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Entered at the-Post Office at New York.  Second Class Mall Rates.

filiarleyflBeeches ; A“

Girlish Charms and Golden Bowers.

—-—.

BY CORINNE CUSIIMAN,
AUTHOR or “ LITTLE CLAIRE. THE OPERA smo-
ER,” “BERYL WARD." ETC.. ETC.

(‘iiAl’l‘Elt l.
NASTI'RTH‘M BLOSSOMS.
For the flower of lift: is red.
Baowsmo’s “GOLD HAIR.”

ORIOLE DARIIV had plenty to think of as she
strolled along thi- grass-grown garden paths in
the July sunlight, more aimless than the blue-
and - yellow butterflies flickering about her.
Her father, Zophiel Darien, steward of Morley
Beeches, had that morning received a letter

“18 THIS A SPEITI HAUNTING HY DESERT“ HOUSE, OR A CREATURE 0F FLESH AND BLOOD WHO HONORS MY

 

 

 

 

lint

 

. '~ ,I I 2 em I,
' 1&9'35 olililil‘ll Wit 03 I
‘1 i, r. _ P o , ,r

from its young master, announcing his return
from abroad, after an aisence of four years.
and his Intended speedy home-coming. This

v Copyright. 1883, by BEADLE AND ADAM

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

i

news was very exciting to the young girl, who I

had heon a hoyden of twelve when the heir
went awr“. and was now between sixteen and
sevonteet. She had lived in the pretty vine-
covered Lodge by the gate all these years all
m0st without other companionship than her fa—
ther’s, who worshiped his little girl, though his
stern manners allowed little show of his feel—
ing. The Lodge had several rooms; and the
steward, whose salary was llln'l'tll, kept, a
kitchen-maid, and had a charming little parlor,
with a piano, for his daughter. Too proud to

permit the association with common people. yet ,

too humble to win the attention of the rich
“gentry” of the neighborhood, he had made
the mistake of allowing the girl to come up
without society. She was very fond of him, and
~he did not miss what she had never enjoyed.
However, this sunny afternoon. she was in a

' masses of self-sown asters;

, explain it to herself.

=- ‘1 Wt 11>|  % ti I. -‘ , l" ‘ .

7 September 1

,.___<.__-

fiRICE, 5 CENTS

r__¢_‘__._ A

v-...__.

state of anticipation so eager that she could not
The great house would be
open—there would be fine company 2- she looked
forward with burning impatience to the great
evI-nt. She longed to see Morley Beeches alive
with beautiful ladies and courtly gentlemen—to
catch gliIIIpse-s of rich toilets. to bear snatches
of sweet music, to inhale the odors of sumptuous
dinners, to hear c: rriages rolling along the fine
avenuesl Her heart beat fast with these de—
lightl'ul images.

The garden through which Oriole wandered
\Vus la rge, \\ :M and neglected. There were
gorgeous poppies.

' sweet-Williams. larkspurs, white and tiger-lilies,

sweet alyssum. Iniguonette; her dress caught on
the tlwrns of untriunned ros‘e bushes; the arbor
was rooted and matted with honeysuckle; the
nIaI-bl basin of the fountain was green with
Inr-ss-—suddenl_v she stoopud to where some nas-

‘ turtiunis were climbing over a bed of clove

pi: ks, and breaking otf a spray of the blossoms,

roon 6mm!” L’s. n ..

 

 

.J

  

 

‘llORLEY BEECHES.

 

 

knowledge that the burning oran e and red of
the flowers would become her. hey lighted
up her vivid Gi y beauty as by magic, bring-
ing out the purp e tints in her dusky locks, the
glory of her great dark e es, the rich veining
pf her olive cheeks—for his young creature
1 orant of herself, had a dower of personal
c rms greater than any lady in the land. Her
black brows might be a shade too heavy, but
they gave character to a face full of expression
while the curves of, the scarlet mouth redeemed
them by their delicious softness. Her complex-
lon was very dark but smooth and rich as vel-
vet; her figure slim and supple. Crimson roses,
blazing tiger—lilies, burning naeturtiums, what-
ever was brilliant and blooming in that old
garden might claim sisterhood with Oriole Da~
men

A young man, who—not being able to enter
by the looked gates—had Clafllliel‘f‘tl over a bro-
ken place in the wall and sauntered leisurely

twincd them in her black hair, with instinctive 1

through the grounds, chanced upon the neglect- ‘

ed garden
her black hair.

“ Mystery of mvsteries! Who is this?” thought
the owner of Morley Beeches, who, if ever cog-
nizant of the fact, had entirely forgotten that
his steward had a daughter—a. little girl when
he went away—and who, if he had remembered
It, would hardly have associated a thought of
her with this blooming. exquisite youngr l-idy.

Dotflng his but he stepped forward With a low

We

“Is thisa charming sprite haunting my de-
serted house, or a veritable creature of flesll and
blood who honors m poor garden 3"

Oriole, whirling about, stared a moment in
mute astonishment' then an eager smile lit up
her lovel face, an she cried joyfully:

“ Is it . Eugene Morley? Oh, I am so lad
youarecoming back! It is so lonesome icro
without any one. Iain neither a sprite nor a

oung lady, sir—only little Oriole Darien.”

“ Only little Oriole,” repeated the young gcnv
tleman, coming closer to her and holding on.
his hand with a sudden change of ex ression
and a flattering smile. “ I left alitt e Gipsy
elf, and find in her place—an angel! You kiss-

ed me when I went away, Oriole—will you kiss ‘

me now i”

She lifted her face as innocently as the child
of twelve had done; his sparkling, dark-gray
eyes ran over the lovely curves of the rounded
oval cheeks the delicious lips, the smooth neck,
before he  her—there was something in
the ardor of his salute which made her blush,
the know not why.

“ So you are really glad to see me!” still hold-
ing her hand and smiling down at her with a
kind of wonder.

“ Yes, I am delighted. I have dreamed over
and over, how it would bewhen the great case
was full of company and there were dinners or
balls every week! I shall enjoy seeing the
ladies in their splendid toilets, the gentlemen
riding of! to the hunt—lights at the windows of
nights, ca coming and going. I am wi!d
With antici ion! But, how came you here to-
day and a one?”

“l thought it would only be prudent to pay :1.
fl ° visit in advance to ascertain the condi-
t on of the place before bringing my friends
here; so I let my party at the Clarendon and
came out to take an observation. Where shall I
find our father!”

“ ehas one to the village for supplies, and
a letter of tructions from you which be 0:-
pools you will have to wait an hour or two, I
am a rai Mr. Morley.”

“ Then shall not be able to return to the city
this afternoon,” remarked the young gentle-
man, resignedly. “ I dare say your father will
give me some supper; and cansleep in my
own house.”
“I should think so” was the laughing an-
swer. “I suppose the ousekecper and butler,

ith a. whole retinue of servants, will be out,

o-morrowi"

“ Yes,” he replied, smiling into the excited,

lowing eyes, ‘ Crabb, the blltlé r, and Mrs.

a )plc, the housekeeper, witii all the necessary
un rlings, will make a. raid on Morlc Beeches
in the morning. I shall keep my frieni s in town
for three or four days until my cook has time
to fill u his pautries. Tthre did you get these
yellow OWEI‘S? Who taught you what colors
are becoming to you?”

“ I found the nasturtiums over there; I have
never been taught anything much. I expect,”
with a assing shadow on the radiant face.
“ Woul you like to walk about the gar-
den, sin-you can scarcely imagine what a
tangle it has wn during more than four
years of neglecgmBut. I love it. all the same."

justas Oriole twincd the flOWul‘S in 1

 

" I shall be
to me, Oriole,

Zo hiel Darien was detained in the village
unti dee dusk; et the returning master of
Morley eeches or 0t that he had come to
learn the condition 0 the house; the garden had
a fascination for him, it would seem. He had
roamed over the world for years only to find at
home something more exquisitely beautiful than
he had seen in all his journeyings. The admir-
ing glances he stole at the artless cicerone of
the flowers were filled’ with increasin surprise
and pleasure; he could scarcely cr it the re-
ality of this unexpected adventure of an after-
noon. She took him to the weed-choked foun-
tains, the dark pool of water under the pines
beyond the fernery, the mossy statue of Psyche,
and iinally to the honeysuckle arbor, where he
complained of being tired and asked her to sit
and rest.

" Won’t your gardener be discouraged at the
look of things?” asked Oriole, merrily, looking
out on the tangled thickets of bloom.

“ It will give him something to do.”

“Are you going to bring a. large artyto
Morley Beeches?” she continued, with can in-
terest.

“ A dozen people, more or less,” he answered,
smiling at the eager curiosity flashing in these
great eyes, and studying the effect of a. single
gold beam of the declining sunlight streiunin
through the lattice against the red cheek an
dusk hair.

“ 0 you think on will give a fancy-dress
ball?” clasping the ittle brown hands.

“If you. will come to it, Oriole, I will,” he
half-whispered.

Eugene Morley did not mean to be a bad man.
If any one had told him then, that evening, that
he was acting like a heartless scoundrel, he
would have been honestly indi mant, yet it was
true—for ho was an enga man, who had
chesen a patrician bride; ye he was doing his
very best to fascinate the innocent child by his
side. The only thing to be said in his defense is
that the wonder and glory of her stran e tropi-
cal beauty had dazzlod him and blind him to
consequences, for the time being. What his
afterthought would he remained to be proved.
He was infatuated with this fresh tip-eff girl-
hOod; he could not, or would not, t of her
peril and let her alone.

The two hours in that dreamy old Igarden
which the young master of Morle eeches

nt with riole made the crisis 0 her fate.

he gave him her heart—gave it to him as Eve
gave hers to Adam, without a question, without
a thou ht that it could be otherwise. No dio-

tates o prudence troubled her—no scruples of
repriety—no dread of their. inequality. She
ust simply fell in love with him. ' .

He knew, . while he lingered. whispering his
gallant flatteries, and kissed her again, on the
plea of childish friendship—

“ Wlth lips that left their meaning in her blood—~”

that there was danger to her of this; but the
temptation, he said to himself, was irresistible;
and with a man’s selfishness he yielded to it.

CHAPTER H.
m BLACK RIDDLE.
For a raven ever crooks at my side.
“ Kee watcxii and Wig-1d, kengatch and ward,
0 on w‘ t rove eir
r p -Tinmvsox.

Aim-mica stranger arrived at Morley Beeches
on the following day, after its young master
had returned to the cit to stay With his arty
at the Brunswick unti the house should in
order; and while Giabh, the butler and Mrs.
Da ple, the housekeeper, with all their tra
had) Seized upon the goodly mansxon to get i
ready for occupation.

This visitor was also a young man, about the
same a e as Eugene Morley, and he, too, had
walked mm the railroad station in the village
three miles away. He came slowly up the
magnificent beeci avenue, carrying his own
traveling-bag, and looking earnestly about him
as if recalling familiar memories of the old

lace—admiring the approach as well as the
liouse itself, spacious, pictures ue, With a square
brick tower, room wings, a agged paVement
in front edged wit neglected roses and leadin
to a broad flight of stone steps; wide, pillar
piazzas, casemented and oriole Windows, clasp-
ed about with ivy and honeysuckle.

Twenty-five years ago this had been alto-
gether the finest structure in that part of the
country; now there were modern villas set in
fanciful grounds, on every Side, yet Morley
Beeches held its own for steadfast statehness
and surroundings of inanorial erupt.

The young traveler came leBIH‘QLY onward

glad to see it—if you will show it

 

‘ of unpacking in the ha

 

until he reached the great front door where
Crabb chanced to be giving orders to some one of
his underlings. The supercilious eye of the but-
ler ran over the person who had arrived on foot,
carrying his bag, and whose clothes were dusty
and of ordinary cut' but Crabb had waited on
good company, an it was his boast that he
new a gentleman when he saw one z—tlierc was
something in the bearing of the one before him
which caused him to assume a respectful air.

“I should infer that Mr. Morley had not an
rived?” said the stran r, glancing at the d: bris

. ‘ I am his brother, and
had a letter from him a fortnight ago invitin
me to join him at Morley Beeches. It name
today for my arrival.”

“ Ah, yes, sir, 'us’ so, sir! You are Mr. Felix
Gathorne,” and rabb smiled graciously. “Mr.
Morley told me if you came, air, to make his
apolo ies, an’ be was very sorry, but the steam—
er di not arrive as Soon as hex ted, which
put us back a day or two. He wi be hout day
after to—morrow, Mr. Gathorne: meanwhile we
are to make you as comfortable as circum-
stances allows. I’ll speak to Mrs. Dapple at
onest about etting a room ready, sir.”

“ Do not liurry her. I can spend the day
very pleasantly in wandering over the lace.
I had a biscuit and a glass of ale at the vi lage;
a Simple meal will answer my wants in the way
of dinner, this evening. If you will dispose of
my bag, I will amuse myself going over the
house and grounds. This is my first visit to
Morley Beeches in several years.

“A fine old place it is, sir: quite hequal to
the hold county: but in sad need of being done
hover. Well, was to be particular to say to
make yourself at ’ome, Mr. Gathorne.”

“Thanks; I shall do so,” and tumin from
the respectful servant, the visitor walk to the
end of the long piazza and sat down on the
coping of the carved stone balustrade which
closed it in.

“If I had my rights I should make myself at
home with a vengeance,” he muttered, looking
gloomin out at the grand old trees, the ne-
glected shrubberies, the lon grass of the lawn,
all steeped in the liquid go! of a summer mid-
day. “This place is mine—if I could only
prove it! ‘ Ay, there’s the rub!’ I have brooded
over it until my whole youth lies in the shadow
of that brooding. I studied law, that I might
be better fitted to cope with the legal difficulties
which might arise. And now the time is ripe
for me to put forth some inating effort.
W t will the fruit be? Either victo or
dea , for I will not drag on this humble l e of
povertyoand 'longing: it will kill as surely as
chains and a dungeon!” and the pallor that
cahne to’his face showed the intensity of his
feelin and purpose.

«vi list a strange creature is that old colored
woman I went to see yesterday! I must pay
her another visit; yet here is very little hope
of getting information from old Diana. She is
very old, now, stone-blind—hu been called in-
sane smoe that dreadful night. Dreadful nigh
indeed, for the lightning struck the wing o
Gathorue Towers, set it on and consumed
my poor dead mother’s body! Nune Diana
was there—m dear mother’s faithful servant
and friend. it was who saved the lives of
two children at the peril of her own. It was
thought that she, too, had perished in the

es, until she was found wandering in the
WOOdS, terribl burned, with a broken ankle
and mad as 9 h hare. It is the firm belief
of all my friends that Diana had possession of
and concealed—at my mother’s request—her
last and legal will; but where! Continually she
muttersto herself what her people 0311: W"
Black Riddle. She crooned it over to me yes-
terday. It seems simple enou h; yet no one
has ever found the spot indica :
“ Three times one hundred and three
From the tower-bell to the red rose tree;
Diana‘s riddle is riddled there—-
She that is dead will we the heir.”
‘From the tower-bell to the red-rose tree ’” ro-
ted Felix, swinging himself over the us»
rude to the pavement below and standing of!
in the thick tall ass of the awn until he had
agood view of t e uare brick tower at the

' ri Tht—hand corner of t e old house.

. Dapple came to Crabb before the long
afternoon was half over to confide her lus-
picions as to the sanity of the master’s brother;
or that young gentleman had been up in the
bell-tower twenty times if he had once, coming
down at a. measured pace, counting his Itedpa,
and going onward out of doorsa certain is-
tance in every direction. To her surprise her
fellow-worker burst into a. laugh. ”
“ I don’t see nothink to s lit our sides about,
she remarked. with oflen ed ' 'w.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

MORLEY ‘BEECHES.

3

 

 

“ It’s the hidea of it, Mrs. Dapple! Bless
your soul, I knows what he’s about. bean’t an
old family servant, I acknowledge, that might
know all the secrets of the ’ouse, but I’ve ’eard
of the Black Riddle, for all that! I’ve ’eard my
young master say it over to the ladies an’ gen-
tlemen at dinner, man a time, till I could say
it quite b ’eart if I ha ’t ’a’ forgotten it. It s
somethin about ‘three hundred and three ’—
steps, most people think it means—though many
. says feet, and some says rods—an’ you 11 come
to the buried will of master’s father’s second
wife. That half—brother of Mr. Morley’s is a-
trying of it on, like many another before him.
They do say—in a whisper—if the will was
found, he would be the true an’ lawful owner of
everythink. But, it’s my hopinion there‘ll
never be another master in young Mr. Morley’s
place till he is dead an’ gone; an’ I hope there
mayn’t; for a better, freer master we don’t need
to crave for, Mrs. Dapple.”

Oriole Darien came out of the great drawing-
room, where she had been busy much of the
day, just in time to hear the butler’s eulogium
of his master, and she gave him a lustrous
smile as she went by.

“My heyesi what a high-stepping beauty!”
3e remarked, when she had passed on ontol-

oors.

“Yes, fartoo retty for a steward’s daugh—
ter, Mr. Crabb. ere won’t no good come of
her beauty. I’m afraid, with so man fiighty

oung gentlemen about the place. If was her

ether ’d send her away to school: he’s ablc.
an’ such as she ou htn’t to be here with no mo«
that to look after er.”

f‘ Don’t on believe but what Zophiel Daricn
Will look c ose after her. That man is as proud
as a duke. They do say his father wzr
[king of the Gipsies. An’ he s got a temper as’l!
kill somebody some day, mark my wordr‘
It’ll be dangerous business flirting with his
dau hter."

“ hope Mr. Morley hisself won’t nndertalto
it, then. He’s that gay and thoughtless: though
he ought to sober down now he‘s engaged to be
married this fall—” .

But here Felix Gathorne again approached,
moving his lips at every mess step, and
paslsling them with the abstracted air of a sleep-
wa er.

“ What folly this is!” muttered Felix to him-
self, as his twentieth trial brought him to the
statue of Psyche in the wilderness of flower- r-
den. “ Eugene would resent it if I went ig-
ging over his grounds in hopes of finding that
which would put me in his place; ver proper-
ly, too! This doubt, this sus use is he curse
of my life! But for it, I mig t settle down to
my profession and work hard to make some-
thing of myself. As it is, the haunting phan-
tom of my mother—my poor young mother, so
beautiful and so deeply wron ed—is ever urg-
ing me to seek my rights. lgtry not to envy
Eugene- I try to be contented wi h playln the

art of poor relation ’ but, b Heaven, it snot
n the Gathorne blood to do ii: To be tricked
out of what is mine by inheritance—to have an-
other name in place of my own—to know Ga-
thorne Towers changed to Morley Bamboo—go
receive favors from the one who should he the de-
pendent—these are things bitter as death itself 1”

He leaned against the pedestal of the statue,
lost in discontented musings. It was falling to-
ward sunset. Thc features of the marble
Psyche gleaming near him were not more beau-
tiful than his cwn. His e, clear complexion
fler , dark eyes, haughty, refined features and
me chol expression made him a man to ex-
cite adm' rig interest.

“ Eugene writes me that he I: engaged to a

.Miss St. Mark. He quite raves over her style,
her beauty, her lineage. As for me, I have
never yet met the woman I could love. Fortu-
hate for me, since I need not hope to marry l”

Andi-o thinkin he raised his brooding eyes
to behold before im, Oriole Darien.

She had come into the garden for a basket of
flowers and l’tood near him, cutting lilies for a
bouquet, not havin observed him he had re-
mained so utterly st ll. She wore a white frock
that day; her broad garden-hat shaded a face
of as vivid flower-like beauty as ever bloomed
in this world—n wonderful face of the most

leudid type'of brune loveliness—deliciously
1‘ ch in coloring maddenin ly sweet in the
curves of brow, c eek and c in. Felix caught
his breath like a drowning man, while he did
not stir so much as a finger. She severed the
regal flowers from their stalks all unconscious
fit the glowing surprise in a pair of eyes so near

er

“Inhave never yet met the woman I could
V6.
The thought was not gone from the sauna

 

man‘s mind before he had met herl—before he
was irrevocabl in love with her.

A feeling ha sprung to life in his breast as
different from Eu ene s idle admiration as the
soundless sea is eeper than the froth which
sparkles on its crested wavel

The steward’s daughter had made her con-

nest before she glanced up, starting to meet so
ed and fiery a gaze.

“ I beg your pardon,” he stammered, blushing
—-which was a rare thing for him to do.

“Are you Mr. Morley a brother!" she asked,
without embarrassment. “Mrs. Dapple wish-
ed me to cut some flowers for your room.”

“ Yes, I am Felix Gathorne. And you ?”

“Oh, I am only Oriole Dar-ion,” she answer~
ed, carelessly.

‘ A strange, sweet, tropical name! A strange,
sweet, tropical creature! I did not dream there
was a living thing so beautiful! And the flow-
ers are for my room!” murmured Felix, under
his breath.

Just then alad in buttons came to summon
Mr. Gathorne to the tea-dinner the housekeeper
had ordered prepared for the guest.

“ Shall I see you again? Are you a visitor at
Morley Beeches?” he asked, before obeying the
untimely summons.

“ I dare say you will see me often enough,”
answered the girl, Scarcely glancing up from
the lilies. “ I am only the stewards daughter,”
and she smiled with bright indifference.

“ Not above me, then, poor as I am,” thought
Felix, forgetting, for a moment, that Gathorne
pride that was so unbending.

He went away reluctantl to his solitary
meal. Oriole assed on, singing softly to her-
self, cutting n ferns and tall white
lilies, till her litt e brewn hands were full,
thinking that Mr. Felix Gathorne was a hand-
some gentleman but nothing to be compared to
the master of M’orley Beeches. As she turned
away from the clump of ferns her foot struck
something so hard and sharp that it hurt her.
Glancin down, and partingthe ferns with the
aching cat a single re. 0 the redly-setting
sun struck t rough and gilmmered on what ap-
peared to be the corner of a brass-bound box,
protruding from the wet, black soil.

Full of eager curiosity Oriole ran for a spade
fromthe tool-house at one side of the garden.
In a few moments she had freed the box from
its long durance; but it required all of her
young strength to lift it from its place. It

rovod to be of dark solid wood—about ten
ches by twelve, and eight in depth. There
wasa brass plate on top en aved with a name
which was so corroded by he elements as to be
undecipherable; the brass bands and nails were
dull and green with rust.

“ It is ull of gold—I know it is!" panted Ori-
ole. “ I have read of such things—people bury~
ing their money and forgetting wht-re. Or d y-
ing without telling! I Wonder if I shall have to
give it up? I found it, and it ought to be mine.

’m goin to take it home and see what is in it,

before make up in mind. I must h
awayfiwith it before . Gathorne comes
ere.

Oriole Dar-ion with the strain of Gi blood
in her veins had a taint of Gipsy cunning. She
returned the spade to its place, olnliterated the
traces of her work by in the ferns over
the cavity which she re threw the
flowers out of her basket labored to get the box
intheir place, covered it with her apro and
gigging tahttgetrho heavy 1%adihtook tlze mos ob-

ure Logfiie y e grea ates.

Betta, the little in , was bus in t 9 kitchen
with t e supper; her father not come in;
she hurried to et her treasure-trove up to her
own room—a ge, law-ceiled “bower<:ham-
ber ” under the eaves, with a casement-window
curtalned with i and running roses. Punting
with the labor an excitement she looked her-
self in and goceeded at once to ex lore the
mysterious x. The key was gone cm the
look, but the rusty bolt soon yielded to her ef-
forts; sinking on her knees under the western
window, in at which the sunset still flamed,
though twilight was deepenin over the still,
sweet summer world she raise the cover with
trembling hands. or eyes shone, her bosom
heaved—what was she about to find!

The contents of the boxoexceeded her Wildest ‘

ex ectatious. -
es, there was gold—handfuls of dull gold
coins—English guineas of no recent date—but
tltisse were the least interesting of the vain-
a es.
There was an exquisite miniature on ivory of
alovely lady; the setting rich with diamonds
and ls; a casket crowded with jewels-—

brace ets, necklaces, earrings, finger-rm an
aixrette. flashing and gleaming glorious? in

 

the fading light' then a lpackage of yellow pa.-

rs—“most valuable 0 all, pcrha s,” tuougut

'ole, who sat there, pale, dazsl , blinded by
the shimmering diamonds poured into her lap,
thinking strange thoughts, dreaming strange
dreams, miserably, horribly tempted to burn
those time-stained papers without looking at
them, and thus never in orm herself who right-
ly had claims to these things she longed to make
her own.

 

CHAPTER III.
m mun ar non.

There were ladies as fair as fair might be,
But not one of them all was as fair as she.~
—Owau Manual

11' was on Monday the young master had paid
Morley Beeches that flying Visit; on Thursday
he arrived, with a small party of friends, in
more formal st 'le.

Up in her “ wer-chamber” Oriole Darlen,
flushed with expectancy, watched the approach
of the three carriages which had been sent in
the middle of the golden summer afternoon to
the village station. Her dark eyes were r-
ing from behind their leafy screen when ttle
Betty flung wide the rent gates, and she saw
him on the box-seat o the first barouche hand-
ling the ribbons over a pair of mettiesome
horses, yet finding time to glance back, speak
and smile to the ladies lolling among the cush-

ions. .

A glitter of wheels, a flash of harness a flut-
ter of vails and plumes, a low burst of sweet
laughter floatin awkward on the sunny air;
then the turn 0 the winding drive under the
tall beeches hid the little procession from her
view. There was a joyous, childlike smile play-
ing about her mouth as she turned from the
window.

Oriole had not yet learned the terrible secret
of a master passion—the {mission of jealous '
which runs and burns like 1 quid iirealong suc
mm as those which dyed her cheeks that Gipsy

An hour later E ne Morley, fair, pleasant,
quite at his ease—a andsome young gentleman
in dinner toilet—stood in the great iront draw-
ing-ronm to receive his guest: when they should
descend from their several dressing-rooms.

The furniture of the long, loft room was
rich somber and old-fashioned. me tasteful
hand had been at work arranging the draperies
of the heavy satin curtains, and filling the
quaint vases before the chimne icce with
scarlet roses and tiger-lilies whic ighted up
the whole room. Eugene, noticing this without
knowing that he did so, recalled the image of
the steward’s dau hter with the nasturtiums in
her black hair, an his fair face flushed at the

memory.

He might have thought longer of her had not
some one entered the room who called for his
entire consideration—a slight, tall, graceful
girl in a dress of clinging, shimmering see-blue,

' “With astetelyflgureandfoot
And that faint pink smile so sweet and cold.”
a strin otépearls on a bosom white as milk, and
abunc o marguerites at her belt—to whom
he advanced, clasped the satin soft hand, looked
eagerly in the sea-blue eyes.

“ Irene. I trust you will like Morley Beeches,"
was his greeting.

“It is more neglected than I thought to find
it, Eugene. Still, it im resses me pleasantly.
It can be made a fine p ce,.I dare say,” with
critical coolness.

“ You shall change it to suit our-self, Irene;

on shall make it as magnificen as you please.
here is plenty of mone for the purpose;
nearay‘the whole income 0 my estates has ac-
cum ’ ted during the five yearsl have spent
abroad.”

A faint sparkle showed under the languid
lashes of Irene St. Mark. She was not of an
affectionate disposition: yet there was one thing
she dearly loved—and that was—MONEY.

Henry was the talismanic word which caused
her checks to flush as some girls fiush at the
name of LOVe. To her it meant ower, supre-
macy, right to reign and rule. hat was love
to if! A shadow—a erfume—a fancy!

Eugene had met him. St. Mark and her
dauguter in Venice where the were staying
foraseason. It was reputed t at the mother
was wealth and the young lady a great heiress;
but Irene new only too wel that she sailed
under false colors—that the reputation of the
fortune which her father, at dying, had left her
wasa bubble which must soon burst, for he had
lost all—all—in splendid ventures, and died of
the disappointment of it; and she could only

 

 

a

4

MORLEY BEECHES.

