or, A Confusion in
the Family. self

79 A no
aut or

80 1%? Lord and Master. By Florence

'- an'yat. .
8 1 Lucy Temple, Sister of Charlotte.
82 A Long.r Time Ago.

83 Playing for High Stakes. By Annie
Thomas. A .

81} The Laurel Bush. By the author of
“John Halifax, Gentleman.” -

85 Led Astray. “By Octave Feuillet.

86 Janet’s Repentance. .

831 Thenomanc
B Octa

88 A xl’errible Deed;

' Emma Garrison

89 A Gilded Sin.
Thorn," etc.

90 The Author’s Daughter.

Hewitt.
9| The J 11¢.

;92 Eileen
" Den
93 Love’-

94 The Quiet
95 Lettiee Arno] .
Minted Hearts
ovtﬁna‘hﬁelton. ,By
98 Alice Leorgiont.

. Patrick. , .
100.'l'hron 11 Fire and Wnter. ByFred-
0

96!!

ri

e .

Jornaunah' Byhiseliullock. . .
102* regroup/f 340' n.
103 A it
104,31“:an on the Snow. By B.

.kT

,eo
105-

100 Erich?“ I
10 ﬂoor. He in ‘By r. w. Robinson:
10; The soapy '

r r n. B Geo .Euot- _
109 ﬁctgiqandniheﬁe and Kisses. By

13.1..
110 The,
e.
iii-y'ﬂte
' Weeks
112 A

1 l 3 Paul
Bern

- 1 my...
517?!!!“

 
Woman’s Heart; or. Saved from the

Brave
Alice Fleming.
Eben '
. lan. By. Mrs. Mary Reed (frowell.
59 A Widow’s,Wiles

By Rachel Bernhardt.

_ n. .  _ ,
- e Great Hoggarty Diamond. By
Thackera ’

Hero.
aniln De St. Pierre.

 By Henry Kimmy

B George S. Kalme.

ot,Love Him; or, Stooping to.
y Arabella Southworth.‘

r Betrothed Married Divorced
.' B 'Wm. Mason Turner, if. D.

‘lrl; or, Sunshine at Last. By

Mask; or, The Mysterious

O

; or, A Bitter Vengeance.

Deceit; or, The Diamond Legacy.
. Jennie Davis Burton.

By Margaret Blount.

By Arabella Southworth.

Dumas;
ry. .
By My Young Wife’s

BTV Annie Thomas.
rials of a Factory

“'8.

astlelnaine’s G%e or, The Story
u a.

By J. S. Le

Mrs. Ronson.

unu.
tte Tem le.
fax, Gentleman," etc.
By My .

en ' Amongst Wonlen.

By the
of “Dore. Theme,” etc, etc.

By Meta Orred.

By George Eliot. ‘
ot'a Poor Young Man.

or, All for Gold. By
nee.

By the author of “Dora.
By Mary

ve Feui et.
J o

3

Al mﬁde‘ mg {m 1)
Hanna or, own o.eey.'
nie ’Sulllimn. ‘ .
‘V'°‘i’:'.3n” 3’ 1? $35 935‘".
. . an .

"By ﬁrs. lilamh.

. , Rachel Bernhardt.
m“ asking. I
By Mies‘liulock.
r‘uee’s Lovers. . Byliary

By Charles
the

at... ,
We

B Charles d
i. as»...

Y

greugiu to Wnkinx. Eye.
11. l

 ortnnee oftile Rev. Amo-

eon. ‘ ._ , .
,andering Heir.‘ By Charles

Brother’s Bet ;‘ or. .Wlthin. Six >

By Emilie Fl gore Carien.
By Miss ulock.
and'Virmnin. From the French of

By Wal-

te . , . Rice. . ’
“swim Maid of Killeena. By wmmm.

s In Trafalgar-93 Buy.

W sideJJro‘ee 6., The Bald of
‘yCepteinB. Amen. «

any

' l 25 Leila

' 128 The;Birthright. By Mrs.“Gore. . 

.137 The Village on the Cliﬂ'.
‘ 138 Poor Valeria! or, The Broken 

‘ 14o Without Mercy. By‘Bartle'y T.Campbell

, 14.9 An Ambitious Girl?!