 

 

 

hope to keep up appearances long enough in '

make “a. ood match." The two ladies had
ne abroa to hide thetrue state of affairs; and
n Venice they had met the rich young Ameri-
can traveler whom they had in their mind’s
eye as the parti to restore their threatened pres—
ti 6.
ugene Morle was even a more satisfactory
catch than they ad hoped for, since he had not
only money, but (youth, good birth and a blonde
beauty which ha won him a perfect surfeit of
'rls’ hearts. By a play of utter indifference
rene had led him on until she had him at her
feet. They had been engaged three months;
the wedding was to take place in the autumn;
the St. Marks had returned to pre re the
trousseau—Mr. Morley to occup is long-
ne lected home and et it in order or his bride.
owever, beforea mitting the mechanics and
artists to the house to begin their labor of reno-
vation it had been prOposed that a party should
be ma e up to spend a month or six weeks of
the summer heats at Morley Beeches. They
had lanned to have a gay time, in an informal
fashion, in the great mansion. Lawn parties,
lawn-tennis, excursions, afternoon teas and a
real masque-ball, if the fashionables of the
neighborhood came forward to claim acquain-
tance in time to participate in such festivities.
“ I shall bespoiled you allow me to have my
own way so much,”l

to kiss the smiling lips ha f—hidden under the
fair mustache; then the blue eyes went guard-
edly around the room whose somber elegance,

rene answered to her lov- :
er’s liberal propOsal, reachin up her pink mouth '

she decided, was quite “the thing ” in the 3

present rage for old-fashioned furnishing, once
it

was effectively brightened by all sorts of ,
1 fanc bubbles over with delight at finding the

modern touches, screens, plaques, Kensington
needlework, costly bric-a-brac and cabinets.

Eugene, slipping his arm about the supple
waist, drew her to one of the long windows to
point out the flue sweep of the grounds.

He did not dream that a pair of bright eyes
were fixed upon them through an opening in a
rose trellis near at hand—e es devourin with a
longing glaze the ban hty re of his ancie—
the old air, the col , rou blue eyes, the won-
der ul dress so unlike t child’s own plain frock:
——eyes 1‘. ishing with ionate adoration as they
turned to the man side her, but clouded and
wistful as they returned to the lady.

The other guests came by detachments into
the drawing-room—Mrs. St. Mark, fair an fad-
ed, with a worldly air; elaborately dressed,
with an eye to pleasing General Carlington, a
widower of fifty-five, who was there with two

retty daughters, twins, Pansy and Violet—
Launcelot a young Englishman with
whom Eugene had made friends abroad—Cadet
De Witt, a dashing oath of twenty, “in love ”
with Pansy and a istant relative of the Mor-
leys, whom Eugene kept in plenty of Spending
money at West Point, and who was now enjoy-
ing a leave of absence—Felix Gathorne—and a
spinster aunt of Engene’s, Miss Wonnly, whom
he had bribed with unlimited black satin dresses
and fin-money, to play propriety, as mistress,
pro cm, of the establishment.

The company isall down; tea is brought in;
Miss Wormelg pours it; the young gentlemen
pass it; they ugh and chatter; try the piano,
explore the library and breakfast-rooms pace
upland down the wide hall and broad iazms
w are light breezes, sweet with odors of oney-
suckle, new-mown hay and roses, are fluttering
about; some of them wander as far as the

uaint garden; until birds twitter sleepin in
t e twilight, waxeandles begin to glimmer in
the dining-room, and the pleasant summons to
dinner calls together these butterflies of the
summer.

As they sit about the table, a sin
from the dark outside, looks in a the imated
scene—the pyramid of flowers, these li hts.
the burnished silver, the love] ladies in s can
of silks and sparkle of 'ewe s, the handsome,
ha py young host at the end of bistable.

tis all quite as gay and splendid as Oriole
had antici ted; but, it does not give her the
leasure s 0 expected. There is itterness in
or heart. The scarlet lips tremble, the dark
eyes swim in tears. Why’i

She could not tell you if you asked her. All
unexplainany to herself she wants to be one of
them—not standing out here in the dewy night
.gthingapart from the merr world—a soul
shut out from the gates of Para ise.

For the first time in her life this child—woman
eom herself with others. For the first time
in her life she is sadly discontented. Her gaze
dwells longest on the fair face of the lady sit-
ting at the right hand of the master of Morley
Beecha. Herwhito, delicate, hi h-hred beauty
to a marvel to the stewards mm The

me one,

 

golden glitter of the light hair, the heavenly
lue of the road e es, the snowy gleam of
shoulders an Lewel- den hands awaken her
env as wellas er admiration.
rly I must have seemed to him,” she
thinks, wit my hands as brown as berries and
my face so tanned and dark! I wonder he took
notice of me the other day. He has quite for-
otten me before this, I know. I was a little
001, this afternoon, to ima'ine he would be
looking in the garden for ma ”

After what seems to her along, long time the
ladies rise, a young gentleman in military
dress springs up to open the door for them,
and they pass out o the room. Still she

' ri th 11 hthetr ll'. t i .
lingers,pee ng ro g e is a the man . in bya thick grove of pmeg, was“ little lake

who has charmed her. Eugene lights a ci ar,
leaves the table, strolls to the open win ow,
stands there a moment.

“Ah!” he exclaims, under his breath, and
throwing away the lighted Havana, leaps out-
side and Clasps in his arms the glowing, happy,
frightened, pal itatlng irl. “What are you
doing, my brig it bird, griole?” he llakS, laugh-
ingly, as he draws her behind the trellis, gives
her a’light kiss and lets her go; “eavesdrop-

in l'
p “ 0; just looking at you, Mr. Morley,” she
ansWers him. smiling.

“ You flatter me, pretty one!” he says, high-
ly pleased.

“Don’t call me prett i It seems as if you
were mocking me; for know I am not beauti-
ful like those ladies at your table,” in a low,
grave voice.

“ You are a hundred times more beautiful
than any of them,” very earnestly, for her evi-
dent liking flutters his vanity, while his airy

childyeven lovelier than he remembered her.
“Not one of them compares with my bird
Oriole—not oven Miss St. Mark, the belle of
belles,” and he looked into her face with de-
lighted eyes.
‘ Don’t tell her I said so, little one, it would
rank treason. Now I must return to my
gentlemen friends or they will be seeking for
me; and I am so jealous I don’t want one of
them to discover m little treasure. Run home
now, Oriole, and ream of me. If I can et
away from the others 1 will call at the go
tomorrow.”
He raises the small brown fingers to his lips
as if they belonged to a duchess his laughing
eyes shoot a dazzling glanco into hers and he is

one.
‘ Oriole is no lon er discontented with herself.
She strays slowly k to the Lodge—her little
feet dam with the dew, the sweet night fra-
grance o heliotrope and clover clinging to the
olds of her damp white dress—lost in foolish,
happy dreams—‘ footless fancies ” whose wings
cannot long sustain them. She kisses her stern-
browed, dark-faced father fondly, as she passes
through the neat parlor where he sits with his
accounts spread out on a table—and goes on up
to her “ bower-chamber,” but not to sleep.

She recalls every look and word of Mr. Mor-
ley; then, in the restless excitement of her
mood, she remembers the faded rchments in
the mysterious box, which she as not read.
Shall s e read them! She has hidden her trea-
sure-trove nor breathed a word of her discovery
even to her father—the first secret she has ever
kept from him. Now she unlocks a cu board
in which she has laced the box looks ger-
}y at the glorious iamonds and the sad, lovely

ace of the miniature, takes out the papers and
seats herself by the lamp.

She hears he distant village bells strike
twelve before she refolds the documents and
replaces them in their depository. She comes
back to the table and stands there

houghtfully into the flame of the lamp a new
expression on her young face. She has learned
something strange and mportant. The knowl-
edge which has come to her makes her more of
a woman.

“ He is in my power,” she murmurs. “11ml”
ly in my power! I can do him a fearful injury
i I choose! Ah, Mr. Morley, it is well your
‘bird Oriole ’ likes you so much! It makes lr’i’e
ha py to think I shall always be your friend-

he is no prophet, and does not dream that
her passions love may turn to a hate as W
donate.

 

CHAPTER IV.
“ m (“mun nos: AND m sroux
nan-r.”
Was it well of him if he
not love. to speakof love so!
If he still unmoved must be
Was it nobl: done to move so!-

 

i lounged Eu

Pluck the flower and yet not Wear it—
Spurn, despise, and yet not spare n .‘
—BULWI:3.
FELIX Garaoasn was wandering about the
grounds of Morley Beeches, the second day af-
ter the arrival of the master and his eats; it
was the hour after luncheon when t 0 ladies
were indulging in siesta: in their rooms, and
the gentlemen either were doing the same on
the piazzas, orlanguidly knocking about the
balls in the billiard-room; profound stillness—
the stillness of a hot, bright summer afternoon
—reigned, as he rambled on; not a leaf quiver-
ed down the avenue of beeches: the flowers in
the garden basked m the drow heat.
Beyond the garden and the s rubberies, shut

or pool, the memory of which came to Felix as
he wandered in that direction, his feet making
no sound on the slippery pine needles as he
neared the spot. .

As he approached the evergreen-hidden water
he was surprised to hear the murmur of voices,
for he thou ht himself the only one roving
away from t 0 house. The deeper of the two
voices sounded like Eugene’s: 'et he was quite
certain he had left Eugene nod ing over a novel
in the library The lower tones were those of a

irl. He smiled at the idea of his brother and
_ iss St. Mark wing romantic—the were so
little given to tl Parting the branc es which
obstructed his view, he peered through, mean-
in to haven jest at the lovers, but what he saw
he d him silent, in an surprise.

Under the .deep 5 e of the pines—which
gave out aspicy odor under the burning sun-
with her smal , slippered feet nearly touching
the cool dark water, sat a girl; beside her
ne. But, the girl was not Irene
St. Mark. e knew that dazzling, tropical, fas-
cinating face at a glance—ah, too keenly he re-
membered every soft outline, every charm of
color! This was Oriole Darien the steward‘s
daughter’s. She had on a white frock; there
were scarlet flowers in her urple-black hair.
Eugene held one of her slen er brown hands;
she was smiling at him—~21 s lendid, lowing
smile from under half-droo lashes ark as
night; Eugene’s eyes were answering here; he
was murmuring some poet’s fancy—

“ Our seamen are fledged loves,

Our masts are bills of doves,
Our decks, flue gold:

Our stores are love-shafts fair
And manifold—

Where shall we land you, "0°"

0n fields of strange men I feet.
0r nearer homer

Or where the fire-flowers blow,

Or where the flowers of snow,
Or flowers of foam i“

A flush of indignation mantled Felix’s brow.
He knew his half-brother’s uick, imperious
temper—he knew his own; he elt how des ica-
ble, under 0111mm Circumstances, were th
spying and interfe g: but, to turn away now,
seemed to him to be caving an innocent crea-
ture to fall into the cruel snare.

love for the girl as well as anger at the tri—
fler stirred his grave. earnest nature. He step-
ped quickly out from his shelter and stood

ookin at them. Eugene colored high as he
arose rom his elbow too. sitting posture; the
girl did not blush at all.

“How do you do, Mr. Gathornei” she said,

pleasantly.
' Felix read her utter ignorance in the nntrou-
bled do the of her beautiful eyes. The more
he saw ow unconscious of all wrong she was
the more indignant he w at his brother.

“I am quite well, t ank on, Miss Darien.
You have a leasimt retreat ere fosgult ahf-
ternoons. a oin our part an e
seated himself 3on tlge  y

“ He means to see it out. Meddlesome prigl”
thou ht Eugene.

Fe x began a desaltory conversation about
the scenery.

“ He intends to cut me out, perhaps ” reflect-
ed the brother. “How came he to ow her
name!” He fldgeted and soon got up, with A
clouded brow.

“I must keep ma promise to play billiards
with the general. ood-b ,Miss Darien. until
this time to—morrow," witga smile at Felix *0
assure him he meant to have his own wa - 9
latter did not offer to go with him, as 0 ex-

pected.
“ Confound him! I do believe he means to
warn her against my attractions,” ho mused. 3‘

he moved awa .
“Tgat was ju’st what the other man did in’
n .
And when Oriole, somewhat embarrassed by
his rave scrutiny, and not caring to my 110'
tha Mr. Morley was me. made a movement

‘ n

‘f‘

v-

‘IHL

MORLEY ‘ BEECHES.

5

 

 

to rise he begged her to remain a few moments.
After he had done so, it was a struggle for him
to say what he dared not leave unsaid; he
knew, by love’s subtle intuition, that to find
fault with Eugene was to make himle disa

liked b her—and this was a bitter sacrifice.
“ Di! ou meet my brother here by appoint-
ment, iss Darien?’

“ Oh, es,” she answered him, with a joyous
smile, ‘Was it not good of him to remember
me when there are so many ladies at his house?”

“I hardly know how to answer that ques-
tion, Miss Darien. Did you tell your father you
were coming to meet Mr. Morley '2” .

She shook her beautiful head; the glorious
eyes fell.

“ It was sweeter for no one to know,” she an-
swered, smiling dreamily. .

An ignorant child, indeed! Felix endured
the kceuest pain in going on with his resolve.
Ah! if only she could be safely left to her hap-
py unconsciousness of the evil there was, and is,
and shall be! ,

“ I hope you will not learn to think too much
of m brother,” he continued, after a pause.
“He as the name of beiinr a great flirt.”

“ A great flirt?” echoed Oriole, with a look of
Ian hing curiosity.

“gYes; a gentleman who makes himself agree
able t) all the fadies. \Vhen he is married he
will not have so much time for trifling. I dare
say he has told you that he is to be married in
the autuinii?—to Miss St. Mark, a very lovely
and high-bred young lady, now visiting Morley
Beeches with her mother.”

She looked up at him with puzzled eyes into
which a shadow of wonder and terror came.

“ But he loves me! He has told me so!” with
quivering lips.

“ Already? Yet he has not known you a
Week! He likes you as his little friend per-
haps—not as he loves the lady who is to be his
wife.”

“ The lady who is to be his wife,” she repeat-
ed, drearily. “Do you think he loves her bet-
ter than he does me?”

“ I am quite sure of it. A man should love
his wife far beyond any other person. It
would be wrong if he did not. Ask your father
and he will tell you the same. Take the ad vice
of a friend and refuse to meet my brother
alone, any more.”

She gave a sort of dry sob and cried, passion-

atcl :

“ Idon’t care to live without seeing him!”

“Poor little Oriole! No one can be more
sorry for you than I am. You will have to
learn to control your feelings; a hard lesson,
floor child, but there are many things in this

To that are hard and harsh.”

Ah, how he yearned to take the drooped
head to his bosom, to smooth the dark hair, to
comfort the poor, proud, ionate girl-heart!
He loved her, too; and iswas a love which
would not taint or blast—but she, sweet soul,
could not know the difference.

Eugene, as ever, had come in first and won
what should have been his!

She sat quite still a little while, staring at the
deep dark waters of the pool, on which the
broad lil -pads lav niotionlms, and over which
a single ird was fl 'ing high up in heaven; her
cheeks were blanched, her eyes swimmin . in
tears, her bosom heaving under its white ce;
then she said:

“I wonder what has come to me? I feel as if
I should never be the same a in. I have al-
ways been such a happy child, ’ and she rose to

go.
“May I walk home with you, Miss Darien?”
She nodded, and they went along a rassy
"1th which took them to the door of the ge.
.lidding her good-afti rnoon as respectfully as it
she v are a. ducliess, Felix turned away and had
not proceeded far before meeting Zophiel Da.
rien.

“ It is a mean thing to do,” he thou ht, com-
ingcto a stop. “ I have never before p ayed the
rd of informer— et, not to do it would be
cruel as death,” an as Zophiel passed him he
turned and walked by his side.

“ Darien,” he began, very earnestly, “ forgive
me if I seem implertinent. You may not realize
that your daug ter is no longer a little irl.
She is wonderfully, gloriously beautiful! ere
are lime at our house Who realize this. She has
no mother—she is as innocent as the angels—

iou must be mother, as well as father to her, in
his crisis of her life. ”

Zo hiel Darien stopped dead still in Ms path
and ooked in the clear eyes of the gentleman
with his own intense ones. There was that
about his powerful face and form, and in his

leaming gaze, which would make one hesitate
to be at enmity with him.

 

" Mr. Gathorne, you may be right. I have
not realized that my Oriole is nearly seventeen.
Do you mean anv one in particular i”

“ am no spy, arien; ‘A word to the wise is
sufllcient.’ I would not speak idly on such a sub-
ject. I re. .ct your dau hter as Irespect all
that is mos pure and love y.”

The steward seized his hand and wrung it:

“I shall not forget our warning, Mr. Ga-
thorne. Sometime, per aps, I may find it in
m way to do you a service. Let iin beware
w m would harm one hair of my child’s head!
This world would not be wide enough to hold
us both l”

Gatliorne fully believed it as he noted the
fiery eyes, deep-set under heavy brows; Zophi’cl
Darien was a man of whom wrong—doors stood
in awcbbefore whom his foes uailcd.

“ I hope Eugene has carried t is folly as faras
he intends, ’mused Felix, as he walked onward
to the house. “ I shall be honest with him, and
tell him that I have warned the father—and
there my duty ends.”

Light draperies were flutterin g on the piazzas:

ay voices came through the open windows—

orley Beeches was awake again after its
drowsy summer-day siesta—its visitors on the
gui m’ve to enjoy the pleasant after-part. Irene
‘t. Mark was promenadin on the arm of her
{itincé in too elaborate a twist for the games of
awn-tennis or archery. Mrs. St. Mark, estab-
lished in a rocking-chair, was talking volubly at
the general, whose two fair daughters were ri-
valing the cadet and young Launcelot in the
ease with which their arrows sought the white
center of the target, which had been set up on
the terrace.

“ Here comes the moody one,” whispered
Pansy to her sister, as Felix drew near.

“I don’t think so. He makes himself extreme-
ly pleasant when he is near one, though he is
not exact] a ladies’ man.”

In fact, iolet had already conceived an ad-
miration for the half—brother of the young mas-
ter of Morley Beeches. His fine 6 es, his dark,
grave beaut , the rare quality of his 10w, clear
geice, even indifference to her sex, charmed

er.

She smilineg challenged him to take part in
the ame.

“There must be an object, then,” he responds
ed, pleasantly. “ Will you wager that bunch
of white roses at your belt against this charm
on my watclrchaini" designating an exquisite
pearl hand with a gauntlet of gold and a ring
on the third finger, set with a tiny diamond.

She gay! assented; and, in a trial of six
shots on eit er side, his arrow struck the bull’s-
eye four times—and he won the roses. Having
won them, he was politeenough toseem pleased
and engaged to take his fair toe in to dinner, an
to try a new waltz with her in the evenin .

By this time the perfumed summer dus was

falling; the tennis players could no longer see .

the Wires; Irene had all ped up to her room to
give her hair a touch liefore dinner; Eugene
Went tothe extreme end of the piazza, and stood
there alone. This was the opportunity that
Felix wanted. Excusing himself for a few mo-
ments to Miss Carlington, he went and stood by
his brother, who turned and stared at him in a
haughty, half—insolent way, that expressed his
(lisp easure at the afternoon’s adventure.

‘ It’s no use your bein offended. Eugene. It
was wicked of you to e that innocent child in
love with you. You know she will not be one
to take it lightl . Is there any real pleasure in
breaking a girl :5 heart?”

“ Is there anly real pleasure in being a busy~
body, Felix? wish you would let me and my
atlnirs alone.”

“ Well, I came to confess to you that I have
placed the father on guard.”

Even through the da.kness he could see the
flash of color that sprung up and burned in the
fair face of his handsome brother. Eugene‘s
eyes darted lightning; but he restrained him-
self, and after gnawing his lip a moment, to the
other’s surprise, he sai :

“ I don’t blame you, Felix. I wish I could be
as ‘ y ’ as you are. I don’t wish to wron
the girl. If her heart will be broken, so wifi
mine! If she loves me, I love her a million
times more! I can’t help it! Did on notice
how beautiful she is’l—and innocent—and be-
witching? B Heaven, were I ten times en-

aged, I cou d not have prevented what has
Esp ned. She took me so by surmise.”

“ hen—have an explanation With Miss St.
Mark and marry the one you really love. ”

H W’hatl tell Irene I have chan ed my mind,
after blinging her here from taly to make
ready the wedding trousseau? I would deserve
to be shot for an act like that! I’m not such a
xioltroon as all that comes to. Felix. And little

Oriole, glorious as she is, is hardly cultivated
up to the point of making a fitting ady of Mor-
ley Beeches. I must bear my lot, I suppose—
and give her up.”

Felix turne away in scorn of such selfish
weakness.

“At least, let Darien’s daughter alone, then.
He is not a man to be trifled with, if he is your
steward. As he says ‘the world will not be
wide enough to hold t e one who willfully in-
jures one hair of her head.’ ”

“I suppOSe I must,” muttered Eugene, with
an injured air, as if he had been cheated out of
something. “Yes, [will give her up”—a pro-

‘ mise made to himself with the sincere intention

 

 

of bein kept.

And ept-for a day or two—with all the
resolution the young master of Morley Beeches
could possibly mUster.

Then, quite by accident—truliy by accident—
he met her in one of the sha ow shrubbery
paths, and having? pass her, an seeing her
pale drooping, c ged, he cried out on a sud-
den mpulse:

“ Don’t let them slander me to you my bird!
I love you better than anything in the worldl
It is true that I am engaged, but I had not met
you, my bright bird Oriole, when I asked an-
other to be my wife. Never mind what others
do or say; trust me, little Oriole! What have
you done to this face to make it so pale?” and
he kissed the rich roses back into either cheek.

A flood of hap iness poured into the longing,
lonesome little, eart; she looked 11 into the‘
fair face of the young aristocrat wit a confid«
lug smile; she allowed her small hand to re-
main in his clas , when, suddenly, the heavy
hand of Z0 hiel arien fell on her shoulder and
she star back with a little cry. As she

landed at her father she saw a wrath in his

ace she had never before seen—a wrath that
made her tremble, though she did not compre-
hend it. -

“Come home,” he said; “and, Mr. Morley if
you ever so much as speak to my dang iter
again, I will kill you as I would that rabbit
there!” He dragged Oriole along by the hand,
taking great strides in the direction of the

e.

“ iittle fool!” he cried, with bitter scorn,
“ you have made me ashamed of you i"

Oriole had been as white as death; at these
words her cheeks flamed and lightning leaped
out of her eyes.

“ If you are ashamed of me, father, I will go
away. I have heard you say that no Darien
evcr brought disgrace on the name. I did not
know it was shameful to like Mr. Morley. Mr.
Gathorne thinks it wrong, too—he told me so.
Mr. Morley is fond of me, father; does that
make you ashamed? I wish I were dead l”

“ Come home, and let me talk with you,” and
Darien spoke less angrily.

He was sorry he had so alarmed his child: he
saw that she was sinless as the babe in its cra-
dle. All the more his soul burned with wrath.
against him who was trifling with her happi-
ness.

 

CHAPTER V.
a co'i'rAGu 1N MORLEY woons.
" She has nothing in common with others.”

ZOPHIEL DARIEN was ver kind to his da h.
ter when he had led her ome to the shaudy,
rose-scented little parlor, where her cottage
piano stood, laden with choicest music: and
where pictures and tasteful furniture attested
his affection for the 'rl who resided there.
In truth, his heart so ed for er- and being
wise too, he felt that to be bars with her
wo d be to drive her to some hi h-spirited
step—perhaps to run away from h m and his
care.

He sat down in his great chair and took her
on his knee, pressin her soft cheek to his
shoulder, while he to d her, ve gently, that
she was only a steward’s dang ter, and, al-
though the gating heir might admire her and
be ve fan of her for the moment—seeing her
so pre ty and bright—he did not t her as
he did the fine adios who moved in his own
world of fashion; and that be her father re-
sented it as an insult, that Mr. Morley should be
so friend] with her in rivate when he would
not treat er as an equ before his aristocratic
Vigtm'fi' t to dtoo d l he tstro

rying no woun ye V.
to arouse her pride, of whiclfifheyknew, she had
afull share; and he held her an

d rocked her
and petted her until she sobbed herself asleep in
his arms.

“She is my own bab yet,” he sighed as he
looked down at the love y face, so rfect
, rich beauty, the long curling examines.

in its
heav!‘

 

 

6

 

MORLEY BEECHES.

 

with tears, bedewing the velvet cheeks. “ This
is no death-wound she has received; she is a
child; she will outgrow it.”

He did not know. One week ago Oriole had
been a child, a butterfi with the butterflies, a
rose with the roses—t is wretched afternoon
had made a woman of her. When she awoke
from that troubled slee of exhaustion she put
one smile which, for t 6 first time in her brief
life, was a. false one. Very merrily she made the
tea, and urged her father to have his third cup
-for she was proud—too proud to show him
that she suffered.

Earlv in the evening she kissed him -
night and ran up light! y to her prett “ bower-
cham r,” thereto oclt her door an flin her-
self down on her bed to wee. wild, but rs
to néoan, to choke with dry so )8, to wish herself

doa .

Zophiel Darien, as soon as she retired, changed
his linen coat for a cloth one, slipped out the
front door, locked it behind him, and took his
way across the lawn, through the gardens, on
into the fields which lay between the house and
the woods.
as he went by: the music of the piano and

The great mansion was all alight ‘

Eugene Morlev’s pathetic tenor voice singing, ,

bated out on the perfumed air.
“Curse him!" muttered Darien; “I liked

him so much; it is ten to one, now, if I do not ,

murder him some day.”
His long strides took him easily over the
and; a crescent moon bung high in the dos
ue arch ; an owl booted solemnly in the w
he was approaching; soon he plunged into their
somber shadow knowing his path so well as
scarcely to slac en his speed; a faint odor of
sweet crushed violets and of leaf-mold sprung
up after his steps. Going on for over a mile he

, rangement appear desirable—that is, if Oriole

' certain she will like to have you. I need not

came out on the opposite side of Morley woods ‘

near a cottage pleasant! laced beside a brook,
rippling in the moon i t. A light shone
throng the muslin curta us of a couple of win-
dOws; a dog growled inside the door as he went
up and knocked.

“ Who is itl” asked a woman’s voice.

“20 hiel Darien.”

The It was drawn, the door opened, and the
visitor stepped into a neat sitting-room. occu‘
pied by a mild-looking woman of nearly his
own age who placed a chair for him, and re-
suming er own seat took up the sewmg on
which she had been engfied.

“ You have come for in Oriole's dram; it is
not uite finished.”
th“ ever mind the dress, for this evening, Es-

er.’

There was a new tone in the familiar voice
which made her look up suddenly; but she look-
ed down again without asking any questions;
like most peo le who knew him, she stood slight-
ly in awe of phiel Darien though he had been
kindness itself to her, and she admired more
than she feared him.
~ “Esther, I have oometc ask you an impor-

tant question.”

She looked up again, this time in real sur-
prise, silently askin his meaning with her
eyes. He hesitated or some time; then, with
an abruptness which betrayed his embarrass-
ment, he lunged into the subject which had
brought h in there:

“I wonder if I could induce you to marry
me, Esther!"

A sci! pink flush made the woman’s face like
a rl’s.

‘What a strange idea, Zophiel l”

“I know it is sfrau :and I shall not be
wounded if you resenti , Esther. You are not
' a marrying woman, I dare say. But, you have
alwa staken an interest in my little girl, and,
oh, s esadly needs a mother. I feel so helplea

in dealin with her! You are far above me,
Mrs. Cha decott. in refinement and education—
you are a perfect lady, whatever misfortune
may have reduced you to lead this obscure,
lonely life; I do not pretend to be {our equal,
but have some money laid aside, live com-
fortably. and today when I found that Mr.
Merle was already trying to break my little
girl’s cart, I thought of you Estherl You
were once a girl and you won d know how to
' mlher—how to an: to her. I need you-
' it

There was ‘ ssionate appeal in the dark
stron face. ther Chaldecott was lone! an
sad: or one instant she thou lit of yield ng to
this man’s wish, and so a ning a home and
com onship; yet only or a moment. Her
6 y ran not in the same orbit with Zophiel
Darien’s, greatly asshe respected and admired
him

“. hiel,” she answered him. in these low,

flute-Ii e tones which made her voice so sweet,
“ I would not marry an archangel should one

 

 

flutter to my feet. Do not feel li‘hrt if I refuse
your offer. Which Mr. Morley do you mean?
-—Eugene’i"

“Yes—the young in r, of course. The
other one is too poor for ooleries like that, I
su ipose.”

i

: others, she remained

‘ Eugene Morley has been home at the Beech- ‘i

es but a few days.”

“He has been there long enough to et in
dau hter in love with him! He has one t
will ully, too. And he engaged to marry this
very autumn, a ban h youn heiress who is
now at MorleyBeec es! I tel you, Esther, I
am inclined to wring his neck.”

He was walking up and down the room in
deep agitation. Esther followed him with
thoughtful eyes; her own face was troubled ; she
liked Oriole as much as she honored her father,
and she was indignant at the oung heir for
flirting with sue a child. e liad deeper
thou ts of her own. too—mighty interests at
whi Darien could not even guess, shrewd as
he was: her ver son] had been stirred to its
deg? in the la few days.

' all shespoke:

“ I wi 1 tell on what I will do, if you like,
Zophiel: I wil come to your house as your
daughter’s ccmpanion— veraess—whatever it
is most convenient toca me. I have always
been her music-teacher, and wecan make the ar-

likes to have me.”

“She must have on; and athousand thanks
to you, Esther! e aristocrats up at the
great house will laugh at the steward s daugh-
ter setting up with a vemess! What do
we care or their laug tor or their sneers!
My little girl is very fond of you; I am

tell you that my child is more to me than the
apple of my eye. When will you Come?"

“ To-morrow. There is no need of delay.”

“ God bless you, Esther! I would have liked
you to come as my wife; but, if you will be a
mother to Oriole, my gratitude shall be just as

doe .’

“If the child needs me, that is enough; my
dut is plain.”

ewrun her slim hand sohard thatshe

winced,an went away. .

After he had no Esther Chaldecott remain-
ed in profmmd t ought.

“It willbe better for me there than here.”

she murmured, aloud. “ It is nearer to the
house; I shall have far better rtunities for
observation and watchfulness. together it is

just what I desire. Yes, it suits my need very
well. Sol Eugene is goifig to turn out a‘scamp
like his father, Mathew orley! I not sorry—
sorryl—yet, I shall regret less any misfortune
that mayha pen to himl If he prove unworthy
I shall have less reason to ity him. Poor little
Oriole, beautiful child!
brighter fate than to fall crushed under the
Juggernaut of a Morley ’s selfishness!”

on were born for a

 

CHAPTER VI
sowrso DRAGONS mm
“ Love, only Love, is lord of all.”
Tmn were gs times at Morley Beeches.
The jeweled cupo lea‘mre overflowed. The

golden days and h f the short, sweet nights '

were crowded with sparkling excitoments of ‘
the social kind. The residents in the surround.

party for which she and her mother had
schemed and having) plenty of flattery from

hnd to the growing care—
lessness of Eugene; who, on his part, hurl not
the least shadow of an idea of giving u his
aristocratic fiancee, but who was in an i -hu-
mor, like some spoiled boy, at bein thwarted
in his flirtation with his stewards beautiful

’ daughter. Oriole was kept away from hi

and thatroused his stubbornness and ange

him. The more difficulty there was in seeing
her, the more resolved he was to have his own
wa . He had made adiscovsry,too. Jealousy
ha made him sharp-ii hted, and he had found

5 out that his brother Fe ix was even more des-

 

ing villas and country-seats hastened to we!-
come the heir home to his inheritan ; there ‘
were kettle drums, croquet-parties, d nners of l
the stately order, evening dances and musicales ,
—a constant comin and going of elegant equi-
e fluttering o silken flneries, murmur of
litiggh rs, music of stringed instruments, dainty
teas, flower-decked dinner-tables, glimmer of
white dresses on green lawns, promenading of
outhful pairs along garden walks, glimpses of ,
igh-bred beauties on spirited horses, With liv- I
cried ooms in attendance:—in short, a super- a
shun ance of that fashionable dissi lion ‘
sible to a merry company in a h old p ace
where unlimited means enabl the young host
to do everything for the amusement of

ests. ,
g“Even the weather condescended to flatten
youth and ileasure, wearing its most amiable ;
as t, wee in and week on . 2
rene St. Mark was “in her element.” She 1
flourished best in an atmosphere of idle luxury. :
As the bride—elect—the future mistress of Mor- ,
ley Beeches—she received that meed of atten- ,
tion which courtiers pa to their queens. That
her lover had grown ess devoted since they
came to his home—had been dish-aft at times—-
almost indifferent about pleasing her, she had
not even noti ed. Having nodoubt of his in-
tentions—no doubt that she was to gain the rich

1 blood of

rately enamored of the dark Gipsy beauty

han he was.
“ He means to her, too,” he muttered
to himself. “ He can afford it, confound him!

He does not have to keep up the Morley estate
and the family honor, as I do! Happy dog!
His poverty is his blessing in this case. t
drives me wild to think of his winning my
bright bird! She loves me. She shall not be
won over to him—I swear it !”—and so he fret-
ted and fumed inward] , cherishing bad
thoughts which he migh far better have
strangled in their birth.

It was all ver well to call Felix’s povert a
blessing: but gene would have fought es—
firately to hold on to that estate, which he had

“kee up,” bad there been danger of his leg-
ing it. erhaps there was dan er—a new and
secret danger; but, if so, he did not dream of it,
plunging into a life of pleasure at high ,
mid quite looking down on his poor hal -bro-

er.

While Eugene enjoyed himself Felix grew
daily and hour! more restless. To add to his
ever-dissatisfl moods came this strange, sud-
den, unreasoning love for a young, ignorant

Why should he love Oriole Darien! Whyis
the sky blue—the rose lovely! He went openly
to the steward’s dwelling two or three times a
week, generally of an evenin when Darien was
at home, with whom be we (1 chat a few min-
utes and then ask Oriole, very humbly and ear-
nestly, for a song or two.

The girl had a voice like her beauty, ricliI
smooth, fresh, pamionate; it had been we
trained; to sit in some shade corner of the
Lodge lor and watch her w e she sun was
the ogdy happiness Felix bad. And, wh e be
listen his soul in his eyes, often another
watched him with a as intense as his own
—-Esther Chaldecott, he woman who had yield—
ed to hiel‘s appealand come here to guard
his daug tor.

She was a sweet, lady-like EOMEP‘ With I
low, tender voice that won elix’s liking the
first time he heard it. Darien had explained to
the young man that he had engaged Mrs. Chal-
decott as companion and governess for Oriole
and Felix had approved.

Did the governess apme of Felix! Not of
his passion for Oriole en. She read him
more truly than he read himself. 8130 km" hi8

intense pride—the real Gnthorne de—a pride
tinged with the keen bitterness povathbut
all the more werful for it: his reserve, 1-.-

flnemen tivation, sensitive tastes.

“ Thert; are hot tea girls in the United But“
good enough for Felix Gathome,” she said to

erself, studying his fine, clear face. “I am
sorry for this infatuation, and ray that he may
on it; otherwise I must 0 all that in me
liesto bring Oriole u to his standard. What
does the child lack! ‘he hasa charm, a We»
a manner all her own; can I improve it She
has a genius for music. I can add to her
book-knowledge: beyond that, one may as
well t to ‘paint the lily.’ In beauty she
is simpg her own peerless self. It is true
that she s a steward’s daughter. Yet, may not
that strain of rich Gipsy b . which flows ro-

' motely in her veins, be as PM and PNUd til the

rincesl Her grandfather was the
real king Ibf the true Andalusian Gi es; and
certain! , she is the queen rose of all uty.”

If, in eed, Mrs. Chaldecott had ever so warm-
ly disapproved, there would have been nothing
for her toss in remoustrance, for 0,1919 m
as utterly indifferentto the homoag; of this dark,

ntleman ll 0 stars of a
5:13;!) yfllrllzg PKG “me and went without
1 of her soul—-

cumin one gepple on the still
a soul fa whose depths was re ectod one bum.
ing, dazzling God of Day. one brilliant. brood-
in heaven of love.

has me girl's thoughts were during tho”
long, moon-ens summerdsys, even her friendly
com ion mlchtpnly 80°“- 8 ° Enve no one
a glimpfl “"50 h“ 119‘” “t” ‘3 mbuke’of
her at, ner’s. Before that. the whole world mm“

1

MORLEY BEECHES.

7

 

 

have read her secret; after that, no sensitfie-
plant ever shrunk more silently from human.

touch.

Only, that in her singing, the passionate grief,
the sionate rapture betrayed itself. ‘elix
coul tell, by the thrill of the glorious mezzo-
soprano voice, on what da she had met Eu-
gene and had a smile or sto en word from him,
or on what days she had hoped and waited in
vain.

Meantime, up at the great house, a little bird
had w )ered something in the ear of Miss St.
Mark. t was harmless little Violet Carling-
ton who first—with a spice of girlish malice, no
doubt, leasant little thlilgfi though she might be
—aske Irene if she seen the steward’s
dau hter at the Lodge?

“ ey as she is far prettier than any of us,”
remarked iolet carelessly, “ and that all the
gentlemen have found it out.”

“Anygfif us!” re ted Miss St. Mark, with
a. satin smile, ancing from the unstylish
prettiness of the little ossip to her own superb
image in themirror ore which she was stand-

in .
g‘ Well handsomer even than you, then,” re-

torted iss Violet. “And I have been told
that Mr. Morley is her icular admirer. I
should not have credi that however—know-

ing his unlimited devotion to is fiance‘s—had I
not met them walking together in the rose-tree
alley, and seen, with my own eyes, him talking
to hereery earnestly, and she blushing and look-
ing down. ”

Nonseme! Eugeneisalways flattering the
good-looking chambermaids and dairy-maids
whom he meets. It’s his way.”

Irene spoke with studied indifference, but a
faint color, seldom seen under her white skin,
wasooming up into her cheeks, as she inned a
bunch of dark~red carnations in her y ow hair.

“ Dairy-maid! This girl looked as much the
lad as you or I,” pursued Violet. “And she
reall was Wonderfully beautiful.”

“ te romantic, upon my word l” sneered
Irene, calmly fastening a l necklace about
her fair throat; and, ab ing out the folds of
her pale-blue satin train she sailed out of her
dressing-room, through t e broad, upper corri-
dor, down the staimaseof carved oak, to meet
Ewne waiting for her at its foot.

are had been a light shower a couple of
hours earlier, and he was to take her for a drive
before dinner—a tete-d-ttte drive in his dog-cart,
while such of the rest of the party as desired,
went out in the barouche or on horseback.

Irene’s face looked very lovoly and very cold
under the shadow of her elegant drivi -hat.
Eugene remarked that as he aliantly fo ed a
light wrap around her stately gum and led her
out to the carria e.

“ By George, how different she is from—the
other one," he thought to himself.

It wasa rfect afternoon. The light warm
rain had ‘d the dust and brought out the
sweetness of leaves and grass glistening freshly
as the whirled along the drive on their way to
the pu lie road.

Irene’s blue eyes were on the alert as they

the e. Yes! up there under the
eaves, at a casemented window framed in roses

and eglantine, sat a young girl. Her head was
droo on a dimp ed hand, thick masses of
purp black hair fell around the warm soft

arm, her lovely eyes were raised to the summer
heaven with a dreamy smile—she saw nothing
of earth, did not know that she was being
scrutinized by cold, cruel, envious looks. Beau-
tiful! Irene St. Mark could not deny to herself
that she had never even imagined such beauty
as this! Oh bloominggender mouth! oh, shin-
ing eyes so deep and k! Oh, melting curve
of check and chin! oh, rich, tropical flowerin
of 'rlish charms, no wonder ou struck a chill
of oalous dread to the mind 0 the adventurous
blonde who had the promise of bccmning misv
tress of Morley Beeches!

While Irene d the light—whirling wheels
struck a stone s arply, and the girl in the win-
dow locked down and saw who was ssing.

      
   
   
  
  
 
   
    
   
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
 

Qi'ickl' w back from the wim ow,but
not until had observed the color sprin to
her cheek ' ntly Eugene’s uncée sto c a
covert o - urprised im, with his
passion w v- ' d knew as thor-
oughly u if . in words that
the girl at ‘ r rival.

There is a . "" m the
fierce, unreasonl aner
feeling, base and n-
redeemed by the 's
hateful passion .

the

 

tall trees, and the bed e-rows sparkled with the
million jewols left in e track of the passing
shower.

It was rather a silent drive. Eugene was
content to have it so; he was dreaming of
that face at the window, unsuspicious of the
cruel jealousy tearing at the heart-strings of
the proud, imperious girl he had asked to be his
wife. It was wrong—all wrong—the course he
was pursuing. He was sowing dragons’ teeth
to ring up as armed men to slay him. He
wo d not think of the future; willful and self-
ish and unreflecting he took no thought of con
se uences.

‘ Irene will never break her heart for me. let
me do what I will,” he thought, with a side look
at the cold fair face.

No, she will not break her heart, Eugene; but
there are other passions than love, to fear in a
nature like Irene St. Mark’s.

 

CHAPTER VII.
m PICTURE GALLERY voxcr.
A Peri at the gate
, Of Eden stood, disconsolate. ~Moonl.

Tan whole bevy of guests had gone out riding
or driving on that delicious afternoon. Even
Miss Wormely had asked Mrs. St. Mark to
share the pon —phaéton wi'h her while she
drove to the vil to see if there was anything
to be found in the d -goods shops in the way
of fresh ribbons and g oves, and to in uire at the
railroad station for a package from ew York
which should have arrived, per express, that
morning—a fickage of the greatest possible
importance the fair denizens of Morley
Beeches, as it was to contain sundry masks,
dominoes and costumes for the hall, invitations
for which Eugene had alrcady sent out.

The only one left behind at the Beeches was
Felix Gathorne. He had not cared to accept
Violet Carlington’s invitation to join the merry

oung people in a canter over the hills; he had
gist come from an hour’s visit in the little

ge parlor, and ' soul was full of the
strange beauty, the bewitchin
phiel Darien’s dark-eyed dau ter, whose im-
age made the fair faces of ansy and Violet
seem insipid to him. Then, too, he was in one
of his restless moods; an inward voice was
whispering to him that he was out of lace——
that e was weak and indifferent—that e was
allowing his birthright to slip into his half-bro—
ther’s hands without a le to reclaim it.
Eugene Morle lorded it over the old Gathorne
patrimony. gene Morley ruled in the house
of his p enitors. Eugene Morley was spend-
ing with vish grace money which had once
g1 ttered in Gathorne coffers. How had this
come about! Had that love] young mother—
whom he faintly rcmembe as an angel bend-
ing over his bed in earliest childhood—sinned
thus cruelly against her own son? It did not
seem natural! There must be fraud and treach-
ery somewhere! Otherwise, she must have sold
the rights of her own flesh and blood to that ra-
pacious old wolf, his step-father, Mathew Mor-

e .

llow often had he tormented himself with
such thou hts! Was not the time come in
which to o something more than brood and
dream and fret in silence!

Yet, if Oriole Darien had only loved him in-
stead of Eugene, how sweet it would be to give
up everything and, mating with her, fo at his
wordly ambitions, and live a peaceful, ldyllis
life on his small income.

It was bitter to realise that even this girl’s
love fell naturally to Eugene. All the good
things of env‘H  "“- ‘wi to l‘l“'l. Eugene

charm of Zo-

would never think of marrying Oriole Darien- ‘

lyet she worshiped him. To himself, who would

ave deemed it the crowning glory of his des- ‘

tin to win her for his wife, she was simply in-
di erent.

Restless with the weight of these thoughts
Felix roamed over the deserted house. Sweet
breaths of summer air came in the o n win-
dows; the library looked cool, dim and inviting;
but his mood once more urged him to tr to
make out the mystic measure of the old b k
woman‘s riddle:

" Three times one hundred and three
From the tower-bell to the red rosetnee."
Twice he performed the absurd journey, mea-
surin and counting his steps: the third time,
struc with its folly, he left of! suddenly in an
upper hall, where an open door and a soft glint
o sunshine beyond wooed him forward into the
picture-gallery, a place he had only once visit-

. take

 

lery wasin a wing and was 11 hted from above,
wi h the exception of two ong, narrow win-
dows at the further end. These windows were
now 0 n, by order of the master of the house,
to air {The somewhat musty place; and through
them came a glimmer of summer sunse

and a twittering of birds in the old flower-gar—

den.
There were not half a dozen ictures of value

on the walls, except the fami y piolrtraits—of ,

which there were two long lines. 1e Morleys
On one side, frowning or smirkin at the Gap
themes on the other. Only one of ese painted

images had any interest for Felix—the portrait
of his Own mother, that fair young wife of
Mathew Morley, who was said to have died too
soon after her second marriage, of a broken
heart. He gazed a long time at the fair, sad
face as if he could wrest from those dark, mel-
ancholy eyes the secret of which he was in
nest.

Outside, the Sim sunk below the horizon, in a
bed of gold and scarlet. The birds twittered
more slocpily; the bar of light faded from the
oak floor; the frames of the pictures lim-
mered faintly in the glowing twilight; still he
stood staring into the soft e es of the portrait,
lost in gloomy musin . A at once, through
the intense silence, bro e a long, low quivering
sigh, which was followed by a ghostly whisper
on the shadowy air:

“ Three times one hundred and three,
From the tower-bell to the red-rose tree,
Diana's riddle is riddled there;—

She that is dead will name the heir.”

He started, looking sharply about him in the
deepening twilight. No one was to be seen in
the long, empty, vibrating room. While he
stared into the semi-darkness, a whispering voice

said:

“ Felix Gathorne, despair of nothing you have
a right to hope for. ou have an n wn,

werful friend worki in our interest. Mor-

e Beeches sha‘ll again thorne Beeches.”

iis time it seemed to him, the voice came
from one of the two open windows at the end
of the gallery. He hastened to one and then
to the other; there were small balconies attachc
ed to each, but these were empty; nor could
an one have escaped from them without the
ai of a ladder. As for the gallery itself, it was
absolutely vacant of any mortal besides himself.

He heard the wheels of the carria es return-
ing to the stables, gay voices soun 'n in the
lower hall and on the staircaso; the ressin
bell had run some moments earlier; a. In
ous breath o helio and mi gnonettecame up
from beneath the conies: he put his hand on
his heart, and found it throbbing hard and fast.
No man livi was more free from superstition
than be; yet e had not been able, entirely, to
gesistthls: feeling of awe which had quickened

18 u . '

Agd that mysterious assurance that he had a
powerful friend. What could that meant Who
was his friend! A crowd of sycophantic ad-
mirers surrounded his half-brother, but, what
“ p0werful ” ally had he? Verily, the assurance
was puzzlin news to himl

He heard ansy Carlington’s voice in the cor-
ridor, wondering what had become of that misé
anthropic Mr. Gathorne.

“ I tremble when he does not ‘come up to
time,’ ” laughed the girlish voice, “for fear he
may have committed suicide, and that we may
have to drag the pond. He is quite too awfully
handsometo look as lam as he does—not that
I do not admire him t e more for it!”

“ Any one can see, with half an eye, that you
admire him, Miss Pansy, uite as much as he
deserves,” grumbled the lant cadet.

The two passed on down the now-lighted
staircase, continuing their badinage, while Fe-
lix came out of the galler and hastened to his
room to freshen his toilet or dinner.

“So, I look like a would-be suicide, do If” he
said to himself. “I ought to be ashamed of
that! I ought to be more of aman.
has my patrimony but ‘ a man’s a man for a’
that ;‘ with youth, health talent, it is a disgrace
to go around mooning like ‘ the melancholy
Dann. "

He ot down to the drawing-room in time to
iss Pansy outto dinner; he made himself

" ver Ia and social—in fact, for once, was
E lifei’Jf" the part , for Eugene and Miss St. Mark

ed since his return to Morle Beeches; and that, i

the day before esterday, w on his brother ask-
ed hisadvice a at using the long, empty room
for a dancing salon the’nizht of the ball. Th

     

l

essl- 1

er exactl like polite
and ythis cast a

behaved towari each ot
m is who gins. quarlt'sglteld,
ow over e ining— e.
“ She has heard something about Oriole Dari-
en,” was Felix’s not unnatural conjecture, as
he noted the icy civility of the beautiful Irene
to her fiancé. . .
Mrs. St. Mark also observed. With a degree of

i
i
L

  

8

 

__M_QEPEY BEECHEES:

 

 

uneasiness which interfered sadly with her ef-
fusive attentions to General Carlington.
“11"‘Ilt‘, for Heaven’s sake don’t sulk,” whis-
pered the wise mother to her daughter, as soon
as she could get to her after their return to the
drawing—room. “ If Mr. Morley discovers what
a. temper you have—too soon—it may be dan-

- gerous to you.”

lrene burst into a bitter, curious little laugh.

“ I shall take care, mother, to be securely his
Wife before I give him apiece of my mind; but
he will hear what I think of him, then, mother.
His flirtatious will come to an end, then, I feel
quite certa1n,”—~and there was a. sparkle under
her eyelashes which threatened ii for the fu-
ture ace of” the young master of Morley.

“ h, you are Jealous, are you f” smiled the
wily parent. “I did not know but '011 had

uarreled with Eugene. A man wil always
or ive a little jealousy; it flutters him. But
don t betray your temper, Irene, m ' darling!
And as to whom you can find about 10m to be
’ealous of, I don’t understand,” and the mother
ooked complacently at the beautiful, stately

'rl, so immensely su erior to the Misses Car-
Elngton, or to ango the young ladies of the
neighborhood w 0 had called at Morley
Beeches.

Irene’s white teeth were pressed into her
trembling lower lip, but she said nothing.
“ Mother has not seen her!” was her thought,
while the image of that dark. rich, tropical
beauty of the rirl in the window arose in her
memory to ha t' madden her.

The gentlemen, having finished their cigars, 3

came in—all but Eugene, who was missing
when Miss Wormer graciously volunteered to
play a set of waltzes if the young people cared
to ance.

Irene gave one or two turns about the room
to Harry Launcelot, who was in ruptures at
having her to himself, and looked inexpressible

ting too much of a young lady to run about,
unchaperoned, as you did when the great house
was c osed. Promise not to come here again
without me, my darling.”

"Why cannot I he a lady, too, and live
among them?!” sobde the girl.

Esther Chaldecott put one arm about her
waist and kissed her hot check, answering her
almost like an oracle:

“Perhaps you ma , and before many years,
Oriole; but not by listening to the false flat-
teries of Eugene Morley.”

CHAPTER VIII.
A DISCOVERY.
“ Is then, 'our love so deep?“
SO deep? t is twiucd with my life—
It «a my life-any food~—
The natural clement wherein I breathe—
My madness~my heart‘s madness!
-—l’aoc'ron.

FELIX had been asleep about two hours when
he suddenly trunks and began to ie )at to him-
self'—“ Morley Beeches shall again 9 Gathorne
Bert-hes.” It was the night following his visit
to the picture gallery where he had heard that
mysterious prophecy. He lay quiet] musing
u on the occurrence, trying to exp ain it to
himself as a new of self-deception—a freak of
his imagination, the consequence of his brain
being so constantly busy with thoughts of his
wrongs, and ponderings as to whether or not
his mother had made a different will from that
will produced by Mathew Morley.

Finally, he grew restless—too restless to re-
main in ed. The night was warm; to him his
nervous excitement made it seem sultry. He
slipped out to the floor, drew on slippers and

 

l dressing—gown, and went and sat in the open

things into-her blue eyes; but she soon com- ,

plained of her head aching and asked him to
excuse her.
terrace; but no, she would go alone; and he
was forced to content himself with Miss Violet
for a partner.

Irene had thrown a muslin scarf over her
head and shoulders; her hands were burning
with fever, her face white; she started down
the terrace with the one idea. of going straight
to the Lod e; but she had not gone three steps
along the rive before she was nu t by Eugene,
who was slowly promenading before the house,
and who, throwing away his lighted cigar, )ut
out his arms and caught her in them, wit a.
low lau h.

“By ove, Irene, you are a stunner when

ou are out of temper!” he began, good-na-

edlv.
are! So! you are jealous of a pretty face at
the Lod 6! You may well be! The world

He offered to take her out on the .

window, which overlooked the old, quaint ne-
glected flower-garden, where he had iii st seen
riole Darien.

When he went to bed it had been quite dark
out of doors; now a wan, melancholy, yellow
light shone over the dewy, sleeping earth. for
the late moon had risen at midnight and hung
in the eastern sk , dimly glistenin * on the white

1 marble Psyche s ining in the gar en through a.

“How hot these little white hands ,»

I that!

does not old a more glorious beauty than the 1

little girl down there! But a man don’t marry
for beauty alone! Ono wants a lady at the
head of Morley House. And my steward don’t
allow his pretty daughter to flirt; so you need
not be so savage, ma belle, after this, if you do
catch me making eyes at Oriole‘s window. It
means nothing—nothing at all. Those ‘Kiss
Waltzes’ are rather fascinating; come in, and
let us try them.”

She was appeased—a patently. An intense
desire to be lady of Mor ey Beec es kept her si-
lent. She called up her dazzling smiles, her

languorous glances; she floated in his arms

light as thistledown; she said sweet things with [

her head on his shoulder, while the spun
around the long drawing-room to the eating
music; yet there was a demon in her breast,
wide awakeand willing to do mischief, if she
but prompted it.

How her blue eyes would have blazed with
scorn and delight had she known that outside
in the soft summer darkness, crouched the gir

mantle of clematis and fuchsias. Deepest dark-
ness hid under the trees: white lilies and roses
gleained here and there in the open spaces;
powerful fragrance came up from dew—wet
blossoms; the world was profoundly still; the
golden half-moon looked old and haggard—ah!
was there not some one moving down there in
the shadow of the larches?

“There is some one up and about, though it !
is past one o’clock. A woman, too! She will
bear watching! W'hat crime or secret romance '
am I about to become a party to? Probabl a
servant lingering too late at the gate with er
clownish follower! Not much romance about
No, her movements are those of a. Well-
bred risen. What can she be about? By all
that s strange, the black riddle!

“ Yes, there she goes, counting her steps !—sho
has a spade in her hand. She pauses by the
statue where I came out.

i “lfow, upon my word, this grows interest-
n !

idden by lace dra eries and climbing honey-
suckle Felix watche the woman’s movements
for a quarter of an hour—saw her strike the
spade well into the soft, rich ground and throw
up spadef'ul after spadeful, not without toil
and pausing to rest.

Would she find anything?

\Vho was she? Was this the “powerful
friend ” promised him?

No, she had not gained the object of her labor.
He, quite as keenly interested as themysterious
laborer herself, watched and waited—saw her

‘ falter—rest—and beginto refill the hollow she

‘ stairs, noiseless!

from the Lod e, hiding behind the jessamines .

and honeysuc les at the window, in hOpes of
getting one stolen glimpse into that paradise
from which she was debarred.

Poor little bird Oriolel creature of impulse,
of im
How
in her cheeks like fire, when a
laid on her shoulder, and Mrs.

entle hand was
haldeoott drew

tuous longings, of intensest feeling! j
e started, and how the red blood burned :

, man without himself coming into eight.

her awn from the window—through which the .

golden llumination, the sweet music, poured
out-flying in tenderest tones:

“ Oriole, my dear. you are no longer a child.
You must have more dignity than to come
here, in this way, own to see the ladies danc-
lng. It makesa. retty picture, I know; I like
In If to watch 15 em; but your father is proud
—- 0 would not like it; and. indeed, you are get-

 

! lowed her at a discreet distance. In and out

 

had d'uiii d ' m If F r all pedd
uic ressm mse , e 1x own-
Q y gdrew the bolts 0? a French
window in the reakfast-room, swung it open
and ste )ped out on the sheltered piazza, from
which, keeping in the shadow of a row of
larches lie managed to draw quite near the wo-

Scarce] had he gained the vantage of a up
of rhod end rous near the Psyche, than t e in—
truder passed him, walking uickly and ii htly.
She was partially disguised in a plain lack
dress and wide hat drawn down over her face.
He noticed that her dress was of silk. and that
a heavy gold ring shone on the fourth finger of
a delicate hand; but who the rson was he
could not make out. It was notfiiss Wormely
—it was not Mrs. St. Mark—nor any of the
gang ladies visiting at the house—nor was it

iole Darion.

 

Determined to find out more about her he fol-

 

 

among the winding paths, further and furtl r
from the mansion, toward the gates:—-ws. it
some outsider thus strangely interested in the
riddle of his destiny? .

The woman was just about to emerge on the
carriage-drive directly opposite the lodge, when
she suddenly shrunk back with a. faint cr ',
scarcely heard aloud; then she stood quite still,
and Felix, not far behind her, crept throu rh
the pmk~flowering hedge of weigela lining t «
path, and steeping low, crept along on the oppo
site side until in: (llSL'U‘v't'..'\l \m..t 1.x...s mat
had startled the lady and held her motionless.

Oriole Darien was leaning out of the casement
window of her “ bower-chamber.” The wan
moonlight shone on her white dress and dark
hair—her lovely face—her round bare arms.
()n the greensward below stood Eugene Morley.
He was apparently talking to her in earnest
whispers, so guarded that even they, who were
only across the carriage-drive, could hear noth-
ing. Oriole’s face was flushed and troubled,
eager, glowing, as she listened to the im aSSlOII-
ed words breathed, like the sweet breat of the
roses, on the dewy night air. Eugene had come
out without his hat, his fair features and golden
hair curling up at the touch of the (lamp flu ers
of Night, looked very Winsome in the ye ow
moonlight.

Presently a word or two of what he was say-
ing reached Felix—enough to tell him that his
brother was repeating those exquisite lines of
Shelley’s:

“ ‘ I arise from dreams of thee,
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low
And the stars are shining bright;
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me—who knows how?—
To thy chamber-window, sweet.‘

Dreams—dreams—dreams maddening-sweet, of
you, bird Oriole !” murmured Eugene, under his

reath; and then he threw her a dozen kisses
from the tips of his fingers, and went slowly
away, back toward the house, ignorant that this
little Scene had been witnessed b two persons
each of whom was deeply pained it.