“150 Love
. Last.

-1 56' What sheCost nuns mommrm.
* ' B Arnhem Southworth.

 
x.

  or, Eweiteﬁeid. ’e‘y owl 

  
“deale' ﬁve cents per copy, or sent by mail  .
eeiptﬁsixewtqmch. ‘ D m_ g .7 .
' . LEAN’DAA’ . bum. .
' y  SSWilhmn New‘l‘or‘k

   
n3  ....;~
121 The King or N'oanand.iByB.L my
1:22 8&0], the Widower. Britnrinck ,
123 fmisliina Pearl. By 13.11.  I I

124 Cousin Phillie. .   
° or, The Si of Grenade. 

ward Bhlwer (LordL ton).    I 

126 When the sm Comes Home.
Walter Besant and axnes Rice. ' ' - g

127 One or the Family. ByJames Plum:~

129 Motherless; or, The Farmer’s Sweetheart. i
By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham.

130 Homeless;) or, Two Orphan Girls in New
York. By Al ert W. Aiken. 

131 Sister against Sister; or The Rivdry of
Hearts. By Mrs. Mary Reed rowell.

132 Sold f01' Gold. By Mm‘M. v. Victor.
1 33 Lord Roth’s Sin. By Georgiana Dickens.
134 gift He Love Her i By Hartley ’1'.  ,

1 35 Sinned Against. By Lillian Invejoy. '
l 36 Was She His Wife ? By hire.  Reed .

Crowell. ,
39' 1m

 
Thackeray.

    
By Margaret Blount.

1 39 margin-ct Graham. By G. P. R. James. -

        
141 Honor Bound. By Lillian .mejoy.
142 Fleeing ﬁ'om Love. By Mrs. Harriet,
Irving. V . ./ I
143 Abducted; or, A Wicked Woman’s Work.
By Rett Winwood.
144 A Strange Marriage;
Heiress. y Lillian Lovejoy.
145 Two Girl’s Lives. By‘Mrs. Mary Rec-f
' Grove . x I .
146 A Desperate Venture ghor, ForLorehg
OwnSake. By Arabella Sou worth. 
141 The War of Hearts. By Corinne-Cush-
W

     
or, John Foster}

    
148 Which \Vas the Woman 1 or, Strangely ’
Misjudged. ByBara Claxton. ' " [
or, She Would; Be H
An Actress." By  elen Davenport. ’
Lord of All; or, In Her Own a
By Alice May Fleming. ., V,
151 A Wild Girl. By Corinne Cu’shm‘aa.
152 A ' Man’s Sacriﬁce. .ByAHarrietl. ,’ I
153 Did- She Sin. By Hrs. Mary Reed Crews
154 He Loves: Me Not. By Lilliaai-Igrejoy.
1 55 Winning Ways. By Margaret Blunt.

         
y . , .. I,
1.57 ‘A'Girl’s Heart. By' Bett Winwood.  x
158 A Bitter" mistake or, A Young]; a,
' F0311. ByAsnesMgrySheitommnw 
d Helen’s ow or, e W ' .1
159 g’e‘l‘xez By the  F.   I
160 Buying a Heart.   _
161 Pearl ofl‘enrle. By A. Enemy; 3;», _ ‘_
162 A Fate-ml‘Game; or. Wedded end 
By Sara Claxton. ~

          
163 The nreole Continuer. Fallback-Ar. .
Mummerwwo. .m «1% ‘5
164 A Scathin Ordeal or, y y ;
Maid Mamas-g .By lira 
165 A Strange Girl. By Albert W.
lﬁOA Men’s Sin. By Rett Winnuod..

d f Fate or The  
1M “Thignnyiman shuufworth.

168 we. mm Women. By Wm. new.

109 Tempted Thronﬁllll Love; a; 
Woman‘s Error. V  I
Byx'giiary

   
By lan Levejoy.
1 70 Blind Barbara’s Secret.
Grace" ,

Hafpine- . . 
g or, Through, 
ton. " I' ‘

      
171 A Man’s Witche
Tribulations. By Sara . ‘ I . W

172 Black Eyes and (Blue. By Domes
Cushman;

   
E ‘A new imue every  - ;  ,
Tim Winner mer is for sale by willow!