“ Fickle and selfish!’ muttered elix; “ will-
ing to break her heart rather than den himself
the pleasure of having her love him! .ngaged
to one girl and playing Romeo to another! Ah
Eugene, it is hard for me to forgive you this! I
know you thoughtless. impulsive, grad-temper-
ed—but, it is wicked, cruel, for on to follow up
this affair as you seem determined on, des ite

| all warnings. And I, who love her so, am ess

than nothing to her! She suffers my silent
homage as a young princess suffers the worth-
less offering of some poor subject. Oriole,
would to heaven it had chanced we had met be-
fore my brother—curled darlinghof drawing-
{gonlsl—had infatuated you wit his careless

aut .

“ I believe Mrs. Chaldecott favors the feeling
she sees that I have for her Oriole. She is
strangely kind to me; and I am rowing curi—
ously attached to her. What shal I do? Tell
her that Eugene gays midnight visits to her pu-
pil’s window? rm down on my head the
wrath of her I love? Alas, I am so situated
that were I again to warn Oriole—as I once did
—-she would set down my interference to envy
—jealousyl .

‘ How beautiful she looks in this weird light.
There she has no, and the earth seems dark-
er! l‘l’ow, wha has become of the mysterious
lady who searches for the hidden treasure?”

Fell? as he asked himself this question, was
startle to observe the midnight wanderer
cross the drive and ascend the cottage Stoops.

“Mrs. Chaldecott!” the thou ht flush over
him with sudden conviction. ‘I wonder I did
not sooner recognize her step and figure! Yes,
she is going in. Now this is strange! What in-.
terest can Esther Chaldecott . 'iny have, in“
my affairs? What does she now abor“ "3., .
black riddle? As they say in novels, ‘t

i at]

 
    
   
   
 
  
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
  

thickens.’ Well, I am glad of one ti" . Inger.
she has been a witness to Eu en  23:31. ..3—’
tempts at flirtation with Miss :1 wall
not have to act the distaste!" s of in-
former.”

He walked about in a - . until he
had given Eugen to those
“dreams” on mkened to
take this n ‘ self return-
ed to

having silently
god her hat and
,4 tile bedroom
r ” of Oriole, and
" 1 WI] LY K.

M

    
    
  
 

   

 

 

9

 

MORLEY BEECHES.

 

 

wld \ eyed, on her sleepless llow, sat down be-
.v .LQJJGI‘ and erse f of one soft, trem-
l‘i..;,r,hand, t at shrunk in her own aswith a
sun" 'of naughtiness.

“ dear, I happened to be u .desaw
Mr. Mvorley under your window. our father

has said to me, and to on as well, that he
wished you to have not whatever to do
with that ”

The gir remained sllmt: the li ht was too
dim for Esther to see the sullen 100 that came
Over the lovely face.

“Do you not believe, Oriole, that your fa~
ther has some good reason for wishiniito pre-
vent an intimacy between you and Mr. orle I’

“My father thinks he has a good reason, at
he is mistaken, Mrs. Chaldecott. Mr. Morley
loves me, and I love him. Neither of us can
help it—end it can’t be wrong,” she added, pas~
sionately.

“ He fancies you, my poor little Oriole-fan-
cies you as he does every new and pretlt? toy
he sees. He amusea himself with you. e can
only really love one woman. and that should be
the youn lady heissoon to marry.  do not
hear that he preparations for his wedding have
been discontinum .”

“ I know all about that,” answered the girl,
quickly. “He has explained it. If he were
not too honorable to do so base a thing, he
would have broken off his engagement with
Miss St. Mark long ago. Of course, when he
asked her to marry him, he had not seen me
and he thought he was very fond of her; and
she let him see she was fond of him; and so
they becameengaged. Now, knowing how she
loves him, he cannot make ufi his mind to tell
her the truth. 1 agree with iin that he ought
not to—that he and I must be the sufferers.
Poor, poor martyr! r Eugene! He is very
unhappy, Mrs. Chal eco ”

“ e is a very great sinner!" thought Esther,
very bitterly; yet, in that, she did somewhat
wrong Eugene. His case was truly much as
Oriole had painted it, in as far as he was des-
perately in love with her, and Would—at least,
at times he fully believed he Would—have been

lad and eager to make her his wife had it not

on too late to break with Miss St. Mark with-

out causing her painful mortiiication and dis-
tress.

Where Eugene did wrong was, knowing he
was not free to marry Oriole, in still seeking
her society secretly, undoing )peace of mind,
indulging his foolish infatuatio At her exgeuse.
Perhaps it was too much to look for self enial
from such a pleasure-lover, sucha self—indulgent
young fellow, who had only looked on the world
as a place made for his amusement. While Eu-
gene was no vainer than others of his and

rospec it seemed to him only roper t at all

9 good gs of life should f to his share:
he looked at hishalf—brother asa r devil just
fitted to betied down to a coup e of thousand
dollars a year.

“ He ma be who?! my darling,” said
Ether, pa ently; “ but has no right to make
you more so—perha to compromise you in the
eyes of others, shou his admiration chance to
become known. Look at the matter squarely,
Oriole—how is it toendl Since he is not free
to mm you, he should let you alone.”

“I te on he loves me! Is he to blame for
lovinfllm He did not mean to be untrue to—
to M St. Mark. We just met—and all the
rest camel We could not revent it. Mrs.
Chaldecott, I am fond you- but if you
and fault with Mr. ley, you will make me
hate ou—thcre I"

“ 0 you hate your father!”

“No, no, no! I love him a thousand times
more] nthan everl—but father cannot under-
slaw. .

“lie understands cal too well. He knows
the world, my ipoor Ii 10 birdling. And he.
1 W35 his onl ch d to) well to like the man who
I, doing his t to break her heart.”

_ “_4 rehyon going to tell him that I have dis-
‘ V m?"
‘ “midst-oft hesitated. Zcphiel Darien

. I t‘her there to guard his daughter.
Bl, w hau‘ 1,, L'- ht to keep from him the fact that
young A. i!” -- was still pursuing Oriole with his
protestatio ‘: in she recoiled from the idea of
playing spy," ’ Felix had recoiled.

“Wth axe . . o, Oriole will be most sincere-
ly for you  " 1 ~-—not r. Morley’s—not my
own—not we R My father‘s—only yours. Oh,

n.

my was.“ so me that you will never
again spea..-.o Mr. Morley except in the pres-
ence of others !”

yd~ithet!”cried0riole,sittin up

{via}: :hashi $4 “Norah’s 0-3.0 d l
ould ' “cruel I on

.r& shall in m

_.:‘hossanslte-yseerne-

i]

 

gene! If it gives him pleasure to spésk to me
once and a while—to gain a look, a word, I w'

too well.”

“ Have ou no womanly pride, Oriole?”

“I don’ know; I only now I love him.”

“ What will you do when he is married?”

"Just the same, I suppose-smile on him
when we meet and try not to distress him by
.etting him see my heart is broken.”

“ Are you not jealous of Miss St. Mark!”
Esther asked, in despair, not knowing what
else to sayto disturb this serene self-abnega-
tion. “ Most girls would be jealous, under your l
circumstances."

“ i su pose I am " was the musing reply.
“When see his bride, 80 fair and elegant, so
happy and proud, I know that I often wish she
were dead. But, that is wicked! and I struggle

inst it. I can’t blame her for loving Eugene;
no one could help that! but, yes, I am horribly
cruell , evillygealous sometimes! I confess it.’l

“ ell, lie own and try to sleeH my poor
child. I promise you this—that I w i say noth-
ing to’your father until you and I have talked

in.

She kissed the hot forehead of the wayward
girl and went awa .

“She asks me if I am jealous!" murmured
Oriole, slipping her little bare feet out upon the
floor. “She does not dream of the wicked pas-
sions that rise in in heart. Jealous! 1f I could
onl be sure that iss St. Mark—as some have
to] me—-is selfish and calculating, and is about
to marrv him for his great estates—ha! there is
a trick Icould play her! 1 do not forget the
papers in the box! I brood over them, some-
times, until my brain is on fire.”

She went to the little cupboard in the chim-
ney, where she kept her treasuretrove, unlocked

to assure herself of its reality, refastened the
door, and crept back to bed with curious half-
schemes rising in heriin governed mind.
b If she had loved Felix as she loved Eugene l-—-
at:
“ The course of true love never did run smooth,“
and Oriole’s troubled passion is fated to bear its
freight of misery.

CHAPTER IX.
in: MEANS N0 HARM.

“ Wh do I treat thee thus! It should not be—
An yet I cannot—cannot ve thee up!
I neither take nor yet will et thee go. '
FOR a good-natured young entleman, who
habitually looked upon himsel as one of the

 

not deny him that poor pleasure. I love him I

1 too glad and too
i and the lady of

“'Where are you going! What are you ex-
pecting to do?”

“ No matter about in plans. I shall manage
to take care of those I ove.”

Eugene turned a little ale and tears sprun
to his eyes. He looked down at the floor an
drummed on the desk with his fingers in an em-
barrassed manner.

“Don‘t o away, Darien,” he
sentlv. “ tis not necessary. In
will have the place all to yourself in: w:
shall be off to the ci for the winter; a littl:
after the New Year is St. Mark and myseh.
will be married, and go to Florida fora time:
we do not expect to see Merle Beeches again
until it is in its ring glory. emain, at least,
until then. I— am willing to promise, if you
like, on my word of honor, not to s k to—to
Miss Darien while we remain here, except in
the rescnce of others. ”

“ ‘he word of honor of Eugene Morley ou ht
g) be sufficient," answered Zophiel, h tav-

ng y.

“ it shall be,” cried Eugene, looking earnestly
at his steward with those blue, frank-looking

leaded, pre-
n days yor

eyes. “ I suppose I have done wrong, Darien;
b13311! n my soul. if I had met our daughter
w l e

was a free man, I should ave been onl

roud to make her my Wig
orley Beeches. I am very
unhappy—l am, indeed. You must have some
mercy on me. ”

Darien’s stern an r softened ashe regarded

the culprit, eutreating humbl for forgiveneu.

No man or woman could wit stand the charm
of Engene’s Winsome looks and ways; and thin
it was his selfishness had been fostered.

" You will not abandon me to some stranger,
will youi” the young em loyer added. “ de-

‘pendonyoutooverseet orepairs.
the door, touched the box with her hand, as if ,

“ If you are really going to get 0! so soon
and remember your promise meantime, I will

‘ not refuse to stay on the place this winter, Mr.

Morley.”

“There! I am awfully lad you have con-
sented to think twice of ‘it. I am grateful
to you, Darien. And, oh, by the way, I made
a promise, when 1 first returned, to Mix

, Oriole, that she should be invited if I 70

most amiable of his sex, Eugene Morley had a ;

hard morning of it, after that little midnight
romance when a “spirit in his feet ” had led
him where he ought not to have gone.

Miss St. Mark was di

ble at breakfast; ‘
and, immediately after t at meal, his steward 

: her this one glimpse,” said

sent word he would like to see him in the office i
-a little room off the servants’ dining-room, ‘

where busineu was occasionally transacted.
A blush dyed Eugene’s handsome face as be en-
tered the once and met the unsmiling tin
of Z0 hiel Darien. He had said to sel
until e thong? he believed it, that he meant
no harm wha ver, and had a rfect rightto

l

l

l
l

have a nice time with Oriole w on the oppor. I,

tunity offered; yet, somehow, he could not meet .

those stern dar eyes without a sense of guilt.
It was not so pleasant to face the father as to

make love to the daughter. 1

-morning, Darien. Anything new on
hand?” he asked, striving to recover his usual
graceful sang frm’d.

“I have come, sir, to resign the stewardship 

of Morley Beeches."

“ Is it possible?
my breath, Darien! And, must say, you ‘
choose an inconvenient time to put me to the
trouble of looking up a new man to take your
place. What has gone wrong i”

“ I have made up my mind that it is time for .
me to leave. The change will not cause you
much trouble; the accounts are in perfect order
the estates have been well taken care of. an
are briiiging in as good an income as could be

c .
“ I don’t like to part with you, Darien. You
have been here ever since I was a boy; I have
left everything in your hands—have perfect
confidence in you: and now, particularly I
Was eXpectin you to keep a sharp eye on {he
house while he repairs went on this fall. I
have looked upon you, not so much as my
steward, as my elder friend and adviser.”
ofunwggdmtw nill?wllh'mmi-e-edm“ :
a , rep ‘
marl have been very fond of you, iii!
:batitisflaiewecart.” 1

You uite take away :

a grand ball. The ball comes off a Week rom
to-iii ht. Will you say to her and to Mrs.
Chah ecott that shall be most hapgy to see
them among my guests and shall disap-
pointed if they refuse to do me that honor!"

“ i shall give them your message, since you
send it by me; but, [warn you I shall advise
them, not to make fools of themselves by accept-

“ Miss Darien has a young girl’s eager curi-
osity to see the gay world: ray, do not rein.
no, laughing.
make or discontented
with her own ct in life! Worse than foolish!
worse than foolish!” muttered Zophiel. “Bet-
fer as nothing to the child about your grand
ball, r. Morley.”

He went out, and Eugene drewa long bruth.

“ W by cannot they let my little darling and
me alone!” he murmured. ‘We are scolded as
every side. I warn you, lady Irene, it will not
take many snubs from  to make my bright
little girl seem so muc more lovable bycon-r
trast that I shall break 03 with you in very
desperation! Fancy bird Oriole tting on

nd airs to her lover! One kiss 0 era would
worth ten thousand of my haughty lady’s.”

Dangerous thou ht if yr only knew of
them, Miss St. k A dangerous experi-
ment to allow your future husband to find out,
too soon, that you have a temper.

good man things are “at sixes and
sevens ” at Her ey Beeches that dry, bri t
August day—not on the surface, oh, no! A is-
smooth on the surface. The ladies chatter in-
cessantly about the ball—discuss their costumes
-—the invned guests—the decorations. They
have been generously feted by the aristocrats
of the neighborhood; a very handsome ball will
not be too much to offer in return.

This ball is to be a combination of several
sorts of amusement—a summer file as well as a
dance; with illuminated grounds. banners
tents, a military band, and a dariciu -iloor laid!
down on the lawn. It will be the “ of the
moon," so that the colored lamps and lantern
will have their prettiest effect. Then the pie-
ture—gnllery is to be fitted u as an indoor hall-
room, with its own smaller nd of stringed in—
struments. Before the openin of the 'fee-
tivities—which will not be until o’elofi, for

“ One ghm to

' the hour previous, one of the most

features 0 the entertainment will be mjoyed—
aseries of tableauaiei'oants is alaoto be m
in thegalle , alcnaone endof which a

JO,

MORLEY BEECHES.

 

 

 

'wltlr curtain and other appointments, is to'he
arranged.

Two or three of the most brilliant young
ladies of the neighborhood, with several gentle-
men, have besn chosen to take part in these
tableaux. They are at Morley Beeches to
luncheon, discussing scenes and characters.
Altogether a soft, well-bred excitement pre—
vails in drawin and dinin —room. Irene con-
cludesto be am ble. She is to be in three of
the four “pictures "—as Marie Antoinette for
ono~in short, in the characters of the hand-
somest heroines with the most elaborate toilets.
Her vanity is more than satisfied.

One thought keeps firmly in Eugene‘s mind:

“If I could only show these hi h-bred
beautiesm bird Oriole! By Venus an all the
Graces! w at a joke it Would be to introduce
her unexpectedly, and confound them by her
glorious loveliness!”

Felix took ver little interest in the one en-
grossin to ic o the day. He brooded silently
over t 0
night. The wonder grew upon him—what did

Esther Chaldecott know about the hidden will? '

What interest could she possibly have in it?
Then, too. he was miserable at remembering

the love-light on the girlish face at the window

—-aface that never beamed on him with such

alook.

How light! his brother must prize that smile
which woul have been so priceless to him!
Here was Eugene, frivolous, contented, 'ving
his whole mind to the ball—knowin thatSriole
Darien was breaking her heart for im. Why
should Eugene have everything—those gold
locks, those lau hing eyes, that charmin way
—this princely omain—and the heart of riole
Darien?

He felta and bitter. Often he had said
to himself t at, even if certain of success, he
would hardly trouble to fight Eugene’s right to
the inheritance-that Eugene was made to be
rich and fortunate and did more credit to the
Beeches, as master, than he, sober, reserved and
somber-minded would do in his place. To-day
hefeltdifferentl ; to-da he felt that he could
contest it with m, inc by inch—fight it out

' to the bitter end.

Shortly after luncheon he left themparty of
chatterers and strayed down to the L go. He
wanted to see Mrs. Chaldecott—to study her
under this new aspect. Little Betty was out-
side, waiting to open the gate for the ingress
and e ass of frequent carria es.

“Is is. Chaldecott in the case?”

“No, sir; she be over there under the big
chestnut, with her sewing, sir.”

The spot indicated was hidden from the drive
by intervening shrubberies, but Felix knew it

well and soon reached it—a bit of cool, delicious :

shade, with a bench or two, under the 3 read-
ing branches of a mi hty chestnut. sther
Chaidecott sat on one 0 these rustic seats with
.her basket of needlework beside her; Oriole
was crouched in the soft short grass at her
fee

15.

Esther welcomed the intruder with a smile
rand-words of friendly greeting: the girl gave
him a careless nod an her ark e .es went
back to the book she was reading. Fe ix seated
himself-on the other bench and began a desal-

conversatiou with the elder lady.
ow that his observation was quickened by

an intense curiosity, he noted the remains of ,

extreme and trician beauty in the. delicate,
'faded face; a so that her small white hands
trembled so that abs gluld hargglget adstiwh,
the h she appears mness ; an pres—
entllyg, that he more than once detected her in
stolen, earnest lances at himself—strange
lances that thrilled him with some sympa-
hetic wer, when he chanced to meet them.
Orio e was absorbed in her book, so Felix,
ing low, asked Mrs. tChaldecott how long
had 'ved in the vicini y.

“I was born at Gathorne Beeches,” she an-
swered him, in a tone as low.

“How stran 0 it sounds to hear you call the

by its 01 name, Mrs. Chaldecottl”

“It was Gathorne Beeches when I was a
girl, Mr. (gathprne; and so it always remains in

thou ts.
m{Do ygou mean that you were actually born
in the mansion i” he asked her. ' '

“I was,” after an instant’s heSitation and a
glance at the irl on the grass at her feet. “ I
was myself a anthome.”

“Then, perhaps, you knew my mother!”

She looked up at the eager face lighted with a ‘

“dlerdigpeknow  quitfegntlilmatfily ati one
. n 1 respon er ps qu verq
 $331.11» in her, still-lovely hasel
aves.

ouble adventure of the previous 1

‘ "0h, Mrs. Chaldecott why did you never
tell me this before?” He ad dartedto her side
seized her hand, and was looking as if he would
like to take her in his ve arms.

She laughed and look down, in some con-
fusion. ‘

“ I wanted to get better acquaian with §ou,
first. We have met but a few times. as,
Mrs. Morley and I have been warm friends—-
before she married that second time—and died
——of a broken heart. I know, if she could speak
and tell me so, she would ask me to be her dear
son’s friend—his true friend—as I lon to be.”

“ My dear Mrs. Chaldecott, I shall fond of
on from this moment l” raising thethin wasted
and to his lips with almost a son’s tenderness.

“ To think you knew my ill-fated mother! She
was ill-fated, was she not?" he asked, earn-
es

‘ Eugene came upon the scene, and preven

l How handsome—how charming he wasl—not
Felix’s eyes even could deny that. Oriole
1 sprung to her feet and sat down by her gover-
nesswwith downcast looks and changing color.

“ hat a glorious couple they would make l”
thou ht Felix, with a pang. ‘If I were Eu-
gene would throw over that cold, calculatin
creature of the world to whom he is pligh ,
and wed this one, whose every pulse beats only
for him i”

And so Eugene thought, more than once, but
he had plenty of worldly pride and wanted a
fashionable woman as queen of Morley Beeches;
besides which, he did not understand Irene—he
thou ht her sincerely in love with himself, and
feltt at he had no ri ht to wound and crush
her b asking for his reedom.

“ rs. Chaldecott,” he began in his ea
way, after saluting the ladies, “l wantto tal
to you about the ball I am to ve next week.

I wish on and Miss Darien to .onor the occa-
sion wit your presence. Promise me that you
will come .”

 

Oriole flashed an eager look at her governess.
Oh, the lovely plow rising under the velvet
l softness of those cheeks—the liquid glory shin-

ing in the great dark eyes!
‘ I need not ask Oriole if she would like to
5 accept,” said Mrs. Chaidecott with rather a sad
i smile. “ Her eyes speak for her: but, after all,
‘ it remains for her father to decide.”

“I have asked Darien. He hard] seemed
; willing], but did not utterl refuse. ou must
tease im into consent, is Oriole. I want

you to take in a tableau—to oblige me. I
ave plann a little surprise for my guests.
1 There are already four ta leaux arranged. I
! desire to introduce another, for which they will
not be prepared—a leasant surprise you see.
Be that on will ob ige me i”
riole’s eart beat high. Here was the -
rtunity to prove to those haughty ladies w 0
ad passed her with the insolent, calm stare of
high-breeding lookin at what is inferior—to
820w her beauty as eavenvgiven as their own.
uld she perform her part without discpmpo-
sure or ignomiuious failure! Yes: she would
do it—would triumph—would show them all her
power over the young master of Morley Beech—
es! Though it s ould be her last, as Well as her
first she would have her one hour of trium h!
“ if you will allow me to ch00se the tab can,
I consent "she said, a splendid smile illuminat-
ing the vivid beauty of her face.

CHAPTER X.
m GHOST AND THE LADY.
“ We‘ll float and float and lids and glide
Adown the pictured ha 1,
While the merry in new walk aside
Where the rose and ily call."
Tm: great day of the ball arrivsd in due time
—a favorable day, of moderate te unperature and

 

cloudless skies. Morley Beeches buzzed softly, l
' be sad and

like a bee-hive full of industrious honey-makers.
Tents were springing up, banners bein raised,
lanterns arranged out of doors; insi e, fancy
five or six ladies preparing for tableaux, and
‘ paint the picture for curse f !
Mrs. St. Mark and rs. St. Mark’s maid had
had a tiresome time of it for a Week, subject to
‘ the tyranny of Miss Irene, who, delighted at the
conspicuous parts assigned her, had yet little
control over those fits of vexation which ever-
came her when the various dresses failed. in
the fitting, or the draping to suit her exacting
requirements. But, the mother would have en-
dured even more in the assurance that her
daughter had won the great matrimonial prize
1 —won it none too soon, corrsiderin the scanty
resources left to them. She 00 d illy afford
. the rich fabrics Irene ordered for her costumes
rwith such utter recklemness of expense: but,
I as the younger lady said—if their means lave

tly.
1 Esther was about to make some reply, when l

l out, they could run up bills and pay them after
she a Mrs. Morley.

“ We are to be married inthe first week of the
New Year, mamma; and Eugene will be the
last person in the world to grumble at mydrsss—
mak' bills. He is the soul of generosity.”

The issesCarlington had their pretty little
minorpartsto pia ; even the old general ap-
geared once as arshal of France, with Mrs.

t. Mark as Madame, his wife, in the scene w ill]
Marie Antoinette; while the cadet and the
{boring En lishrnan’ had enough to do to satisr y

eir amb tion.

Meantime, while the hum of preparation
sounded at the great mansion, Oriole Darien
was shut up in her “ bower-chamber,” with
bolted door utting the finishin touches to her
commie. hat her dress was be was a se-
cret, even from Mrs. Chaldecott. She had or-
dered the materials from the ci , by express,
and had herself cut and fashions them.

Darien had opposed his daughter’s going to
the ball as much as he could without actually
forbidding it; but Oriole was inastatc of in-
tense excitement and expectation.

“I would not give it up, nowJ for an hing
in the wide world, father—unless it were nve
a life. I anticipate so much, dear father; it
would be cruel of you to forbid me,” and look-
ing in her lovely, eager, shining eyes the oting
parent had not the heart to do it, t on b wis-
dom urged him to say “no!” perempto ly.

Eugene had kept strictl to the letter of his
promise to Darien; he ha not spoken to Oriole
except in Mrs Chaldecott’s presence: yet. in
that second interview in which the tableau had
been arranged, their conversation had heencm
ried on in an undertone.

“ We your rdon a thousand times over,
Mrs. Chal ecott, be had said, smilingly, “but
Miss Darien wants our tableau to be a surprise."

He did not speak one word of love or flattery,
but his tender tones and ardent looks were as
el uent as ever.

T e entertainment opened, between five and
six, with an out—of—door ettle—drum—tea coffee,
light refreshments, romenude, music, dancing
on the lawn, wan ering about the grounds,
flirtation under the gay-colored lamps in per-
fumed alleys.

From seven to eight supper was served in the
diningroom—an immense room, usuall rather
gloomy, but brilliantly decorated for t e occa-
sion—a supper, the c oioest that city caterers
could supply, and enliVened by the exquisite
pla ing 0 t e stringed orchestra.

e number of (guests was not very great—

only about one hun red; and the picture-gallery
ve them all seats, if rather crowded, durin

t e performance of the tableaux following the

su r.

Bgieole had told Mr. Morley that she should
not come to the kettle-drum or supper: she
would first appear inthe tableau; after that, she
would stay for the ball, perhaps, if she liked it.

Mrs. Chaldecott was only too glad to esce
appearing earlier with her young 
g adly, indeed, would she have remained away
entirely could she have chosen. There were up
sociations connected with that old mansion
which stirred too deep emotion; but, Mathew
Morley lay in his grave, and all those she had
known had vanished from the scene, except the
two younggentlemen grown up from fine-look-
in little s to finer-looking men. That grand
0! house would be full of unseen hosts for her
—unseen to the leasure-seekers but very pal-

ble to her. he had seen those lofty rooms

rilliant with aristocratic reVelers many and
many a time—before the brooding penuriousneu
of old Mathew Morley spun over it the spider-
webs of silence and decay. When her slender
feet were light with the spirit of youth she had
footed itto tuneful measures in t at long gal-
lery on many a gala night. It would, indeed,
painful, to sit there to-night, a
shadow with shadows, in the stronger light of
the gayety of others; but Oriole Darien needed

“ Wayward, headstrong, passionate, ‘
Esther as she sat 'in the little parlor, plainly
dressed in gra silk with a bitm int-lace over
her still abun ant dark hair, waiting’for Oriole
to come down from her chain r——“ ut pure as
a lily and true as steel! A very interesting girl
—a strangely beautiful girl—yet hardly the wife
for Felix Gathorne, even if Ire could win her. I
regret his infatuation and prayphat he may
outgrow it.f’

The delicrous sup

r had been duly appreci-
ated, and now the ered

app sue-198 were us, .
genthamen into the gallery

 

by graceful youn

seated toawa t the risiifiof the curtain

a woman’s watchful eye and wise counsel an
she must have it—all the more because V
utter innocence, her utter ignorance n

 

A-.. “magmas-Isa: QQMQ

 

5"?5‘

5::-

‘a'Y‘iD’flfl '4

IWIHIW -"

.u—u—v'

MORLEY BEECHES.

1r

 

 

which hung across the lower end of the room.
Without any more delay than must be «31ch
on such occasions theinterposin screen ally
arose on the first picture: ‘ Hon rm
naouon'r mm wanaion, Dam.”

Certainly, care nor money had been spared
in the pagination of the tableau. The stage
represen achamber of a castle in the days of
Queen Bess; the furniture was true to the his-
to of the time, even to the tapes on the
wa s, the rushes on the floor, the fashioning of
the candlesticks holding the wax tapers.

A lovely lady had just arisen from her carved
oaken chair and stood looking down at a bier
which four cavaliers had placed before her, and
beside which, at head and foot, they still stood,
with bowed heads and plumed hats in hand.
On the bier the slain warrior reposed, beautiful
in heroic death, his sword by his side, his lady’s
favor on his arm: he looked as if he might have
died, after singing: '

“ love has olden hair,
my And eyges so blue,
And heart so true
That none with her compare.
Then what care I
Thou h death he ni h?
For Love I ve lived—for ve I'll die!"

The stricken expression, the pallor of grief
and horror, on the lady’s face were well as-
sumed. The black velvet robe, the Elizabethan
ruff set ad the fair beauty of Irene St. Mark,
even as the warrior’s bier enhanced the perfect,
soggmred grace of Eugene Morle ’s handsome
h and features. In the bac ground was
huddled a startled group of attendant ladies
and in their midst the wrinkled “ nurse 0
must years” bearing the noble babe, the sight
of w om was to set free the mother’s frozen
tears.

The scene was so well acted that it was al-
most terrible in its silent power: a long sigh
broke from the lips of the spectators as the cur-
tain fell; it was a full minute before they re-
membered to applaud.

To gives description of the three following
tableaux might weary; but, in two of them
Irene was the heroine, and, of course, lovely in
face, finished in dress, perfect in acting. As
Marie Antoinette she was marvelously beauti-
ful; as Elaine, being rowed under the shadow
of alaces, to the king’s, by her ancient servitor
_— aine, dead of a hopeless love, meekly bear-
ing a letter in her icy hand as she lay in the
boat, and being gazed at by wandering knights,
she was pathetically lovely.

The amount of applause she received satisfied
even her edy love of praise; queen of acting,

ueen of carts, soon to be queen of Morley

eeches. it seemed to Irene that she had reach-
ed the culmmation of her ambition that happy
evergng.

‘ wrest, you have assed m e cta-
ti0113,”ln\11'mured Eugensglgssing hey; hilhed as
the curtain came down the fourth time amid a
rainof plaudits and bouquets; “I am prouder
of on than ever. ,And now, I uest you,
“fit these other ladies. to take seats m' the au-
diltorium for a few moments. I have arranged
8 lttle tableau as a rise for you fair work-
ers who have labored so faithfully. You de-
serve some reward for your exertions; and now
3?} slnll have it. ”

i hAnother tableau!” cried Irene, a flush risin

glider face. I fear your audience is weary of
r 3'. What could you have arranged with-
out my advxce and muggy"

“ You Wm 300“ ” he answered, good-na-
turedly. .“ P19880- m yourself a seat. Mean-
“ms, Will explain to my guests that I wish
them to remain seated five minutes longer.”

. [rend left the stage Very reluctantly; a fierce
3mm”! of she knew not what had taken pos-
xzsion of he? Atthonfg: of that beautiful,
crea ure

Tuugf be, a the go flashed over her

Fem in in every limb with fear and an or
Gbefiflflmt to find a lace to view the tablegau:
while Eugene went be ore the curtain and ask-
ed his friends to wait for another scene, which
would be presented without delay, and was
called—“The Phantom Lady of Morley Beech~

es
Felix. through all the scenes, had sat uietl
beside Mrs. Chaldecott. He took no pagt in I;
single tableau. He had not even circulated
among the chairs between the acts, as Mr. Mor-
ley’s brother might be expected to do—taking
his part in entertaining the guests, as a mem-
ber of the family. The gentlewoman by whose
side he sat noticed this with regret. .
“He is too sad and grave for his ears,” she
thought, 4‘ But, it shall not always be so.” i
“ The llphiintom lady of Morley Beeches ” re-
peated elix; “why, what a sinxular title to

 

ve his tableaul—don’t you think so, Mrs.
haldecott? Of course, this is the one in which

, Miss Darien is to appear. I have no idea of what

it is oin to be--have you?”

“ ot t e least. Oriole has allowed no one to
see her costume.”

“Ah!” breathed Felix, as the curtain went
slowly u .

“ Ah!’ echoed Esther, almost with a cry,
pressin her hand to her heart as she half-rose
in her c ir and peered eagerl .

l A ghostly figure occupied t e center of the
stage—the figure of a woman, wrapped from
head to foot in clouds on clouds of diaphanous
drapery till it appeared some misty, impalpable

hantom. A few feet from it, shrinking from
it, with uplifted hands and a look of awe on his
pale features, stood Eugene Morley. Cloud
after cloud, the translucent ghostly wrappings
faded away. without touch of mortal hands, ap-
parently, while he azed in breathless fear and
wonder, until the g earn of dark hair, the glim-
mer of Jewels, the charming outlines of a youth-
ful figure, Came dimly into view.

Fo d by fold, layer b layer, the ga dra-

ry melted away, unti the phantom he ad so
fined as a visitor from another world stood
before him—an arch smile on herlovely, bloom-
ing lips—a beautiful young woman!

A young girl, strangely, deliciously beauti-
ful, with a vivid, dark, foreign beauty, which
reminded the rapt spectators of houris by
“ the gleaming Guadalquivir.”

Save those two who had van that suppressed
cry, and Irene St. Mark, w ose cheeks were liv-
id with sudden anger, none knew or dreamed
from whence the glorious beauty came—so

oung, so bright, so iquant, so very, very love-
fithat the fascina use could not turn from
t e smihng face—so ' e some vivid flower in
its bloom—with the dark, delicious meltin
eyes, the full, sweet, tender little mouth; coul

not turn from gazing at the dusky, rippling I

hair, the cheeks with a color “like oleander
buds that br ,” the velvety neck and arms,
the pliant waist.

She was dressed in some rich and rare bro-
cade, made in the fashion of a uarter of a cen-
tury earlier—a heavy, white si k round, with
flowers of pink and silver blue an gold, work-
ed in the heavy fabric. he belt about her slim
waist was fastened with a buckle set with rich-
est brilliants. About her round throat and r-
fect arms were clasped a necklace and brace ets
of marvelous value—large, liquid diamonds,
held. together by almost invxsible links of gold.
Similar jewels glittered like stars in her small
cars. An ai rette of diamonds in her dusky
hair held in ace a single nasturtium blossom,
that burned 'ke gold a 'nst its dark masses.

“ Beautiful! beautif l’.’ murmured Felix.

He was filled with wonder as to how Oriole
could have rocured this splendid costume: yet
he marvel more at the effect it seemed to
have on Mrs. Chaldecott. She had sunk back
in her chair, after half rising from it with that
little cry, and sat there with clasped hands
working together, and with blanched cheeks.

She had recognized them—the Gathorne jew-
elsl—those priceless jewels which the steward’s
daughter had found in the worm-eaten, brass-
bound box which had at last reached the gift
the very afternoon the oung master of M y
Beeches had come to ta e possession.

“How did it hap n that Oriole Darien was
wearing the magm cent gems so long supposed
to have been lost?” she asked herself.

There could be but one explanation: Eugene

Morley had loaned them to her for the occa- ‘

sion!
Then, if Eu no Morley had found the hidden
jewels, he he also found the hidden will—for

much a revelation to him as to his guests. He
was too surprised to even conjecture from what
source the girl had borrowed those splendid
jeWels: he only saw her, supremely beautiful,
dressed like a duchess.

The curtain went down only to rise a in at
the demand of the guests, who were a owed
another glimpse of the handsome pair. By this
time, Irene was furious—biting her lips as she
flashed an evil look at the smiling beauty on the
stage.

“ Who can it be?”

“ Where is she from!”

 

' ‘ norant little thing,
a

“Some forei beau
Mr. Morley ma e abr ?”

These, and a dozen similar questions were
asked by those surrounding Mrs. St. Mark and
her daughter; the elder lady shook her head
helplessly—she had not the remotest idea who
the young lady might be, but fancied, with
others, that she must be some distinguished at
quaintance of her future son-in-law.

“I will tell you who this young lady is,”
spoke up Irene, with a sneer. “ You mav all
of you feel complimented to know that she is
the daughter of Mr. Morley’s steward !—a vain,
running wild on the
pace, whose pretty ce has tempted Mr. Mor-
ey to show her of! in this fashion. It is a
foolishntrick of his—none too agreeable to his

ests

whose acquaintance

, “I never saw her before—where docs she

. ismoving out: there are ices bei

. keep herself?” gasped Mrs. St. Mark. .
“ She lives at the Lod pens and closes the
- gate, for all I know !” continued Irene, mali-
. ciousl . “But this I do know, mamma,” low-
. ering her voice, while two burning spots came
1 out in her creamy cheeks, “ those must be Eu—
! gene’s diamonds—inherited—and he has never
, even shown them to me, their future owner! I
regard it as a deliberate insult that he should
3 have allowed another girl to wear them i”
“Hush, for heaven’s sake, Irene! You are
I too sensitive! You must not show him how
di$leased you are ” whispered the mother.
“ hat do you care? As you say, the diamonds
will be your very own, before long—you can
afford to overlook this freak of our lover. lt
; is on! a freak—Eugene is so all of frolic—
quite ike a boy I”

“ Mother, are you blind? Cannot ou see he
is madly in love with her prett acei—per-
fectly, shamlessl infatuated! have been

warned of this be ore. If we have proper pride

we will take our baggage and leave Morley

Beeches in the morning.”

I “ Leave Morley Beeches in anger—leave it
forever! Irene, it is you who are foolish! We
have plotted and planned for a year tocatch

.this rich Morley—wasted what little means we
had left, like water, to keep up the a
of our own wealth—and now. when t e rise is

' in our hand, we are to open it and let t e bird

go free! Come, my lovo, your temper has got
the better of your judgment again! One would
think you were really m love with your future
husband you show so much jealous ! Come,
are you to wear this dress the rest ofy the even-
ing? I hope so, for it is immensely becom-
ing. We are to amuse ourselvesin the draw-
ing-room a few mmutes while the galleryis
being cleared for dancing. Come thecompany
served in
the breakfast-room, and I would ' one—it is
so Awgirmh here.” to th

‘ t eyarose quit emmEugeneoame
hurriedly n tothem:

 

I

they were together—and if he had discovered L

it, he must have destroyed it, or he would have
made restitution to his brother before this!
blHer heart sunk in her bosom at this

ow.

 

CHAPTER XI.
IN THE BALL-ROOM.
I only know
That were I in your place to-night,
I would not grieve our s irit so
For all God's worl of ' e and light.
—-Mas. Osooon.

Tulook of awe on Eugene’s face changin -
’ shroug

to surprise and rapture as the white

melted away from about the fair hantom, was
a good piece of acting—yet har y actin , for
the delight and astonishment were real. '
had been norehearsal of this little tableau and
Oriole had not~conflded to him what she in-
tended wearing. That superb toilet was as

ere.

“ Remem r, Irene theflrstdancel You and
I are to lead off. xcuse me a few momen
while this place is got in order.” and he das
away again, ap ntly oblivious of the frown
on her brow, t ecold, glittering anger in the
proud blue eyes.

“ Control yourself, Irene, and do not nm the
risk of losing all,” her mother still pleaded with
her as the went down the broad stairs between
banks of ovely flowers.

“ Lose all!” The worldly beauty had not the
faintest idea of risking the fair fortune she had
secured: but she could not quite control that
haughty temper.

In a ciuarter of an hour the strains of the
band cal ed back to the gallery the young peo-
ple who preferred dancing to a. promenade in
the garden, or a flirtation in the room below.

Eugene came promptl for his fiancee, and
the took the head of t room. Felix, who
h taken charge of Oriole after the curtain
fell, took a side in the same quadrille. Here
was Miss St. Mark’s opportunity.

‘_‘ Mr. Morley,” she said, in a low distinct
vows, which she meant should Oriole’s
ear, and which did not failof it, “I can only
infer what your views are on some points of
social life; but I, for mypart. object to dancing

' MORLEY BEECHES.

 

 

p-- »-~-
’—

ln the same set with the daughter of your stew:
ard. Am I too particular?”

Eugene glanced at Miss Darien and saw, by
the sudden lin of her bright face, that the
envenomed art gone home to the road
heart—he saw the long dark lashes fa , the
sweet lips tremble—and rage filled his mind
against the cold malice of the lady at his side.
The look he gave her made her own imperious
gaze flinch, as he answered:

“Very well, mademoiselle: in that case we
will sit out this dance.”

He made a motion to lead her away; but Ori-

ole woke verydquickly:

“ 0, Mr. orley, Mr. Gathorne and I will
sit it out ” and before Eugene could remonstrate
she had taken Felix’s arm and walked away.

“ Mrs. Cbaldecott let us go homei This is no

lace for us,” she w ' red, her breast throb-
‘ ing with w0unded feeling a

bodice “ I am onl the stewa s daughter, and
so ladies will'not ance in my compan .”

Esther’s (Halal; eyes for once flashed re.

“You she not go home just yet, my love,”
she said' “you have a better right here than
Miss St. ark. Surely, Mr. Gathorne, you. will
not suffer a sgidght to be offered to a young lady
who was ask to come here as a favor?”

“ Trust me to defend Miss Darien,” answered
Felix, with his rare, bright smile. ” Here is a
vacanc , Miss Darien, and he urged her into a
quadril e which was forming.

He had barely seated her after the dance by
Mrs. Chaldecott, when Eugene hastened up to
secure her for a round ance, which came
second on the programme. From that time
Oriole did not lack for partners. It was true,
the ladies ignored her; not one of those fair,
fashionable, amiable feminine creatures seem-
ed to see her-the whisper had crept round that
she was onlya little rown sparrow in bor-
rowed 8glumage—dmt the gentlemen were only
too gl of an opportunityto dance with so lo-
rious and budding a young beauty; she was e-
sieged for her hand, courted, flattered, until
vanity could ask no more—Oriole Darien, in her
rich brocade, her flashing diamonds, with her
e es growing more brig tly splendid, and her
cheeks more like velvety rare roses, and her
young mouth curvin in fiayer smiles, was the
undeniable belle of t e be .

Irene saw it all with helpless resentment.
Had she loved the young1 master of Morley
Beeches, she might justly ave resented his too
evident admiration of this intruder. Being af-
' tera rich parti—a fine settlement—what was
sbetodoi If she broke with Eugene Morley,
it would be the ruin of her worldly ho s.
' What! give up this stately home! those as-
less diamonds, glowin on the arms and bosom
of that impertlnent, ld creature! Rage as
she mi ht she had to bear it, or lose it‘ all. She
» studi what to dovto have her revenge.

In the course of a couple of hours, chance
once more drifted her near Oriole, who was
standing on the little balcony outside of one of
the two long windows, fanning herself—left
there alone for a little time ellx, while he
went to get her an ice. Miss S . Mark also ste

ing out for a breath of air, they came face
ace. Here n was Irene’s opportunity.

“Min be on," she began, ‘I have been
wan to'speek with you.” '

“ d d not suppose you would condescend to
speak with mo—then seems to be a social edict
which forbids it,” and Orlole’sdazzling eyes had
a mocking laugh in them.

“Only to warn you,” went on Irene, haugh-

. ‘ You are Very young and very igorant
—-orseemsol Do ouknow whatisbe gsaid
about you in the -room tonight!" '

“ Perhaps that I am very pret ," said Oriole,

htl .

“11% doubt you have been admired; but a
modest rl would hardly care to have all the
fellows n ling after her, when not a lady in
' theroomw l acknowled her acquaintance.
The say that Mr. Mot ey admires you too
aim for your good."

“That istrue—too much for my happiness.
He loves me, but he is engaged to you—a great
pity for all of us!”

‘ Loves ou," echoed Irene, with a bitter

h. es as the spider loves the fiyi You
are lder and wickeder than I thought.”
“ do not mean to be bold or wicked. I loved
I Mr. Molt-Icy the first timghggag him—I did not
dream t was wrong' now, even my
own father says Iit ill—because 1;:  ranged}
tomarry on. neverexpect e;
moi.“ ml? "is: .. 't 1w r
' t : ex on -
ways "~tearsyro‘mi into the dark e es—wbut
I would rather be u'fiup and love than
lovemoueelseaadbe wife. BMW

inst its silken ‘

1
i to crush me, Miss St. Mark, for I have it in

m wertodo youavery great ury.”
x{Rwhaibecauseyouen'occ inofhis

love i"
“ Not at all. It has nothin to do with Mr.

Morley's feelings; it has muc to do with his

med—there was no help for it. You need not

prope . _ .
“ Oh! our father is his steward: I see. Is it ‘

possible 0 estate is incumbered, or less valu-
able than has been reported!" asked the fiancee
quickly dropping her imperious manner an
condescending to hm anxiously on the answer
i of theng she desp .
“ It not incumbered nor less valuable than
has been thought. On the contrary, it increases
_ in revenue constantly; but I know something
relating to it which you would ve all gouge-
to have the same know ed e o .
t. Mark, I have heard it said t at you wil
marry Mr. Morley for his money-not because
i you adore him as the one man in the world for
g on Do you think, were you to learn that he
3 had lost every dollar and every acre, it would
i make a difference in your to be his

i wife?”
i Oriole watched the fair face before her—noted
‘ the quiver of the eyelashes, the faint whitening
of the ii
i “ No iiference, of course—not the slightest,”
answered the fortune-huntress, with Well—simu-
lated indifference. “ What a curious question]
‘- Had on any motive for asking it?”
I‘ “ o matter. I am glad that such an and:
! dent would make no difference with you. Here
I comes Mr. Gathorne with an ice for me.
I Thanks. How refreshing it is,” and not Irene
l herself could have turned from the steward’s
1 daughter with more indifference than the stew-
' ard’s daughter now turned from her.
Oriole still stood on the balcony eating the
: ice, with Felix by her side, when Eugene came
l out for a moment:
i “Oriole, I promised your father I would not
speak to you except in the presence of a third
» .on; so I must say my glow-by before my
Brother here. We close t e ouse dnv after to-
I morrow, and I shall be very busy. Once away
« from here, I do not expect to return before
; Ma , and then I shall—” .
i “ ring your wife home,” added Oriole, for
' him trembling and white.
l “ su pose so. Well God bless you, my dear
_ little f end—my bird Oriole. I would we had
. met sooner, but it was not to be. Good-by."
I He held her tiny hand, that w icy-cold in
l his clasp, an instant, wrung it istractedly, and
,. went back into the merry ball-room.
' “ I think, if you will find Mrs. Chaldecott, I
' will go home now,” sped the gym child, turn-
ing her white, suifenng face to elix.
‘Yes, I will find her, Miss Darion. Ah if I
I could bear vour heart-ache for you, how gladly

! ni ht—that excuses her white cheeks, and we
I i seem to notice them as little as ible.”

“ Yet on will keep her with you ’

“I wil. I am  nowtoadvise her to
trytoslee at her acheinthe quiet of her
own chem r.”

Zophiel stlode away about his business, and
i Mrs. Chaldeco gent y smoothing Oriole’s hair
and kissingliler orehead, urged her to lie down
' and try w t rest would do for her—“head-

ache ” she called it—meaning “ heartache."

- Very obediently the girl went up to her room,
tossed

where she about on her illow for an
hour or two, while Esther sat sewing in the lit-
tle parlor into which the stairs opened by a
closed staircase.

“She must have fallen asleep,” thought the
lady, as she stitched patiently away until sun-
set

But Oriole had crept to her window, where a
cool, moist air had fanned her hot forehead,
and a wild desire to be out under the free blue
sky had come upon her—she was stifling in that
bower-chamber. Esther would wish to go with
her, if she knew of her going out, and Oriole
wanted to be alone—as suflerin creatures often
do. She stole into the little d Betty ’s room,
and down a steep narrow back stairs which let
into the kitchen; Bett was out, and she es-
caped into the thicket o evergreens behind the
Lodge without being observed by any one. On
and on she strayed, takin care to keep out of
sight of the drives and wa ks leading up to the
mansion; it would have been dreadful to her to
meet any of those insolent ladies who had treat-
ed her so at the ball; whil as for Mr. Morley,
he had hidden her good-b ?orever—or the same
as forever to her l——and s e neither planned nor
head tocrOSs his path. No, she onl wanted
to out with Nature, so soothing to t cos who
bring their troubles to her.

She scarcely noticed in what direction she
was going until she stood b the pool, whose
dark surface rippled ever so ' htly under the
touch of the September breeze. ith bent head
and clasped hands linked and falling languidly
before her, she stood looking at the water and
dreamin over those passionate love-lines Eu-

ene he once in that very spot murmured in

r ear.

“Was it not Fate—whose name is also Sorrow—"

that brought Eugene there, and fixed his wan~
dering footsteps in pain and gladneas, to behold
who stood there dreame

He had left the indo ladies of Morley
Beeches takm’ g their afternoon nap after the
late hours of the ball, and dressing or dinner;
he and Felix had had a two hours’ chat since
lunch arranging their plans for the winter;
Felix  decided, with his brother’s approval,
toremaln at the Beeches, tearing his room—
whlch would be little distur b the improve-

 

would I doitl” he whispered.
Oriole’s dark eyes wore turned to the calm '

stars. |
‘ “Nottoseebimagain for more than half a 1
' earl I shall be dead before then. I cannot.
I ve—I shall die without him. And, if he ever .
1 comes, she will be his wifel Oh father, father,
I why did you ever have a daughter, so wretch-
. ed, so worthless as Ii”

CHAPTER. XII.
a raraaa’s mm.
Had we never loved so kindl
Had we never loved so blln y,
Never met. or never parted
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.
—Bumls.
Lars in the afternoon of the day followin
I the ball Oriole found herself on the brink o
1 that d , still pool set about with whispering
ines, w ich was dignified at Morley Beeches
By the name of “the Lake.” How came 1
‘ there she hardly knew. She had been vsry
\ miserable all day—sopale, so hollow-eyed, that
her father had watched her with furtive anxleo 9
‘ t ; the womanly excuse, “ a headache,”did not i
i ((eceive him as to the true cause of the change i
in his Child. l
‘ “Fool—fool—and blind! That I could not l
have foreseen something like this and sent her
away to school—or gone away from here with i
her myself, ere ever he came homel” was his

self-accusation.
Lodge after the mid-day meal, I

 

4

i

As he left the
he said to Mrs. Chal ecott.

“Esther,guardherasthea eof your eye
until the people go away from first house.

mkHeaven, twillbebutone moral-—
and Mr. Morleyhasgivenme his w ofhonor
nottospuktaherexceptiltbepnsenceef
others.

hile kmen woul
lLl'eunseslnw so manywor

, have done wro
, here I am going

[ bird Oriole, if

1mm

“Yemlr. Dariemhe bade her toothbrush

ments to go on—and a con is of he servants to
“attend n his wants an look after the house.
He had 'd out a course of , he said,
which he could follow more I than
in the city; while it would be or the interest of
the owner to have an in person and ta:
.run of it. .
there is no one at the who
basinfiueneed you in coming to this doc ion,”
Eufifino had marked, with some jealou .

‘ you mean Miss Darlen, Eugene, dan’t
mind owning that I would like to win her for
a: wife; but the chances are against me, I

,. .

“Upon my son ix, I heartily wish on
had met her first?" Eugene bad saidI flingin
his am over his brother a shoulder. ‘ 1 know

; and when I get awa from
onestl to try to act réht by
Irene. I leave the fie to you: when I return
here, a married man 1 hope to be able to freely
co tulate you on having won Miss Darlen.’

S ortly after that, finding General Carlin -
ton asleep in the library and not caring enoug
about a game of billiards with the younger gen-
tlemen to challe them, Eugene went out for
awalk over his omains. It was trnl by ac-
cident that Fate led him to the lake at e same
time with Oriole.

He saw her some seconds before she was
aware of his vicinity.

“Poor child! She looks heart-broken. And
it is I who have done the mischief l Poor little
on could know how bitterly I
regret ha ed with that innocent heart
of yours! It sweetto be loved,” you love
me; but I wmld fol-swear the sweetness, could
I givo M our M God
knows don’t you eri It is hard
tool-rlneves m inall mylifewas

l'
canal to so much self-d

 

. maul»... .— u 1 Au yrs-5'4 but!!!)

 

lere a
head,

blue
I that
with
lriole
often
'oom,
h let
e es-
rl the

st of

an~
old

VDVDs-m:

VI'IINI‘

 

 

 Ell

v‘ Good by
him, while in

l

 

"‘ Self-denial! I ought not to be standing
here—I ought to turn and steal away before
she is aware that I have been here. I will keep
my promise to her father. Yes, I will keep it.
Itis cruel to have to turn away without one
word—but I ve my pledge as a man of honor.
I must—I w go.

“ How beautiful she is! Never has she been
quite so lovely as today when I am not to see
her again for months. That droop at the dim-

ling corners of her mouth—those ‘ woeful sha-

ow. ’ under the tear-dimmed eyes—they make
my heart ache.

“ But I will go—I will not to her—will
not tell her that my heart ac es, too—yes, this
moment, while I can, I will go!"

He was making a reat, an honest effort to
keep his word; was himself from the

lace which had such a fattfily sweet attraction

or him; he had been careless, t htlees, self«
ish, but now he was endeavoring to 0 what was
best for this beautiful, innocent ’ l—best for
the young lady whom he had to be his
Wife. He was going away without speaking—
goin to let alone the h{cling girl who was irre-
voca ly in love with m.

Like most of ne’s good resolutions, it
was made rather la ; yet “better late than
never.? Let him have credit, poor fellow, for
what he was trying to do!

Ashe turned to fly from tem tation a t
snapped under his foot, and Orio e lookin tha
wa , saw him and gave a little sobbing, gearb-
bro en‘cry. He and stood, amwering
her lovmg look th one as fond.

“Gov goin'ho “id: “1 know you prombd
father not to have anything to my to me. I do
not blame you. Good-by—good-byl” and two
piteous tears gathered and ran over down the
velvet cheeks.

Oh, those tears! It was hard not tobeable
*0 say one kind word in farewell; but—he had
liven his word, and, as a gentleman, he strug-
gled to keep it. His heart Was in his eyes—he
could not help that; his lips quivered but kept

CD00.
‘0

- ” she repeated, draWing nearer to
remained as if rooted to the
ground. “Wth you come back here with
your bride I shall not be here,” and she turned
awild look upon the dark rippling water b
Which they stood; “ so it is farewell forever.
11°F. fin Will be happy, Mr. Morley though you
have lied m happlnms dead. $Ile does not
love you—she oves your money—but I am only
your steward’s daughter, as she says, and you
can break my heart and she will think none the
Worse of you. She is cold and ambitious—hut,
you have chosen—and so, good-by.”

[she was only telling him the truth, {ft it was
111ml to listen and make no defense. 9 press-
ed lusieeth into his lips and made no answer.
She come quite near him; her beautiful
face was flushed now, that had been 80 p010. and
lovely wrth wet cheeks and flashing eyes—he

had not promised that he would not touch hell:

though that was in the spirit if not in the letter

of his vows" and suddenly be seized the soft lit--
pledth andpres‘ed on it half.

tie brown dim
3 down kimes m passionate farewell

It was in that unfortunate moment. that
ZOPhiel Darien, on hisway home from an ex-
cursion overthe farm-land came out of a thicket
of ever is near b and saw the young mas-
ter 0‘ rlay Beeches kissing his daughter’s

hand.
Bledlightnin leapedoutofhisblarke es.
ghar!”hesaidtohimse ,ina

“ Traitor an
whisper.

The next moment ng flashed in the
my sunset air that was not the flash of angry
- y. s, and sclaethmgw on the broom that

was not the whistleof the blackhird or turostle.
" And amillion homble bellowingechoes broke "

over the calm dec 1 and recon

the hills and wood: mu Eugene $303203;
all the pl‘inodglory of his youth and beauty.
igm.“ medhythsnatOriolO'I

sheloobedapinthatsort of he) less stn
which follows a‘ehoek, but it was ngt until 5::
saw her I.“ biad and soowling—the smok-
33 t thefaimost revelation
“F‘ufifiw upon her.  ‘
Tm reselling cry of unspeakable
preach and horror mined to set a vast d'i:
tance betwen hphiel Darbn and the child of
miiiiglwt’ibok o lik '
no a me e that,” he id,i
shakenvoice. “I'warned him—twicanl weal;
do mom and worse than that to save you, on.
ole. Be wasaliar and adastard. Hegave me
his pledge of honor that ho would not speak to
you except ln thepeeseaeeof athird Person. I

w MORLEY BEECHES.

 

was gping away—until he pronused' me. He
must ave known that I was not a person to‘be
trifled with. He deserved his fate, and, by
Heaven, I am glad he met it! Come away
home, girl—this is no place for you."

He did not tremble use he had murdered
his youn employer—the handsome heir of Mor-

shriuking horror of himself in his child’s face.
He scarcely dared stretch out his hand to take
hold of her to draw her away; when he did at-
temptit, she leaped from him like a deer, and
flung herself headlong into the lake which there
went d0wn sheer for fort feet—the dark rip-
pling water closed over or dusky hair and
whim garments till only a few bubbles showed
the spot where she had sunk from sight.

CHAPTER XIII.
“nous my novel“ mm wanaxoa, nasn."

Look you here!
Here is himself, marred, as you see, by traitors.
Amman.

 

“I woman what Mr. Morley has done with
himself?" remarked Violet Carl! n, as she
paced up and down the long draw in -room on
the arm of the youngcadet. “ Miss t. Mark is

my out of humor—just take a sly look at
gr, r. De Witt.”

little, Miss Violet. She is atrifie too aim or-
dinarily—(lon’t you sa so?"

“ If you mean—exp ionless—yes.”

“Oh, that is too strong a word! But you
ladies use strong words when you speak of each
other I have observed."

“Oh, you wicked fellow! You are not old

one to be a observer, so keep your im-
pz‘ss one to ourself until you grow wiser.
ies never . nder each other!"

is worse still. There, somebody else is frown-
ing now! Well, we had a lovely time last night
at the ball, did we notl I only wish there were
goinghto be another to-ni ht !’

“ so do I! Wasn it just too awfully
charming for an i”

“ It was a success. And,
that glorious creature—that
ter, or whoever she was—a stunneri B J awv,
she was quite the handsomwt girl—of er class

who will take your head off—to say nothing of
Mr. Morley’s ' ht of precedence.”

“Aw, well,nI don‘t mind. Blue eyes and
flaxen hair are my style, anyway,” with a kill-
ing look into the azure orbs turned up to his
own. ’Tis rather strange Morley don’t come in!

ty dang ter!”

“That is what Miss St. Mark imagines—
don’t you see? Oh, it is geodto see the haughty
Irene Jealous! She has such a splendid opinion
of llier o’wn charms she rarely coudesoends to he
get! ous. '

The dressing-bell had sounded long before; it

: was nearly’ time for the summons to dinner. A
so rich willght slowly deepened in the som-
ber ut magm'

cent room when the sleepers of
the afternoon, revived by their status and
dressed for the evening, had nearly all assem-

who had attcn ed the ball, the ladies were
handsomely attired; the Misses Carhngton in
heliotrone gzmadines over a deeper shade of
so, in; Miss "ormcly in a thick lustrous black
5' heuv with jet; Irene in a creamcolored
India mul over pale yellow satin with Jac-
quiminot roses in her han- aud belt, and a neck-
lace of garnets.

Irene stood at one of the long windows
through which the last dull gold of the fading
sunset fell over her talll figure; did not
t k of the sharp noayes of the other young

s when she tur away with such a frown
on her handsome face. Where was E one!
She had been dressed and down a full our,
ho ing for a little visit with him before the

was true he had told her at luncheon he should
be busy thro hthe afternoon; this did not re-
vent her sus u that hewas with Miss 0
men.

Felix had come in very shortly after the
d -bell rung: had sat and chatted awhile
with is Wormer ' than, as if he, too, were
uneasy about his brother, he had left the room
and the house. v

 

AadnowCrabbapnearedinoneqf thedoors

ley Beec es: but he trembled at that strange l

“I think her handsomer when she scowls a 

“Of course not. You only insinuate—which ‘

b the way wasn’t
(gardener’s’Daugh- ‘

~11reyer saw. I’ve a mind to flirt with her my- ‘
se 1’
“Then be warned in time. She has a father

—pcrha s he’s flirting with the gardener’s pret- ,

bled. Expectin numerous calls from persons l

at ers t into the drawin -room. She ,
had search the librarian» ga the bil- .
hard-room— ueout out planes—a invain;
her lover not twohledto seek her out It

of the drawing—room with his usual pompous
announcement of dinner.

“Put it back, Crabb, a few minutes,” said
Miss Wormely; “ your master is not in; nor Mr.
Gathorne, to take his place.”

“Its ’iles it completelyto put it back ever
so litt e,” muttered the butler to himself.
“ Only to think of canvas'bscks a—waitin’ l-an‘
l the omelettosufiiay for the third 0in 1

must slumk to cook before she gets the sumay
in the oven.”

“Unconsidered trifles” these, in the light of
the sad y which was keeping the young
master from his place at the head of the table.
' But no one guessed what was impending. Gun.
. Carlington—to whom dinner was a matter of

the gravest importance, grumbled a little to
| Mrs. St. Mark about the desultory habrts of
; ficung men, who thought nothing of being a
, alf—hour late.
j And then Irene, fair and elegant despite the

gnawing jealousy in her breast, turning sin
I to the rose-flushed window, saw two or ree
l men runnin quickly across the lawn and
l through the o d-fashioned flower-garden. When
‘ she saw them running she felt a vague alarm.

There seemed to her in their movements more

than the haste of an ordinary errand—some-
, thing wild and full of the imperious hurry of

danger.

She lingered and looked to see if she could
make out what was happening. The men had
disappeared and all was quiet for several mo-
men She had thrown up the sash and a
. breath of bone suckle came to her from a spray

near’by; abi twittered sleepily—then a whip-

powii in a field beyond the garden set u a

mournful cry—she was about to turn from a
1 window when there, in the further side of the
' flower-garden, she saw a dark group, coming
I slowly, seeming to bear a burden among them.
h She stood and watched them come toward the

ouse.

Yes, some one had been hurt! She saw n-
ly now that the burden was a human gure
prone and motionless in the arms of those who
carried it. Her heart gave a great throb of
fear and sunk dewn, down, chilled by a sudden
conviction that harm must have 001.08 to En-
gene, the reason he had not returned.

Mr. Gathorne was absent, too—it might be he
who was bcin brought in this helpless fashion
to his home! ray Heaven, it might be!

Yes, in that moment of tenor and en .nse
Irene almost felt that she passionately oved
, Eugene—Eugene the handsome, the dwbonair—

as well as passionately coveted his fortune and
position.

Surely, no gayer more charming, more -
lant gentleman he ever done homage to (‘1'
beauty. The world would look very dull and
dark and lonesome without Eugene Morlevf
She realized it, with a shudder, as the sad little
procession came slowly on. She lost sight of
them as they went on to the front entrance;
then she turned and walked quick! to meet
them when they should enter the 1. Her
white face was noticed by the company,
though she said not a word; a eneral alarm
thrilled the others, who followed er rapid foot-
steps, and so were there in the now lighted hall,
when the broad doors wore flung open and the
young master broughtin by his servants and
‘ laid Own at his lady’s feet.

How like it was to that idle play of the even-
ing previous——

“ Home they brought her warrior, dead.“

This was no play, however, but a terrible
reality. There was no acting in the ‘wa Irene
, wrung her hands, starting back with livi brows
and eyes of horror, from the sight of the set fea-
tures, the blood-stained bosom, where diamonds
glittcrod mockin ly through the red defilement.

“ He is not dug; his heart still beats.”

It was Felix who spoke, with a stern attempt
at calmness and to control the shudder-in
l screamin women; he held his brother’s 00%
hand, an had directcd the movements of the
' men.

“What has happened? Who did it!" lied
Gen. Carlington.

“ I cannot tell you. I found him lyingdown
by the lake. There was no one in sight. How
long he had lain there I do not know. He is
? shot in the breast, whether by accident or foul
intent, who can say l——unless he lives'to‘tel! us."

“ Have ou sent for a doctor?" '

“ I told atrick to mount the Wheres in
the stable and ride for Dr. Sinclair; he is but
, two miles away. We will do . With my
. poor brother until he is here to d ,III‘, for we

do more harm than cod.” '

l

no- “N

ma
F’dr nearly an hour ey waited, W
withstrained senses fertile ammo ao-

  

‘14

 

MORLEY BEECHES.

 

preaching wheels. It was terrible to wait and
remain idle—yet that seemed best. Eu ene lay
on the floor under the hall lamp: Felix ad ten- l
derl arranged his own coat under the motion-
less mad; he seemed already dead, and oh, how
beautiful in the pale perfection of his young
manhoodI—the short curls clustering over the
handsome head, the girlish lashes almost touch-
ing his cheeks; a pleasant look on his features,
such as those have who die of gun-shot wounds.

Felix had drooped to the floor beside him, sit-
ting there with bent head his fingers on the fail-
ing, at times im‘perceptible, pulse.

rene, too, ha flung herse f down beside her
lover and sat with tearless eyes fixed upon his
lips as if in expectation that they would open
and say something to soothe her distress.

The first thing Dr. Sinclair did on his arrival
was to send her and the other ladies away.

“ You shall know u hether there is hope—or
not—as soon as I do myself,” he said, kindly.
“And now, we will convey the patient to his
bed before we seek to arouse him, or examine
his wound.” and so the young master of Morley
Beeches was borne to his airy, pleasant cham-
ber, and laid on the bed from which he had
sprung that morning full of buoyant life and
ha places.

he result of the physician’s examination was
—that the wound had plowed the lower part of
the right lung and was probably mortal; there
was just the shadow of a hope that the patient
mi ht survivo it, because of his perfect health
an vure blood.

“ ounds in the lungs have healed, and the
suflerers been but little the worse for them af-
terward. There must be absolute quiet—the
fever must be kept down—of course We cannot
tell—at all events, telegraph f')!‘ Dr. H., of New
York, to meet me here after the 10 a. )1. train
ism tomorrow. How did this hap n, Mr. Ga-
thorne?” the doctor suddenly aske .

“I wish I could tell you. I went out about
six, f 1- my usual alternoon stroll, and took,
%uite l: chance, the path leading to the lake.

here came upon in brother,l in across the
path,apparently dea : blood on is m—but
not much. for he la face upward, and had
probably bled interns iy.

“Yes, that is the worst of it: his lungs are ‘
choked with blood. It is a sad case. Had Mr.
Morley anv enc-m hereabouts?”

“I hardly thin so,” responded Felix, mus-
ingly, and then a faint color came into his pale
face as he recalled the throat of Zophiel Darien.
Dr. Sinclair was watching him closely, and
noted the all ht flush.

“ He woul not commit suicide?”

“ H.-? my brother Eugene? He was me of
the happiest persons I ever saw—a joyous, easy
temperament—and had everything the world
accounts beat and most fortunate! I had not
even thought of suicide.”

“The spot where he was found should be
carefully searched. I do not myself think it a
case of attempted suicide; a man might ive
himself such a wound, but it is not probab e.”

“ No it is not probable—not of my brother.”

The keen eyes of the physician studied the
countenance of this Felix Gathorne—this young
figtleman who would be the heir of Morley

ches, in event of the death of his brother—
brotber so-called though there was no blood
relationship! studied that grave, anxious face
for some evidence of guilt! It had already oc-
curredtothe doctor’s mind that no other hu-
man being could havo so much to gain from the
death of oun Morle‘y as this man who seemed
sosorry or w at ha happened!

Felix himself undertook to convey to Irene ‘:
the news that Dr. Sinclair held out a hope—a !
frail hope, indeed, yet better than sudden, ut- r
tar despair to Eugene’s friends.

He found her walking up and down the corri-
dor, outside her lover’s chamber. He had never
liked Miss St. Mark—had thought her cold, do-
signin . and more in love with the Morley money 3
than t io Morley hair; but he pitied her, then, i
for she a peered in real distress, and he took ;
her han , almost tenderly, as she stood still,
taming her pale face to hear the tidings he 1
brouairt.

“ ‘ hile there is life there is hope,’ dear Miss
St. Mark. The doctor says our loved one may
live—not that be much expects it!—yet, he does g

 

not den us the ibility."
She rew hermd out of his, as if she dis-
liked his sympath

“ I do not underytitand who could have wished

to bar E .” she said.
“ mmmoumentands that. It is a wretched
mystic . But, it will be fathomed! His assas-

sin not escape.”

c“ This strange that you found him,” she wont

; through the house which

 

on. in 'a constrained voice.

“ Hardly strange. I often walk by the lake.”

“It Eu ene dies you will be the heir,” she
said, and ooked up at him, suddenly.

Felix shrunk back from that look as if she
had struck him in the face.

“If that is what ou, and even Dr. Sinclair,
think, then I pray
long enough to name his enemy.”

 

CHAPTER XIV.
nxnnn A CLOUD.

And what if pride had duped him into guilt?
—Con:ainol.

A warn: of suspense dragged its slow length

ad been so gay, and
at its close Eugene was still living. It began to
look as if his case was to be the one out of a.
thousand which recovered from such a wound.
He had not yet spoken one word since the
sli ht delirium of fever had subsided, for he
ha been stflctly ordered not to: but he was
conscious and observant, smiling faintly when
Irene hung over his pillow for five moments
twice a day.

Felix came to see him, too, every little while;
Iyet took no part in nursing him. He d a

ired attendant, besides Mrs. Dapple, who was
good in her way. Miss Wormer was devoted.

t would have struck the patient as curious——
had he exercised his brain enough to think—
that Felix, who was an efficient nurse, did so
little for him.

Unhappy Felix! He was under a cloud. Too
proud and too angry to notice it by denial, he
was yet aware that that cruel suspicion hinted
by Irene St. Mark to him had been hinted to
others and that it had gr0wn and strengthened
day by day. With bitter indignation he beheld
its secret workings. He had determined to kee
away from attendance 0n Eugene, though his
heart yearned to be doing for him.

“They may accuse me of putting poison in
his food or medicine i”he said grimly to himself.

At the same time, his solicitude for his bro-
ther was made more acute b the fear—the
horrible fear—that if Eugene died without ex-

( plaining who shot him, that damning suspicion

might rest on him for the remainder of his
days!

"‘ Doctor,” spoke Miss St. Mark, on the eighth
da , when the physician was about leaving the
sic —chamber, ‘will it hurt Mr. Morleyto tell
us who fired at him? If we are to take steps to
arrest the would-be assassin, we ought to be
about it. ”

Felix was sitting beside the bed. The blood
flamed up into his white forehead when every
e e in the room turned on him except his bro-
t er’s. The doctor hesitated, then turned back
to the bedside and leaning over his patient,
said:

“ Mr. Morley, you are only to whisper in an~
swer to my uestion—speak only the name—no
more: our riends are anxious to arrest the
dastar who shot you down—do you know who
did it?”

There was quite a 1pause: then Eugene, too,
turned his feverish g ance to Felix before re-
plying in a distinct whisper:

A‘ I will not tell.” his to

m of passed over coun nance,
but litlauhgddedzp‘in

“ I am not certain.”

Dr. Sinclair and Irene exchanged glances
which said: "

“Generous suffereri Too noble to denounce

the traitor b his own h o! This makes
‘assurance oubl sure ’l”
“Very well; 0 not disturb yourself. The

matter shall rest until you are better. Miss St.

| Mark finimlly felt anxious to have the guilty

l’l‘el

Eugene feebly shook his head.

“ Very well, very well. It shall be exactly
as you wish. On y keepf veg t‘iuiet and be
ve patient, my dear r. or ey, and you
wil soon be able to attend to the matter your-
self,” and the physician bowed himself out, fol-
lowed by Irene, who asked him in the hall:

“ Is he really out of danger? Can you assure
me of that, doctor?”

“By no means, my dear oung lady! There
is lenty of danger yet—bu there  more hope;

a hope for the best. Strange affair, is it not!

“ Not so very strange, doctor when we think
what human nature a.
ways had the idea that be was wronged out of
the estates—that his mother willed them to her
son instead of her husband—and that he ougdht
tabs in possession here. All a chimera of a
mind, 0 course; yet who can say how morbidly
he may have brooded over it! He has always
been somber and—and peculiar. they tell me.

od Eugene may live at least .

Mr. dathorne has al- '

I However, all this is only conjecture: Dr. Sin—
, ir. We must be very cautious what we Say.”
1 “ Certainly; one would not like to be sued for
slander for instance,” laughin . “ I treat it as
one of the professional secretst at come to me,”
and he went on his way.

Miss St. Mark walked up and down the cor-
ridor awhile, ndering several matters in her
mind. She s uld feel very sadly if Eugene
died—she was sure of that. Why, she looked
five years older already for the shocks and anxi-
eties of the past week !-——her glass told her that.
She should feel intense! grieved and disap-
pointed; yet—need she t erefore look on the
world as a howling wilderness and take no hope
for the future? Need she loss Morleg Beeches?
If Eugene died, Felix Gathorne took is place—
“ The kinmdead: Long live the king.” Felix
was very daome, with a dark, grave beauty
not so charming as his brother’s, but, with a

war of its own. So far as she could guess or
earn, he had never paid tribute of love to any
woman. Why be so hasty in sowing abroad
rumors of his connection with the accident?
She might come to desire his friendship. His
might yet be the hand to make her lady of this
grand old home! While these subtle houghte
crowded into her mind Felix came out of the
sick—chamber and went slowly, with bowed
head, down the broad flight of stairs. He did
not see her, as she stood in the shadow, but sigh-
ed heavily as he passed her.

Thereis an Oriental proverb almost brutal in
its truth: “A live dog is better than a dead
lion.” Irene, elegant and lady-like, would have
shrunk from the coarse application; yet her
faintly throbbing fancies, as she looked after
the dark brother, were no whit more delicate.

“I must make amends to him for past slights,”
she thought, as she slipped down the stairs after
him, to flatter him into folly, as she ! ad many
another of his sex. However, Felix was not to
be found.

The house had become intolerable to him.
The air seemed to him too thick to breathe ‘
wlth foul unwholcsome su 'cion. What! did
Eugene, too, suspect him? ug'ene, one hair of
whose head he would not have harmed. The
very Fates were against him! He had expect-
ed, if his brother recovered, to be justified in
theeyes of all by having the guilt person de—
nounced. Now, it seemed more t an ible
that Eugene was himself in ignorance o the as-
sassin—even that be imagined Felix to be the
oflender!

“ It was Darien " Felix said to himself, as he
plunged out of doors like one half suffocated
panting for air. “ He is the only man who has
cause of quarrel with Eugene E—good cause, too!
Darien is not a man to allow me, or any other,
to suffer for his actions. I have but to state to
him thatI am the victim of suspicion and he-
will come to my rescue by owning the deed.
And then—his daughter’s name will be mixed
up in the miserable scandal! Poor Oriole, inno-
cent as the birds in the blue heaven above her,

will be gossiped about—disgraced! Better for
me to be under a cloud than for the l I love!
I will say nothing—at present. But will call

at the Lodge to see how they fare. The ntle
face of Mrs. Chaldecott I know will not rown
upon me. I longor her sympathy.”

It was one of ptember’s most perfect da .
As Felix walked along under the stately beoc es.
it seemed to him impossible that Ediggene should
die—should become dust in the mi of this life
and splendor of the external world. He grayed,
liftin his face to heaven. that his rother
migh be spared to enjoy the thin which were
his in such lavish degree. Little tty was out
by the gates, which stood wide open admitting
an almoatoonstant procession of carriages Whlf'h
drove slowly up to the front of the mansion and
stood there a minute or two while the occupants
inquired after Mr. Morley; than droveas softly
away in. Felix encountered two or three in
his we! to the Lodge; sure! . those faces were
cold, or full of suspicion, t at looked at him
with such slight recognition. Anger and pain
burned hot in his bosom: he had not yet con-
sidered that he had also cause for four.

“ Come in," responded Darien’s voice, in re-
spouse to his knock. He entered the familiar

rlor. which, somehow, wore an unfamiliar

ook; Zophiel was at his dek, l with ac-

counts; there was a feverish glitter n his dark,
sunken eyes, but he was as calm as arockto
outward ap nce.

“ How is . Morley this afternoon!” he ask-
ed, asaoon as he sawwho his visitor was. “I
see the doctor has made his visit.”

“ Dr. Sinclair holds out a very faint hope that»
he may recover; so faint that we dare not al-
I low ourselves to build upon it.”

 

 

 

MORLEY BEECHES.

‘15

 

 

Darien sat staring out of a window saying
nothing more.

“Are the ladies at home!" Felix presently
ventured.

“ No,” was the answer, made with scant
courtesy. “ My daughter needed a change and
has one away in Mrs. Chaldecott’s care.

" gone away I”

“ Yes. Is there anything surprising in that!”

“ I beg your rdon.”

Felix sat a ew momenta pondering—should
he tell this man the sus icions which had fallen
upon blinself? Finally decided to wait a lit-
tle while; if Eugene got well there would b0 no
trouble, robably—Eugene would himself desire
‘0 de I 8 subject, rather than have Oriole im-
plicated. If he died—well, then, no man could
tell what would be the consequences to him-—
Felix Gathorne.

He arose to more keenl dise inted at
$0 ladies thah he  to so-

not seeing the
knowled e.

“ Wai a moment,” said Zophiel, in a hoarse
voice, rising a suppose you infer, Mr.
Gathore. that I shot our rother; I did. And
I am willing to ng for it, if he dies. He
broke his word of honor to me and made an ap-

intment to meet her secretly. I found them
figether. 1 had taken my revolver with me,
and I used it. I am not sorry.”

“1 hard] think Eugene would break his
word. He thoughtless—selfish, if on will—
but not n; liar. You have been too ty, De-
ricn; a

gouhave brought scandal on your
daughter. this thing becomes public. It will
be horrible to have her name mixed up in this
business.”

0“ I did not think ahead so far as that. I saw
him kiss her hand and I shot him. He was en-
gaged to Miss St. Mark—he had no busineu to
make love to my daughter.”

“Itis butacommon iece of lite flattery
to kiss a lady's hand. on shoul have waited
and talked with him—given him a chance to
defend himself. ”

“I had warned him.”

“We both know that Eugene loved your
daughter far more than the oung lad to
whom he was engaged; that e would have
married Oriole had he hem free to do so. He
was laced in a hard dilemma—by his Own folly
in a1 owin himself to admire your daughter in
the first p 'e—but still he was to be pitied, or,
at least, made allowance for.”

Darien groaned.

“Don’t convince me that I did wrong,” he
cried, vehemently. “ I am more than punished
“1 Do you know what I have done! I
have turned my child’s affection for me into a
horror of me. She shudders if she hears my
vonco-tremhles if I look toward her. Ay she
jumped into the water, after he fell at her leet
rather than have me lay a finger on her!  had
a time  rescue her! Did you ever notice a
“055i bright flower laughing in the sun—and the
“"39 flower the next morning after frost had
touched it! I am the frost which has blighted
my darling! You never saw such a charge!

0 you know if he dies. I am certain she will
fiommit rule .1 And so, I have to pray that

many live—I, who hate him I”

fly that he may live for his own sake—
and a little for yours. barien—for you will
not care to bear always the wei ht I see on
now suffer from. It is a terrible 'ng, this t t
Yo‘l‘l have done!”

AV, don’t tell me that! Wait until you
“V8 e daughter—motherlth light of your
9 '08. the glory of your life—like mine——’ he
8 a ,and burning tears rolled out of those
Bug: all eyes.

I would it had been I who met her first!
Who knowsi—she mi ht have fancied me! And

-I would have ask no sweeter wife! Darien,
‘Iistill have a hope, when these dark days are e

ream of the pest—when Eugene is well and
agdllled to his waiting bride—that I may win
M 0,: ‘0 m on me vnth kinder eyes. Master of

°'” fluke! by right of heritage from my

“I and m mother’s will Iknow
,1: u :9 “Shut l whl not murmu’r at my
a?” gmgnm'o l as I can hope that in
E "‘0 Ill-pry year she will have to:
I “"31?” to love me for the

M" 0|“! answer was a heavy sigh.

tten
vs I

 

 

“11' is very wrong for on to feel as you do
toward your father, Orio c.”

It was the mild voice of Mrs. Chaldocott
speaking. The girl, to whom she addressed her-
self, sat on the hearth her chin in her hand,
staring into the heart cl a wood-firehwhich the
frosty September evening made desirable' the

lace was the little woodland cottage which
sther had deserted to take charge of this
young creature, whose stronger, more passion~
ate nature threatened to break all bonds she
mi ht strive to bind it with.
ell might Zophiel Darien tell Felix his
dau hter was cha . The blanched cheeks,
the ark hollows about the unnatural! y lustrous
eyes, the dos rate look—half wild, half heart-
broken—of t ewhole lovel countenance were
very different from the so , dimpled, flower
like charm of Oriole’s face a fortnight a 0.
Yet, more beautiful—for it was more woman y.
It would take years of such suffering to destroy
the exquisite outlines—the velvet of the cheeks,
the lory of the eyes.

“ e had not broken his word, Mrs. Chalde-
oott. He was going away without speakin .
He loved me so. And in father knew that
loved him better than al the world—and he
shot him! He fell at my feet; I the ht him
dead—dead] My father tried to kill im be-
fore my eyes.” A shudder ran through her
from head to foot. “ Do on think I can ever
forget that horrible hour

“ At least you ought not to dwell on it, dear
child. Your father was terriny angry. You
are too (young to understand to ly why he felt
as he di . It was his love for you—his ride in
you—that made him feel like killing t a man
who would persist in wantonly triflin with
{3311' happiness. Mr. Morley had very

y- even though he did nots k to you that
time, a made love to you all t e same. There
must trouble come from such conduct. Either
he must disappoint a young lady whose con-
fidence in his promises was such that she and
her mother were visitors at his house, with their
engagement openly declared—or, he must leave
you, my poor ch d, not on! wretched and
without hope, but an object o gessi perhaps
of men’s lau hter and derision. If Ihad been
your father should have done what he did I"

“My Own father tried to kill him, with my
hand 11 his,” reiterated Oriole, in the some
stra e, low monotonous tone. “Ithought he
was ead. He ma be dead,” she went on in a
slightly raised veice. “ He was very low, to-,
day; there was a change for the worse. He
may be dead—or dying—mite, Mrs. Chaldecott
—and I am not with him. He would like me to
be with him, yet you keep me here. Oh, cruel,
cruel to be so rated even in death."

u rim so. rk is by his side—lt-is her place
——her right. Ah, Oriole, in your willfulness
you will not see thi as they are.”

“Am I willful! dare say i am, since on
say so. I can't help wanting to be with in
when I know he is ining for me. I can’t help
wanti to be wi h him when Ilove him so.
Oh, if m father had not so wickedly shot him
we migh have been ha py together. For, do
you know, Mr. Morley as r as I am. I
could have proved that, and hen that proud
selfish woman would have given him up, an
he would have been free to come to me.”

“What do you mean by that, Oriole! Mr.
Morley as poor as you i"

Oriole relapsed into silence, and stared into

the fire.
“If Egon could have proved it, why didn’t
you!" ther asked

“I was not uite certai that he loved me .
q n = Irene revealing them distinct] toonewhohed

well enough. I wanted him to behappy wheth-
er I was or not. But, at the last, he seemed to
be so sorry to say good-by. I am ulte certain
now, he would have forgiven me I told
that I knew.”

“Wh , what do you know!"

But t e girl was silent again.

“ That reminds me," sai Ether, after wait-
ing a moment, “will on tell me who lent you
the jewels you wore he ni ht of the bell? and
how on got that cop of Morley’s drein?”
Btifi Oriole only Izared into the dropping
cosls.

“Did Eugene lend you the diamonds and the
dress?” urged Esther.

Suddenly Oriole started out of her brown
study and turned her t dark eyes on her

uestioner with a spar e of cunning showing
for a single instant under their long lashes.
“Why do you press these questions!" she re-

“Itwouldbeamathrofkeencuriosityto
any one under the circumstances. I am deeply
interested—more deenlv than vou think.”

.11 }

 

 

1 There was a frown on her fair forehead; she

“ I kn0w that Felix Gathoufe is your favor—
ite, Mrs. Chaldecott.”

“ygg matte;  is my favoritfe, Ofigl‘e‘.

0 on no mg a wrong I you
it in air power even you sufl'ered by it!"

“ o, no, not il Eugene suffered b it—no, in-
mm. “inseam?” “"33 12°
el ps 6 is s e sprung r
feet andpvgalked about and about the fire-lit

room.
“M darl I wish you would calm our-
:lf. éomeéiillvfill yo:l not gm w I wfil fsit

y ouun you eep—r — —prayor
youY—only I cannot hear to see you so restle-
end unhappy.”

Oriole burst into a frantic laugh.

“Gotobedl go to slee l Mrs. Chaldecott, I
shall not close m eyes— shall not lie down-—
until I hear how e is.”

“ Well, my dear child, if you will promise me
to remain here quietly, I will go now over to
the house and get the very latest tidings. It is
only ten o’clock; I can be there by half—past.”

“ I will go with you. I can wait outside in
the garden. Let me go with you. I shall lose
my senses if I have to wait here alone.”

fCome, then,” muted her companion, with
a in

h.

“gYou think I am willful,” said Oriole, look-
ing at her with miserable eyes, “ but I am onl

(1 rate. If he should die—should be (I 1
An my own father shot him down before me!”

“ You do not think how lonely and wretched
your father must be.”

“ I cannot. I cannot,” shuddering.
not forget—so soon l”

They started forth on their lon walk. The
great Newfoundland, that was rs. Chalde-
cott’s protector when she dwelt alone at the cot-
tage, wan to go with them, but was left in
charge of the house. It was starlight, and the
elder lady knew the path through the womb
very well; but to Oriole’s burning impatience
they seemed to make slow progress until they
emerged into the open fie ds, when she flow
along the narrow trodden way so rapidity that
she was obliged to wait several moments or her
companion at the last stile, which led into the
tan ed flower-garden.

“ sit here, my darling,” said Esther, seatr
ing Oriole in the summer-house. “ I will not be
fit: more than twenty minutes, probably.

y Heaven, the news may be better than we

anticipate.”
rln s ys of blos-

“I can-

There were a few li
some still on the honeysuc e w c wreathed the
little summer-house. The girl could not see the

blossoms but their e was e.

It was here the ad set that aftem
forafull hour, w ethe sun set andtheplaoe
was full of sweet ers, and Mr. Morley so plea-
sant, so beautiful, chatted to her about ' com-
in home.

eamrushedtohere eflrsttearswhich
had moistened their heat since that
horrible shock by the lak do. So kind, so

beauty, so condescendin to her
bad she not adored him in the hour?

But Oriole’s thoughts were suddenl 'drawlt
away from this picture of meme {0 some
thing which was happening close at d. She
heard low voices, drawing nearer as they talk-
ed; and through the lattice-work saw, in the
dim starlight, two ladies, with white wraps
about their heads and ab who came to a
full pause on the vol-walk not four feetfrom
where she was tting. She knew them—In.
St. Mark and her daughter. The cold, clear
starlight fell on the pale, handsome features of

charming. so wonderful in his easy g-jrace and
r ttleedf,

been out as long in the es as

he im tientl though in so tones: t ‘
litp21 tellpaon, in); doctor has 0st given “3
hope. There is an increase of fever, w
means more inflammation, and this may be fol-
lowed b the worst uences. He told me
himself ehardlythought is patient would live
tw‘ent h-‘fogr hours.” to do. on:

‘ t 0 you propose save
hmih?°:hi 1 had mad my” unl-

“ t on e m
flciently plain, mother: I propoze to marry him
#tlgnan-ym” dyi Make ourself

‘ a n a
widow at twonty! y

“ Marry him, of course. You are very (lulli
mother. Arewe to lose all at this latehour
Asyouhaveoften pointed out tome we Ive
spent a year and much mane brimming
to their resent condition. It, known me
were to so soon, that I will have to

man!

_ go into mourning and spend almost as an.

Eugene Marley’s widow l”.

16

MORLEY BEECHES.

time in black as if I Were his widow instead of l “A lovely lady, dead, shrouded and in her cof-

only his betrothe’d. And'what will I gaini— ‘
not Hug! Yet our affairs, as you say, are in a
despiate strait. As Eugene Morle ’5 wife—
a , though onl his wills one sing e hour—I
all halve one-t of! this gil'eatel estate, lantiirlilis
perso‘ na propert , an those ov ewe s e
chooses to wrl thyem to me.” y j ’
“I‘see. You are right, Irene—sharper than
your mother, for once! But, howwill you bring
about this ‘ consummation, devoutly to be wish-
edi’ Your motive—will it not be suspected?"
“I have only to deal with Eu one. Others
can say or do what the choom. e is unaware
of his danger—thinks o is recoverin . I can
go to him, shedding a few tears and w isper to ,
im how much happier I should be, as his wife, ;
*freeto nurse him, to bewith him all the time. ,
I can tell him how little I care fora ceremonious
wedding, a few weeks later—how I long to .
know myself his wife. He is generous and un- l
suspicious—more so than one in ten thousand— ‘
an Ican easily make him believe all that I wish.
Mother, you know the Rev. Harvey Hermitage
isat Morley Beeches to-night; he is having his
supper, along with the doctor, in the dining-
room this moment, and intends remaining until
he sees how this illness terminates. There is no
reason why I should not be mistress of Morley
Beeches before the clock strikes twelve this ;
1'

1’.
mg If that is your idea, Irene, there is no time
to lose.”
“ No. time to lose. You say right, mother !—
there is no time to lose!”
“ What are youlgoing to do?” .
“ I am going to ugene’s bedside to ask him

to marry me.’

“ An if you fail?”

“If I fail! In in vocabulary ‘there’s no
such word as fail.’ at, if I should fail—or it
should be too late—I shall not even then be in
despair, mother—Mr. Gathorne is the heir in
that case; and Mr. Gathorne is young, unmar-
ried, and unengaged. I have been alread
making myself agreeable to him. Not that
could ever fancy him as I do Eu one! He is

quite too somber for me. Poor ugenel He
was all sunshine,” with a sigh. “I was very, \
very fond of him, after a fashion, mamma. 1’

he will only get well, I shall be more than satis-
fied,” and she brushed awaya single tear. “ 
mamma, I shall be very sorry if Eugene dies. 3
He is really my beau ideal. Yet—one cannot s
afford to have too much sentiment in this great, {
grasping world where some one forever stands I

 

ready to crowd you out if you will allow them!
Eugene, if possibl mammal—If not, that dark- ,
brewed brother! 0 you know, I believe Felix ‘
fliot Eugene? He is aware that I suspect him—
that is one of my strong holds u n him, in case
—but, time flies, and I mustbea ut my night’s :
work. I had dreamed of a Splendid wedding I
ceremony—of a brilliant season in society; now, f
I care onlyto secure what I have so long consid- .3
cred my own. Come, mother, as you say, there ‘r
is no time to lose! A wife to-night—a widow
tormorrow, perhaps !—this is a strange world,
ma mere 1’

With a low bitter laugh that sounded much '
like a stran sob, Irene took her mother’s ‘
arm and hurried her along the path in the di- I
reotion of the house.

Oriole s rung to her feet, rushed out upon the ;

th and ooked after them. There was alburn- I

mist over her eyes, a dreadful pain In her ,
heart, the solid earth seemed to reel under her
feet... Eugene was thought to be dying! This 1

calculating woman of the World was
about to make a reckless, shameless eifort to ‘
Isourewhat she prized more than her young
Mid-haired lover—his property i

It was not that! Oriole could have laughed
attbatl 0h, whata sweet, what a perfect re-
venge she could enjoy in that case! .But—if
Eugene lived—as oh, pra God, he might i—if
he get well, this girl won (1 be his wife! She,
who Could coolly plot to marry another, in the ,

~ hour her lover lay in mortal peril, would »
’s wife

“Never!” cried Oriole, in d ration. “ No,
I. will call her buck—I will tell er the truth-—
and then we will see if she still longs to be

. -—.—

CHAPTER XVI.
m wxm. or run urn ans. uoansr.

s I tcdmy lam at the d ing flame
E:

I

tu t e stairs t at creaked from fright,
.h  of (math 1 came,
. 9 l w to.
uy,’ —Om lisaanm.

a

 

EM!!! darkne- over the world and over
um Court.

.tblack woman, still as a statue, sitting at its
00 .

The great house was full of
place on the next day but one—all in their beds
and sleeping; since the dead lady’s maid and
lifelong personal attendant, the faithful crea-
ture who had closed the dyin eyes, had insisted
in holding, unaided, the nig t-watches by the
00 A desolate autumn wind moaned about

the open windows of the large chamber like -

some wailing spirit calling on the soul of the
dead to come forth and join it in its wander-

in

The watcher did not mind this; but she raised
her bowed head and fixed her great glowing
e es on the door when she heard some one out-

do of it in the hall, and so saw the master
when he came in, lamp in hand, stealtth clos-
in the door after him.

e room was dimly li htcd, but the flare of
the lamp he carried reve ed his face distinctly;
the dar frown upon it would have struck tar.
rorto any heart less courageous than that of
the colored woman whose gaze steadily con-
fflronted him as he came to the side of the cof-

no

“ Diana,’ he began, with only a glance at the
beautiful ale face of his dead wife, “where are
Mrs. Mor ey’s jewels, her miniature on ivory
and the deeds of her properties in New Orleans
and St. Louis?”

“Are they not in your safe, master, where
you laced them after she was taken ill?”

“ ome one has borrowed the key of the safe
and removed them without my knowledge or
consent. Do you know, Diana, that such an
act is robbery! Everythin is mine now, and
whoever has done this shall sent to risen.”

“ Very well. master; I can prove I ave not
been ,in the room where the safeis since mistress
died.

“I know that very well,” with a savage
smile; “it was before er death. Do not seek
to cope with me. I want those things—also
the copy of her will which she gave you for
safe-keeping. ”

He stood close to her, holding the lamp to her
face—for the life of her she could not control
the all rhtcst possible start and wincing of the
eyes; ow had he discovered that a copy of the
will had been made and given to her?

“Why don’t you speak?” he hissed, after a
moment’s silence.

“ I have nothing to say, master. If my dear
mistress gave me anything to keep for her, be
sure I shall obey her.”

He stared at her as if such defiance on her
part were incredible. His hand began to shake
with the passion which grew on him until he
was compelled to go and set down the lamp be-
fore the vailed mirror of the dressing-bureau;
then he returned and confronted Diana, who
had arisen and stood tall and erect to meet him.

“ The things are mine; give them to me.”

“ Whatever she put in my bands was for her
son,’and I shall keep it for him until he is of

“ Which son?” sneered the master.

“ Not vours, Mr. Mathew Morley—her own
little Felix, the proper heir of his mother’s for~
tune. You married my r darling for her
money— on broke her heart—but you shall not
rob her little boy of the Gathorne estates if I
can irevent it.”

“ ou revent it, insolent slave !” His arm
was rai to fell her to the floor, yet she did
not flinch; superb in her courage the black wo-
man stood motionless, like a Juno carved out of
ebony. Something looked out of her eyes which
bellied him. He did not strike her; he swallow-
ed the curses which rose to his lips; but there
was a sneer of infernal malice on his hard,
handsome features as he turned away—a sneer
which filled Diana with far more terror than
his threats or his rage had done. He walked up
and down the floor a few times, never turning
a lance on the lovely dead as he passed the
co n, then again approached the faithful
watcher.

“ Look you, Diana, Mrs. Morley was not. in
her right mind when she made the will of which
you have a copy; therefore, that will is so mug-h
waste paper. Before she was taken ill, while
yet she was perfectly sane,slie made a different
will, which must remain the legal one; that Will
left everything to me—her husband—witnthe
request that, at my death, it be equally divided
between the two boys, provided both were liv-
ing, or to the remaining one if the other should
have died. Such a disposition of her property
is sensible-just what her affection for me would
lead her to make. I explain

ople who had i
come to attend the funeral—wh ch was to take ‘

 

this to you that .

you inaysee how useless it will be for you to
gosmp or make talk about the matter—how
worse than useless to produce that later will,
made after sickness had destroyed her mind.
As to the jewels, theyare amoa the finest in
America—worth a rest deal 0 money; on
surely have too muc good senseto imaginet at
you have a right to withhold them. I shall ex-
t youto produce them before the will is read.
am master here. One breath of scandal from
our lips—one whisper against me or my inten-
ions—and it will be the worse for you. I take
it for granted you wish to remain With little
Felix—you cannot do so as the enemy of the
master of the house. You must be friendly to
me if ’you wish to remain hare. Do you under-
“:le ’odded h h d h
on or ea ; ergreat'eessna
like live coals; once or twice she hadyo nulm
mouth as if to speak, but had clo it with
firm repression; her bosom heaved, but she
said nothing in acceptance or rejection of his

prflposition.

0 took n his lamp and crept away as
stealtth as a had come- still with never a
loofk at the beautiful dead am of his young
w: e.

When he was gone the black nurse smote her
breast, moaned, rocked to and fro—-

“He will git me out of the way "she plained;
“ there will no one to befrien my darling’s
child! His own boy will get all there is—ay,
and little Felix will have some accident ha pen
to him to get him out of the way. Oh, arn
frightened to my very soul l—not for in self,
but for the child. I swore to her I woul pro-
tect him—but I shall not be allowed to do it. I
saw it in his look! What can a poor black ser-
vant do against the power of Mathew M'orle i”

A dry wind sobe and moaned about he
house; black clouds scudded before a hostly
half-moon' an owl, out in the garden, ooted
solemnly; Diana, taki a candle, went into an
adjoining room, where wo lovely children, one
five, the other four years of age, and both
boys, slelpt as sweetly as if their fair mother
did not is white and shrouded, in her coffin,
near by. he stood by the cot of the younger
sleeper a long time gazing fondly on the rosy
fa co: then return to her watch by the dead.

The following day was long and dreary at
Morley Beeches. The funeral had to be delayed
on account of friends arriving from a distance;
but it was expected to take lace on the morrow.

Meantime, the wind whic i had begun the pre-
vious night, was rising and bringing up a storm.
All day the dull, leaden clouds were thickening;
but the rail did not begin to fall until after
dark. By that the wind was blowing tem-
pestuously. The slim young beeches alon the
drive were tossed wildl u and down: t ere
was a loud roaring of ai and rain, accom-
panied by vivid, incessant lightning. Diana,
still holding her faithful watch, not proof
against the superstitions of her race, became
frightened about eleven o’clock, and went for
one of the maids to come and sit with her.
While she was absent, in the attic story, t ing
to arouse the sleepy girl she desired to ave
with her, there came a thunderbolt which
seemed to pla around and about her, while a
deafening cras filled her ears. For several mo-
ments she was too paralyzed to stir.

The first thing s e heard, on coming to her
senses, was some one crying, in the lower hall:

“The house has been struck by lightning l”
and this was followed by the screams of terri-
fled ladies rushing from their bed-chambers into
the corridors.

Diana rushed down from the attic to the se-
cond floor, in the south-western corner of which
were situated the apartments of her mistress.
The air was full of sulphurous fumes. As she
opened the door leading into the death-chamber
s e discovered that the lightning had set the
room ablaze. The children were in a smaller
chamber, adjoining. Crying: “Fire! flre!” she
rushed through the smoke and flames into this
chamber, which had no egress except through
the lar or one which was on fire.

The oor of this room being covered with
India matting and the draperies of embroidered
Indian mull, the six or eight minutes since the
lightning entered it had been sufficient to make
the attempt to carry the children thro h it
most dangerous. Diana immediately cl the
door between the two rooms flung open a win-
dow which opened on a small balcony, tore the
bedding into strips and lowared the little ones
safely to the soft turf of the lawn underneath.

It was thought for years, that she must then
have ventured into the burnin apartment,
either to attem tto remove Mrs. orley’s body,
or for some at er important purpose, since she
never rcappeared. That win: of Merlot

MORLEY BEECHES.

'17

 

 

Beeches was burned to the ground: but, the
hills“ y ruin, combined with the desperate exer-
tions of the servants and visitors, saved the
main part of the rand old mansion. No in-
jury which a. few ays’ labor would not repair
was done to the other a artments; but the fu-
neral for which so many ad come together did
not take place—God’s awful visitation upon
the lining and the dead had rendered that im-
1 e.

Before they separated, however, the family
lawyer read the will of the late Mrs. Morley,
which left her whole great roperty to her hus-
band, Mathew Morley, with) the desire that, at
his death, it should be divided equally between
her son and his son.

For, Mrs. Merle had been a wealthy young
widow, with one Iittle child, two cars of age,
when Mr. Morley married her; an he had been
e. widower, also with a son aged three.

There was a great deal of surpnso and resent-
ment—not to say suspicion—among the Ga.-
thornes when her will was read; but it could
not be ' roved, and they had to submit.

Mathew Morley became the richest man of
hiscoun ; the wing was rebuilt on the mansion
—-once thorne Court, but renamed Morley
Beeches: the two boys ware brought u toge-
ther. Years rolled away : one day, when .ugene
Morley was of age and Felix Gathorne twent
the head of the house died. Again a “last Will
and testament ” was read in the old oak library:
Mathew Morley had ignored the request of her
who had left hlm all that he had, and passed the
frost estate (10% to his own Son, undivided

eavmg Felix only an annuity of two thousand
dollars a year!

 

CHAPTER XVIL
'rwo GIRLS.
" The ruby is not more full of are
Nor the sun more full of light
Then my soul is full of the wildest love
For you—for you—tonight !"

Wm! a desperate effort Oriole steadied her
reeling brain. Her feet trembled as she ran,
but she must pursue those two figures disa
pearing along he garden alley, on either  e
of which arose tall stalks of tube-roses sending
out a sumptuous IWeetness to meet them as
they passed. When she overtook them they
were quite near the house. Two long windows
of the drawing-room were 0 n on the terrace,
from which broad bars of ight streamed out
over the walk beneath. Irene was exactly in
the center of one of these golden gleams when
the stewerd’s da hter reached out a little hot
hand and touched ers.

“Miss St. Mark, stop a moment!
something to tell you.”

Irene paused in surprise. When she saw who
it wase. slight flush went over her proud face
and she recolledns if the burning touch of those
small fingers was distasteful to her.

Something to tell me 7” she repeated,
hau htily.

T e w ite fleecy wrap had fallen from her
fair and stately shoulders; in the olden lamp-
liigmht she looked coldly perfect—dc icately beau~
t “ ~03 Oriole felt, with a sort of despair.

How can he refuse her?” she thought, paus-
ing and hesitating in her singular mission,
shrinking from so much freezing splendor,
trembhn to think of its effect on im she
loved, He never can refuse to make her his
wife, if sh: asks him " she felt, with a sudden
despair. But she not love him—I will
try‘ t‘gfiaye him.”

a can you possib! have to so to my
daughter?” queried Mrs. gt. Mark, sezing the
girl Istaminell;a and shrink.

am 11 ste—in great haste,” added Irene-

“ Yes, I know,” began Oriole, and now the
fire leaped u in her great dark 6 es and the
oplor came ke a flame to her white cheeks.

ou are in haste to reach the death-chamber,
to persuade Mr. Morley to marry on before he
giansgfiat you may, as his wi w, inherit a

OI

I have

pertinent—and an eavesdro !"
“. Ikuow—l know. I was in the mafia-house
waiting to hear—bow he was to ht. It hap-
figncd. I wonder-would it be a kin es: to on, ‘4
s fore yfnwctizry Oil-t your provident plan. lss
t. Mar 16 form you thatthewillof the late
Mrs. Mor “Kahlil been found—the missing will—
m which , In , leaves her own prop
erty to her own chi! Felix Getbornel~that
Eugene Morley does not own one acre, of this
mgynafimgg'gl? In till-greet house. one
cept his brother—no brother b bubody ban—ohm.“ ax
to vehlmeom out ~°llerity1Mra
cg ewnedev before she boonme

 

Mrs Morley, and left it to her son, a Gathorne,
as all knew she must have done; although her
villainous second husband forged a will which

has in lace of the true. Now, the true,
the e will 9 come to 1i ht. ”

“ It strange that you should be the person
to bring me this news! You must excuse me if

I fail to believe it;” but Irene, affecting to
scorn the unexpected communication, yet turn-
ed ver pale and her voice was not firm.

“Be ieve it or not, you will be compelled to
believe it before long. Eugene Morle is but a
poor dependent on his adopted brother 5 bounty.

he jewels, and the miniature from which my
dress was modeled, the night of the ball, came
from the same source as the missing will.
have positive knowledge of what I am talking
about. I thou ht I would tell you—that you—-
that you—migfit know what you were doing be-.
fore the words were spoken which make on
Mr. Morley’s wife. Of course, if you love im
asa wife should, this will ,make no difference
with your plans. If he—lives, Mr. Gathorne
will doubtless be generous; if he—dies—” oh,
how the soft young voice fluttered over that
cruel word l—“ be me. be more generous still.
I only tell you what I ow.”

Irene, lo and frowning, pulled to pieces a
row she old in her hand.

" I give not the slightest credit to anything
you tell me,” she said, after a moment or two.
“I (10 not understand your motivo—and I can~
not think you are honest. The whole house is
aware of flour scandalous, indelicate encourage-
ment of r. Morley’s idle flirtation with you——
his gardener’s daughter. I might have quarrel-
ed with him about it, on] I did not consider
the subject worth a quarre . Of course he is a
young man, and will flirt if invited. When we
are married I shall have somethin to say about
such matters. I tell you nowI think you are
trying deliberately to deceive me to revent my
marrying him to—night. Come, mot er, we are
wasting precious time," and she walked on
quickly, ascended the stone steps and had
{leached the hall door when Oriole overtook

er.

“ It may be a sin for me to love him,” pented
the steward’s daughter, “but my love is pure
and true. I would die for him—ah, Heaven!
how gladly would I die for him this night if I
could take his place! Oh, that God would let
me give my life for his! Why cannot it be!
Yes, I love him too well to wish to see you cold-
ly, inhumanly plotting to be his wife that, as
his widow you may uxuriate in his fortune!
Oh, I thank Heaven, he is poor—as poor as I
am l—since that will prevent your caring to se-
cure him. Yes, Miss St. Mark, Mr. Gathorne is
the heir—will have the money—try our arts on
him! Win him and his wealth, and et my poor
Eugene alone! 0h, he loves me as he never
loved on! I am going to him. If he dies to-
night will die, also; I will kill myself, that I
may go with him 1” Her eyes glittered a
strange smile dimpled the sweetest mouth that
ever breathed; the thou ht that she was so near
Eugene and that he mig t bedying was making
her almost mad.

“ Little fool I” muttered Irene, angrily. “ How
she raves! Serves him right for paying her any
attention. These low-bred women never know
their places. She must be prevented from en-
tering his room; the excitement would be dano

erous to him. I must call a. servant to take
or away. Dapple! Where is Doppler“

“’Ere, ma’am,” responded that person,
promptly, from the ohairin the hall where he
was comfortably dozin r.

“ See in this girl, will you?——take her home.
She insists on seeing your master, against the
physician’s orders.” . ,

“Miss Oriole, I wouldn’t, if I was (you,” ex- .

‘tulated Dupple, besitating to lay a staining

and on Zophie! Darien’s daughter. “ Theysa
master is very critical tonight; you wouldn t ,
do an hink as would ’arm ’im, would you, my ;

dear q

But Oriole had fled East him swifter than a ,
summer tempest and ad rushed up the great a
staircase so blindly that, with a shock, she came
in contact with some one on the landing who :
put out a hand, firm but kind, and held her, .

antin .

p “ Mr? Gathorne, let me go! They selyahe is
dying. I must be with him—I know ' will
wantmeandlmlili‘st benvgthmil‘i‘i’mfio  ya;
10 m as ve o p u l an
letvemege'e' y7o!“ Think! isthiseuhour to keep
us ,

“ ooro lListen. Ispeaktoyonasa
brother w d. Toe doctoris in Eugene‘s room
—aner.Hermi e. Youwwetaot make
yourself an object wonder and curiosity to
others. Besides. I have good news for Jon. my ,

 

child—Eugene is better! His fever ls

own a degree in the last hour. He is sleeping
restfullyl; and the doctor now feels nits sure
that he as nothing to do but get we Is not
this one h to send you home quite happ
Oriole?” 6 still held the hand he had cath
to detain her lookiigfi wietfully into her face,
thinkin if only it h been their fate that she
shOuld ave loved him as she loved E
how fair their lot might have been; he fel the
thrill which ran through her to her finger-tips,
end the next moment she sunk into his arms,
her head on his shoulder—the sudden chan
from despair had been too much for her y
overwrought mood and she had fainted.

Of all things Felix desired to avoid attracting
attention to the wayward girl, so he carried her
into his own room, dashed coma water over her
face and called Miss Wormely’e maid.

Mrs. Chaldecott waited I full hour in the
summer-house, in great anxiety as to her im-
pulsive charge before Oriole returned there,
pale and we , leaning on Mr. Gethorne’e

arm. ~

“I have been ill,"she said, in an animated
voice, “ill from too much joy! Hell better—
he is going. to live! And now promise In Mr.
Gathome, that he shall not be worried y a
visit from Miss St. Mark to-night. I have a
reason for asking it—a cod reason.”

“She shall not see im. As I said, he is
sleeping; and I shall insist on the ladies at once
retiring and the house being kept very quiet.
So now, good-night. Are you sure you are
able to we I: so far, Miss Darlen!” anxiously.

“I am able to do an
swered, exultin ly—he elt how her eyes were

lowing in the k. “ Come, Mrs. Chnldecott,
Iain ready.”

“ Good-night, Mr. Gathorne,” said Esther.
and there was an under-thrill of tenderness in
the way she spoke the formal phrase. “I am
as glad as you are that Mr. Morley is going to
live. You are a. noble friend to him—I must
say it. Some youn men, situated as you ar
would have been ' ppointed at this
news.”

“ My dear madam, can fyou imagine me so
covetous—so wicked—as to ave looked forward
to mv own gain through this terrible trouble!"

“ o, no. Iknow you too well. Happily so
stern e. minister as Death will not be needed to
secure Jon the rights of which you were beeely
defrau ed. A few days—a few weeks, at most
-—e.nd there will be a great change at Morley
Beeches." _

“ I do not understand you madam."

“Of course not. My wordaare but the dim
shadow of coming events. Again, good-night,
my dear boy.”

‘ Her voice trembled. She seems reallyvery
fond of me——-I dare say because she was my
mother’s friend. It must be that she believes
she has some clew to my mother’s wishes—per-
haps her will—which she can make serviceable
to me. Very well; so be it. It has been very
hard and bitter for me to seea Morley in my

lace; and I would be more than human not to

eager to get back m own; though I love
lEugenie as a brother, and ave tried not toenvy
um.

Full of wonder at what might be in storefor
himself—happy at thought of En ne’s pros-
pect of recovery-he walked uic y back- to
the house, after seeing the two 'ee as far as
the stile.

It was midnight by this time; the “all! were
nearly all outin the lower of t house;
every one had retired but t e watchers in the
sick-room-—no, not ever one, for there was the
tall, slim figure of Miss t. Mark pacing up and

l down the lama. She sto And waited for
' p pped laid her

as he came up the steps: then she

, hand lightly on his arm, saying, in her lowest,
5 sweetest tones:

“I cannot sleefiflttrnlght. Will you walk
with me a little w e?”
h “ Ykou1 know that Eugene is outof danger
638 e . '
“Yes. Mr. Hermitage was kind mug-h te

.cometomewith thegoodnewe. Ofcouuel

am very glad and happy."
The odor of violets outed out (1 ha? light
draperies as she walked; her face weeetl'engely

fair in the clear starlight; she clung to his an: '

more closely than was necessary. new silent
for a time; then she began, very y and
lulousty: ask pardon, Felix. f be
“ wan to our or .
cl'llllel, unjustifiabley claim I an '
w on Eugene was brou wounded- .
wonder you donot bet: ’uot refuse to
have anything to do with me; if I watch: your
I never could forgive or forget, ,. 3‘“: Y0“
are made of finer clay than I am. In routin—

hing, now,” she an— '

 

 

MORLEY BEECHES.

 

 

-18

nocence of evil intent, in your manliness and
uprightness, you can afi’ord to overlook the pass-
ing accusations of a half-maddened girl—mad-
dened with fright and grief, as l was when I
thought that dark thing of you. Say that ]you
forgive me, Felix! I could not go to mylpi ow
until I had striven to gain from your 'ps the
assurance that I was pardoned.”

This, from the proud lrene, was a great deal!
Her perfumed handkerchief was ressed to her
eyes—how could a man know t ere were no
team in those blue eyes, and that the faltering
of the low voice was purest art?

Felix had never much liked Miss St. Mark;
had thought her selfish and worldly, a keen
huutress after a brilliant {Jar-ti, a youn lady
who prized fashion above eeling; he ha won-
dered if Eugene had no more heart than his fair

wee, an if they could be happy together.

ow he felt remorse for these fears; believed
that he had done injustice to Irene; that she had
more sensibility than he had given her credit
for. She looked up at him so humbly, her slim

 

hand trembled on his arm, she was so very, ,

very fair and charming!

" l easily forgive on,” he answered her.
“Suspicion had to fal somewhere—why not on
t: 1; p03 seemingly having most to gain? Do
no spe
bur its dead.’ ”

‘° on are so generous!” she smiled.
have I am only just beginning to understand
you, Felix. I have always been a little afraid
of Iyou, you seemed so serious, so much more in-
tel ectual—to look down on our little follies.
We must be better friends, hereafter—shall we
not! Good-night, friend Felix, and leasant
dreams!
the little hand slipped away from his arm, and
Irene, like some fair vision, vanished into night
—having spun the first threads of the new web
for the i ew fiy she might wish to entangle.

CHAPTER XVIII.
WILL sin: PLAY mm “1.51:!
And the same wind sung and the some waves whiten~

 

Or ever ’the garden’s last petals were shed
In the lily-il that had whispered, the eyes that had
ten

Love was dead. ~8wnzsuaxn.
11' was a somber afternoon early in October;

not raining, or threatenin rain but with some ’-
aroun the horizon, and the ‘

cold clouds piled up
crisp air just chilly enough to make the great
fra nt fire of maple wood on the hearth o
the brary at Morley Beeches delightful. The
room looked twice as inviting with that gener-
ous fire. The light layed gayly over the gilt
lettering of the boo s, over lib! dark, old-fash-
ioned round mahogany table, over the marble
busts. the fine on vings, the rich crimson of

the velvet curta ns looped far back to let in ,

what sunlight was abroad. An easy-chair was
wheeled up in front of the hearth, and in it-a

trifie languid, a trifle pale, but ten times hand- 5
corner, if pomible, than ever—lounged Eugene. "

This was his first visit down-stairs since his
accident—“he had

in calling it ever
since he had s

ken on the sub 'ect at all. Miss
Wormely, Fe ,Mrs. St. Mar and the prin-

cipal servants had assisted on the important

occasion; and now having seen the interesting

invalid most comfortably and satisfactorily es-

:sblished, had vanished about their separate af-
airs.

Irene, dressed for dinner, was walking up and
down the room, a little impatiently, with some-
thin almost like a frown on her proud face.

“ is is tiresome for you, I know lrene,”
‘- said Eugene, looking up at her (Pelican y as she

passed andrepassed him. “I on’tsee what all
myfriends took themselves of! for, when they
were most needed.”

“It would hare been intrusive for them to
have remained, when you were so ill. The
Misses (Burlington are having a fine time at
home now."

“Fifth avenue certain! is more brilliant at
this season than Morley es. I am sorry
you find it dull, dear.”

“It isnot the dulness I was thinking of so
much, Eugene. I was thinking of the propri-
eties. Now that you are able to be aboutlang
all ourother esfs have flown it would 00
betz'r for motgelr and I to follow. I have told
her so; the maid is now packing our trunks; we
shall get on tomorrow. How soon do you think

on will come to the city!”

She did not look at him as she asked the ques- ~
rim but stopfed b one of the windows and I
kept her face urn as if interested in the soft 1
down-fluttering of yellow leaves on the lawn .
outside.

“Inafortuixht. I hope. Is it Quite kind of

of it again, Irene l-let the ‘ dead past
“I be_ ‘

I am sure mine will be brig t,” and :

you, Irene,
and Felix? ’
“And the gardener’s daughter,” she added,
with alow lau h.
Eu ene hit his lips and his pale face flushed.

rather haughtily. “ I may be compelled to
seek her society out of pure oneliness. Not my

ardener’s daughter however, as you must

now. Zophiel Darren is as proud a man as
there is going: and that little beauty, his daugh-
ter is a princess of the blood royal ' her grand-
father was King of the Gipsies, and their blood
is as pure as that of most of our aristocracies.
She has education and accomplishments. Did
you ever hear her sing?”

“ I have not had that honor,” and Irene burst
into a s rkling laugh, not at all ill-natured.
“I am g ad to earn that the mésalliance will
not be so striking, after all i”

“Irene what is the matter with you, nowa-
days? on are curious] chan ed.”

‘Perhaps you think am ignorant of how
your accident occurred!” she answered him,
still watching the falling leaves outside. ‘ ‘ There

‘ are a good many girls who would be ‘ curiously

changed ’ by learning that the man they were
enga ed to marry had been the hero of such
an venture.”

For a moment the handsome Eu ene looked
disc0ncerted; this proud girl at t e window
with her face turned from him, certainly ha
cause of complaint against him. He liked her
better for feeling his misconduct.

“I have been uilty of a little foolish side-
fiirtation,” he sai , With a blush, “ I acknowl-
edge it. Nothing serious—nothing wicked—"

Only breakin her heart and mine,” inter-
posed Irene, calm y.
' “Good Heaven! How gravelyvyou take it!
I am awfully sorry—awfully! hen you are
my wife, dearest, there will be no fear of such
delin uencies on my art. Iwill t to be a
mode husband. I wil —trulvl” he a ded, ear-
nestly, feeling in his soul that he had been a
scam without meaning to be.

“‘ hen I am your wife!”’ re eated Irene,
turning slowly and fixing her ea in blue e es
on his at last. “ When do you think t at
will be?” .

“ Why do you wish to break With me?” falter-

ed Eugene.

“ I should be justified in such a step, Eu-
gene,” she said, after a pause.

And then she began to walk up and down
again with quickened steps.

“ You pain me inexpressibly,” he said.
“ You agitate me. I did not dream—”

“Then say no more. You are not yet strong
enough to bear agitation. I did not mean to
bring up this subject just et. Hush! you must
not talkl The doctor wil scold me. I am go-
ing up stairs, and then you will have only the
fire to talk to,” and she ran out of the room.

She had succeeded in brin 'ng affairs to the
very point she desired. She ad thrown all the
blame on her lover. She appeared as the in-
jured party. Should she desire to break the
en ment he would set down her motive to
in red feeling—wounded love!

cutter! break with him—or not—was the
uzzle whic had occupied her mind for the last
we weeks. Before the time came to decide she
had ex ted togain some .itive confirmation
of Orio e’s statement abou the property. Im-
pressed with the belief that the girl spoke truth
she had’ been playing her cards to intcrest and
enchant the grave dark young man she had
once treated with almost contempt.

If she could find out for herself—before either
of the brothers knew—0r suspected she knew
-—-which was the sure inheritor, then she would
know how to end the play To confess to Felix
that Eugene’s conduct had destroyed her love;
to allow him to perceive that she was conscious
of having made _a mistake—that, after all, it
was the poor Felix and not the rich heir she
loved—to work out all this before Felix learned
the change in his prospects—this was her inten-
tion, the aim of er conduct since that night
when Oriole declared to her, in the garden, the
truth about the missing will.

But the da had nearly come when sl a must
depart from orley Beeches and the doubt yet
remained. Once away, where would be the op-
portunity for making discoveries?

“ If I could see that girl a in!” she thought
asshe left the library. Loo ng up at the tall
clock slowly ticking away the hours in its niche
in the hall she saw that it was but four o’clock.
“ Plenty of time for a stroll," she said, and
throwing over her head a fleecy scarlet “ cloud ”
which lay at hand, she slipped out and went
into the shrubheries, from whence by devious
paths, not observable from the windows of the

 

to leave me here with only my aunt  mansion, she made her wa to the Lodge. She
| foun i it closed and little
I ly on the steps watching the gate. She sat
r 0

etty sitting forlorn-

wn beside her, saying that she was tired, and.

‘ taking out her purse gave the child a gold dol-
“ on do well to remind me of her,” he said, ‘ la

r.

“For a keepsake, Betty. I am going away
tomorrow.”

“Be you?” queried the little maid, grasping
the coin eagerly. “I won’t have no ates to
open no more to the fine carriages. will be
dre’dful lonesome here all winter, I s’pect.”

“ Is Miss Darien at home, Betty i”

“ She don’t live here now ma’am.”

“ Why, how long has she heen awa 1"

“ A good while—weeks. She an’ M as Chalde-
cott they went away. I guess it was about the
time young master got shotted.”

“ Where is Mr. Darien ?”

“Oh, he’s gone, too—just for to-day. He’s
fine to some other place. I don’t ’spect him

ck till after the ten train.”

“ And you are here all alone, little Betty?”

“Yes’m. I don’t mind it. But I ’s t I’II
bedre’dful frightened when it gets nig t. He
said, if I was afraid, to lock up an’ go an’ stay
to the big house, in the kitchen, till he came.”

Irene ooked musin 1y of! over the velvety
lawn between the larc es and weeping-elms; a
slight flush rose in her face.

“ You had better go to the house, as Darlen-
suggested, little Betty. You are too small to
remain here alone after dark. You must be
careful to lock up the Lodge, though; so things
will be safe.”

“ Oh, yes’m. I fasten the kitchen door on the-
inside; then I come out this door and lock it
with the big brass key, and then I hide the ke
here, under this stone,” added the child, wit
the important air of a housekeeper. “ He allers
knows where to look for it. This has been the
place to hide it from times immoral, MissOriole
as s. It’s a snug lace, ain’t it, Miss?”

‘It is, indeed,’ said Irene, and even before
the innocent eyes of the child her own fell, at
the Wicked resolve which came in her mind.
“ Well Betty,” she said, after a moment,
“promise me to go 11 to the house to-night, or
I shall feel uneasya out you. The cook will
give you some of the dessert—I will ask her to.
And be a good girl this winter and when I re-
turn here next spring I will bring you a white
frock and a little gold locket.”

After that she arose from the step of the
Lodge where she had sat beside Betty, and
turning as she walked away, said, smilingly:

“ Be sure to put the key under the stone and
to ask cook for a piece of the iced-pudding”—
leavin the little girl looking after her with
bi , de ighted eyes.

rene could not return to the house immedi-
ately—her heart beat too loudly and it seemed
to her that her face must betra the thoughts
that crowded into her mind. he had never
committed a crime. She had told white lies,
had used all sorts of worldly artifice been
filty of the little peccadilloes of a selfish,

girl—now, the temptation to search that va~
cant Lod for some trace of the truth of what
Miss D en had told her, assailed her.

Was it not [gobable the girl’s father—long
the steward of orley Beeches—had ssession
of the will!—perhaps_of the 'ewelsi hat harm
would there be in Just loo 'ng? She stra ed
about the grounds .dallyin with tern ta on,
until the sun set behind hat ements of geetling.
clouds that promised a very dark night.

Meantime, Eu ene, left to the firelit, slee y,
warm solitude o the library, leaned back in is
ealey-chair—his blonde curls shining ' the
ric red velvet—and mused upon be little
scene which had Lust transpired between him
and his fiancee. e was surprised at the feel-
ing she had shown—and touched. SomehOw
he had felt that Irene was very worldly, and
that she would hardly break her heart over his
little love affairs, provided she was lady of
Morley Beeches, with a host of visitors, a
retinue of servants, horses and carriages at
command, and mom for unlimited extrava-
gance in dress. He ad thou ht of her as a
wifetobe roud of—to uphol the dignit of
the house— wear his diamonds and presi e at
his table. He had admired her exceedingly}
to: Eugene, too, was worldly and fond of d -
p .

e a1
ment whic had sprun
his acquaintance with
sai-grip:i to hlifm. Atglrsttge had only meant to
mae ruse agrees e avery,ve re
little rustic. Against his wish against-{E willy,
he hadbsensweptofihisfeet’bythe rushof a
passion, new, sweet, strange tasting. Ori-
ole’s love had been a revelation to him. Its

ther novel and une ted senti-
up in his reast after
riole had been a great

 

 

_.

MORLEY BEECHES.

 

‘19

 

 

nocence its abandonment had bewitched him—
its depth, its fire had stirred his better and
deeper nature. He had struggled against this
charm not only because he was engaged to Miss
St. Mark-a good deal, too, because Oriole,
with all her wonderful beauty and spirit, was
only his steward’s daughter. Vhenever he met
her, her power over him was irresistible; when
away from hera Irene was still to him the

proud, hig - lady whose loveliness best
suited him.
Eugene Morley was not the first man thus

dallying between two loves, and moderate]
sincere—at least not willfully deceitful—wi

both.

Leaning back in his invalid’s chair this som-
ber afternoon, quite perturbed by Irene’s ques-
tion—“ Wh should I not break off with you?”
——a sudden elicious throb of joy such as he had
never before felt stirred his heart. He, too, had
asked himself a question: .

“Supposing my lady breaks With me, will I
not then be utterl free to ask Oriole to be my
wife! Oh, my bir Oriole! What divine hap-

inem—what sweetness of delight! To take you

n my arms and tell on that you are to be all
my own! If Irene discards'me what is there to
hinder, Only my own pride. I shall not be
such afool as to cast away that fond love of
my little girl’s because she brin '3 me no dower
but her own lorious beeut an truth. I have
no stern fat er—no haug ty lady mother to
chill her with their cold criticism. We can be
ha py as an els here. Why not?”

t was wi an impatient sigh that he came
back to reality from the bright dreams he had
painted in the glowin coals—came back, at the
sound of Mrs. St. Mar ’s voice asking him how
he felt, to remember that Irene had not yet
given him his freedom—perhaps did not mean
to. He shivered a little as he heard madame’s
voice and answered that he was tired—if Felix
and fiapple would lend him theirarms he would
go back to his own room.

“ Why cannot we do what we like best, Fe-
lix, in this o co world!" he asked, mutiny, as
his brother assisted him up the stairs.

CHAPTER XIX.
mwan'rnn, m SUCCESSFUL
Would fain have wrought upon his cloudy mood
With reverent e as, mock-lo 'al, shaken voice
nd fluttered adoration, an at last

it h dark sweet hints of some who prized him more
Than who should prise him most. —-Tnmvsos.

Tn] little maid Betty was stuffing herself
with iced pudding in the great kitchen of the
mansion, and listening. with awe and delight,
to the gossip of half a ozen servants, who, now
that dinner had been served, all but the coffee,
had leiisire to breathe—consequently, to pass
remanks u their “ hetters ’ up—stairs. It
was very niceto be there instead of shiverin r
alone in the little kitchen of the Lodge; she ha
perform her duties for the day, and her con-
science was light as she thought of the bolted
shutters, and 0 key lying snugly in its hiding-
p ace.

The dinner had been rather a dull aflair—
not a guest to enliven it. Miss Wormer was
seldom brilliant, though always good; Mrs. St.
Mark was tired with the labor 0 superintend-
ing the packin ; Mr. Gathorne appeared lost in
flee ons; Irene, however, looked un-
usually handsome, with a pink s t in either
cheek, and the fire of suppres excitement
glowmg under her eyeladies; she was the only
one who talked much, chattering away about
“airy nothings,” as if challe ing the admira-
tion of Felix. Nevertheless, s e ate little, and
excused herself abruptly from dessert.

“ Don’t ex me in the drawin room for
some little ime, Miss “'ormely,” s c said, as
she left the table. “ I have one or two matters
to look after, if we leave to-morrow ”

“I wonder what!” observed Mrs. St. Mark,
as her daughter disappeared. “ Everything is
done I do believe it is only anexcuse to go and
all? With Eugene awhile. She is so devoted to
him—ind. I dare say, a fortnight seems an age
of ac tion to them.”

80 ix. believing Irene to be with the con-
valescent, did not go to his brother's sitting-
l‘00m. 3' “Ml. after dinner: but went into the
lib and solaced himself with the new maga-
dna‘ vin the two ladies to their own chit-
chat n the rowing-room.

Irene, as we ma guess, was not devoting her-
Ie" W “m in , nor anywhere in the great
house. She had thrown a dark mantle over her
ligllt "mini dress taken a handful of matches
from C 5010!! the room chimney-piece,
antimiflt irate the glaufin ht on an tel:-
l as and 0 et none e
is. determined on. ' y

 

Down the carriage~drive she ran, hardly able
to see a step before her, and soon the white
hand, glistening with its solitaire engagement-
ring, r0 (1 under the stone for the ke little
Bettyfii so artlessly betrayed to the la y: the
front door of the Lodge opened at its. touch;
she crept in closed and locked it behind her,
and then, with fast-beating, guilty heart, struck
a match and looked about for the lamp, which
she knew she would find on the table of the
modest rlor.

The c osed shutters would keep in the light;
she drew down the inside blinds and felt quite
safe. She cast a curious glance about the hum-
ble nest of the Oriole—at the cotta piano cov-
ered with classic music, and Frenc and Italian
son 8.

“gUpon my word! As Eugene says, she is no
barbarian! My own task is not more severe.
These furnishings are good in their wa , too.
How sweet the room is with roses! Wel if he
is not the heir, I don’t see how he can do better

than to try love in a cottage w.'\ .. that beauti-
ful creature! It would be intensely romantic,
no doubt. Only it would not suit me! How-
ever, there is no time to lose. I must about my
search.”

Zophiel Darien’s desk stood in a corner. It
was not locked.

“Nothin important here,” she said, as the
cover vie] ed to her hand. “Else it would be
under lock and key.” She spent perha s twen-
ty minutes taking out and E ancing at t e care-
fully arranged papers in t e pigeon-holes—ao—
counts, nearly all of them, of is stewardship.

“ Nothing—nothing at all!” she exclaimed, in
deep disgust. “Come! we must see her room!
It was the front chamber. I remember that
day we passed it when she leaned in the win-
dow, makings picture of herself. So artlessl
so innocent!

She took up the lamp and found her way up
the closed staircase to that pretty “ bower-
chamber,” where so many hours of Orioie’s
pure youn life had been passed. Han ing the

hick mant e from her shoulders over t e win-
dow, she looked eagerly about. Every drawer
of the bureau, ever box on the retty tables.
were swiftly open and examined).

Then the cupboard in the chimney caught her
eye. At last here was something
fastened! She had brought with ier a large
bunch of keys of her own trunks. boxes, and so
forth, which she now hastily tried, one after an-
other.

“Good luck!” she cried, as one of these turn-
ed the lock. “ Now, let us see whether or not
we have come on a fool's errand! Ah!
is this rusty, wormeaten, mysterious box!
Can it be?” '

In a moment the lam and the box were on
the floor and Irene St. ark, the proud, the
high-bred, the stainless, was down on her knees
beside them. How her blue e es glittered, how
her cheeks burned, how her reath panted, as
the jewels Oriole had worn the n ht of the ball.
were revealed to her ea er searc . There was
the lovol miniature, wit the dress of rare bro-
cade wh oh the girl had copied. And here were
papers l—papers yellow w th age, rustling with
strange importance like the footsteps of ghosts
that bring messages from the dead.

Irene was le with intense expectation as she
opened the t document her fingers touched:

“Tan WILL or Amos: Garnoasn Mom.”

It was brief, covering but a sin le of
foolscap; but it was clear and expli‘cit, and the
date was the day of the lady’s death, as stated
by the two witnesses whose signatures were at-
tached—that of the lawyer who drew up the
will and of Diana Randolph, her maid.

Irene’s e _es swiftly devoured the words which
g‘ve to Fe ix Gathorne the whole large estate
of Gathorne Court, with moneys in bank, min-
ing and railroad. stock, and numberless lots of
land in St. Louis and Chicago—property that
seemed of even greater value than she had an-
ticipated, the enumeration of which amused in
her avaricious mind a keen eed. As soon as

 

KT .
her on bad drank in those golden words, she ‘

deli rately conveyed the pa
ing-place over her own tin-o hm hm 8b.
was now anxious to get away. ithout do]. -
ing to read them she laced he other paper.

her pocket, tumbled t e glowing diamonds and
emeralds back into the box, with the guinea.
and the miniature, closed it, returned it to th.
cupboard, looked the door and removed an

kekit for worlds would she have abstracted one

f those 'ewel th h she found it hard tom
her ey estrom eiguf nations. “
“ I am no thief," she said to herself. It k

rightfor metotaketheso papers torestore them

rto a safe hid- 1'

that was 3

 

to their owner. Certainly 1 have a better right
to them than that ' 1 can have! How did she
come by them? Is t is ‘ honest Darien ’ in league
with Eugene to defraud his brother! Or, rather
was he in league with old Mathew Morley and
did he bind himself to keep the secret from both
the oung men? This seems more probable; I
ha ly believe Eugene would knowingly rob
another of his to une. He is thoughtless—a
little selfish—but not base. Oh, no wonder. this
on of innocence, this artless steward’s

u ter would like tocatch Mr. Morley! They
would keep things in the family strict y! She
would wear these diamonds With an air! If I
have the good luck which has so far been mine,
I will thwart their little expectations. It was
a happy thought, my coming here to-night!
Little Betty, you shall have your gold locket
for the innocent way in which you taught me
where to look for the key!”

In five minutes more tlielamp wasextinguisho
ed, the Lodge empty and the house-key back in
its lace un er the stone. Zophiel Darien w. ‘uld
fl it when he came; and, as we know he was
ignorant of the treasure—trove his dau hter had
concealedin her own room, he woul also re-
main ignorant of the robbery.

Irene crept back through the darkness to the
great house. She was pale and agitated with
triumph—not with a sense of guilt.

The silk curtains were heavy over the win-
dows of the drawin -room but those of the li-
brary were still un rawn, and a stream of light
came out of them. Irene stole up close and

looked in.
“ The fire in the library
Dies out; through the open oors
The red, empty room you in y see."

Empty, but for the one still, drooping figure by
the round-table from whose him the book has
dropped, and who is staring into the fading fire.

“ ur dark Felix looks melancholy,” thought
the beautiful girl who observed him from the
dim, dew lawn outside. “He is too apt to be
melancho y. I wonder if my charmshave power
to cure him of that ‘infirmity of noble minds.’
lVould those dark eyes shine with sudden smiles
did he know what Irene carries in her bosom
for him? Ah, what a tricksy Puck is fortune!
It was the goldenhaired Eu one a few heurs
ago—snow, it is the dusky Fe x. Come, Felix,
it is written that you are to be my master! You
do not dream of it, do you, sitting there, brood—
ing) over your vertyi Now, then, ‘ bubble,
bu blo ’ spells o the sorceress! See if you can
blind those too-searching eyes—convince that
too—skeptic mind that Irene loves him for him-

i l) ' .
What , self alone! and laughing at her Own View of

the matter, armed with her sweetest loo
Irene stole over the porch, throu the hall,
into the library, and laid her white and lightly
over the dark eyes of Felix, crying gayly:

“ Look no more into the coals somber dream-
er! Here is a lady who demands the service of
those eyes! There is not a soul in this great dull
house to speak to one 1” Then, dropping her
mock-merry air, and assuming a 100 o pap
thetic sadness, she murmured, as she sunk into a
chair opposite to Felix’s at the table, and droo
ed her graceful head in her hand: “If I on y
dared to make you try confidant, Felix !-to
tell yfou how unhappy I am i” -

‘il "cu, unhappy, now that Eugene is so nearly
we l

Ililer eyes fell and she heaved a long, tremulous

‘What is the matter! Have you had bad
news?

The poor relation was no adopt in the art of
flirting: he could not guess that the haughty
Miss t. Mark was condescendin to make a
“de set” at him—how could e,,bein un-
aware of her leading motive! He looked a her
with innocent concern as he questioned her.

“How stupid on are,” she cried, frowning,
but flashin at him a charming smile. “ I have
had no be news; mytroubles are those of the
imagination! Sup nga girl not thorough]
knowing her own eart, shoul engage horse f
to a young gentleman, dazzled by his wealth
and position and his br' ht looks and sunny
temper, knowing that she id not lovehim do a
woman loves but once, but believing she could
live happily with him nevertheless—so ng
such a gir afterward discovers that a has
made a drrad ul mistake, for she'meets the
man who s d be her other better higher self
—meets him and loves him to distraction,"
murmured Irene in a low, nata voice,
leaningI toward her corn~ on, with maiden
tears the blue eyes, and than allowing the
estodroop,thecheeksto pale,the heat
to uicken. '

ho could longer misnnderdand her!

  

2O

 

Not even Felix, guiltless as he was of any in-
tricate knowledge of woman’s subtlety.

His first feeling was that of astonishment.
Irene St. Mark in love with him—the poor re-
lation! Why, she had scarcely treated him
with common civility Be used at her in sur-

rise as she sat with lowere lids and pitat—

breath so nearhim that he could ear the
beatin of her heart. She was very fair fault-
lessly air, with all the fascination ofa uti-
‘ful woman who flatters a man with the half-
told sto that he is dear to her. The helio-
/ trope in or golden hair was no sweeter than
her breath, as she sighed softly. It may be
that if Felix had not already 'ven his heart

MORLEY BEIECHES.

' my soul out through them; you bouhd me to

you, your very slave—your idolater!
You sinned de- ‘

away he might have been blin ed b this daz- .‘

sling flattery: and have made warm ove in re-
turn. For an instant his pulse bounded and
the color rose in his face; the next he laughed
out merrily, as if the whole retty scene were

a area, and noted wick y from “ Lady
Vere de ere:”
“ ' Oh. your sweet eyes, your low replies!
A grea enchantress you may be.‘

You know the rest, Irene! Don’t seek to en~
tangle the ‘foolish eoman ’ to his ruin! I am
verse to commi ng suicide! I suppose you
7 e to keep your hand in at flirtation- you do
it magnifieentl !-—-but, unfortunately, Iain not
im ressible. owevar, I will promise not to
Eugene.”

BOW handsome tho mve‘ dark young (m l and a homo-coming late int 0 s )riug.

The sound of hammers and 0 men whistling

looked, lighted up by the flash of mischief in
the eyes! Irene Was foiled. She bit her lips
with mortification; but she, too, made an effort
to laugh ofi’ her failure. She clapped her white
hands together.

“I ha a wager with somebody—I won’t tell

manee in your loomy nature, Sir Felix, but I

You

new what you Were doing.
liberately. was but a child, an ignorant
innocent child, who trusted you as she trusted
her father and her God.”

i

“A divine child, Oriolel—the sweetest, the .

dearest, that ever charmed and surprised a
man out of all prudence—all cold, worldly cal-
culation."

“It seems you calculate still with quite the ' ,
‘ glorious head—to brin sorrow to that glad, in.

old worldliness,” interrupted the girl, bitterly.
“ Oriole Darien is good enough to afford you
amusement—she is not good enough to be your
wife—that is the whole matter.”

They were seated in the old summer-house.

* It was a warm, hazyl Indian summer afternoon,

when the blue sky changed to a soft opaline
hue b the perfumed smoke that hangs in the
air. he scarlet glory of the Virginia creeper

. that com letcly covered an old and crab

I then a bri

 

have lost the g eves. I own up that you are

adamant.”

“ I will pay for the gloves,” answered Felix

ood-humoredly. “I thought it was too good

be true. mademoiselle.”

“ Oh, you condescend to a compliment! In-
oredible! I did not believe we could bring you
to one. Well, shall we have a game of chess to
decide who pays for the gloves? It is stupid
enough here to drive one even to chess.”

thornaipe tree not far away; had dropped
leaf by cal’, like flakes of fire; ut the honey-
suckle was still green over the little summer-
house and the garden was bright in laces with
artemisias. It was the last day of ctober; to-
morrow Eugene Morley, quite recovered from
his frightful accident, was to quit the Beeches
for the gay city life which awaited him; two
months of pleasant sojourning near his fiancee ;

liant wedding, a tri ) and a stay of
several weeks down South' a eisiirely return,

at their work came from the great house, where
repairs had alreatéy begun the day after the de-
parture of the ,t. Murks. Tomorrow the
young master would be off. The news had

__ . .n . - , ; reached the two ladies in their Woodland cot—
you who! that I could ttllke the vein of ro , mge; though, indeed, they had known it w

along.
Tin-relied been a change at the Lodge, too.

‘ Zophiel Darien hurl gchn warning to Mr. Mor-
‘ ley to leak for unotln-r steward; and Felix Ga-

They played a single game: and so well,did .

Irene carryout the suggestion that her little
drama had been intended for comedy that even
her companion was in doubt.

“There, checkinatc to your kin ! I will send

ou the bill. Mr. Gathorne. Am now, I must
finish my re rations for departure from this
Castle of RDull‘i‘iess, where you propose to im-
mure yourself for the winter, I believe?”

"Yes. I like it here Well enough to remain
for some time.”

"Ah, I understand! And Iwish ou every

V . d, _ .
success, Felix! If youean beguile t e ar an I unmme master

er’s da hter to forget my Eugene I s all be
much ob iged to you, I am sure! Good-night
and good luck.”

i , With a. ravishing smile, kissing the tipspf her
fingers at him, as be liter came to the library
door; Irene ran h y up the stairs; when she
was out of has ng she said, “Fool!” with a

deal of energy; when she had shut herself
n her own room and locked the door she re-

ted:
peg Fool! You have spoiled your only chance!
Why did I not think of this at firstl 0f the
two Eu no is far more to my mind! Eugene
it shall Eugene shall still be the heir of
Morley!"

Bo saying, she took the stolen papers from
her bosom, and burned them, one by one, in the
flame of the lamp.

“ There is no c ew,” she said to herself, with

laugh. “ She will never know who did it."

 

CHAPTER II.
rasnoaa’s sox.
" me no tricks," said Lord Ronald,
“ er I am yours word and deed.
Ha me no tricks," said Lord Ronald,
" our riddle is hard to read."-Tmrsoit.
" Younhave been terribly cruel to me, Mr.

' Darien was not to
‘ tenth, when the

theme bud applied for the situation.

“It will add another thousand to my poor
two thousand,” he had said, langhin ly, ‘ and
I shall like the work better than begng a law-
ier. Let me try it a year, at all events!” and

ugene, secretly glad to be saved the worry of
taking a stranger, after some little remon-
strance, yielded to his brother’s iir ent request.

ve un the LO! go until the
l‘tecnth year of his faithful
service expired; but he was away part of the
time looking for a place which would suit him.
His daughter, he had resolved, should go to
school for two years.

“ it will give her time to get over the shock,
and learn to forgive me,” he had said to him-
self. “ It will be best for all of us.” and he had
sighed heavily—he and his little girl had been
very, very happml those years in the Lod

come home and spoiled
their peace of mind.

Oriole had come from the cottage and passed
thro 'h the firden, hoping for a  se of
Mr. Morley. or father was away: e not
been it would have made no diii’ercncc; she
must say good-by to her lover—must indul e in
the deer wretchedness—the bitter stolen liss
of a few moments in his society. rs. Chalde-
cott had talked with her so often about Eu ene
—had explained to her wh her father he felt
soangry with him—that riole was not quite
the irnorant, trusting child she had been at
their ast meeting. She loved Eugene as wholly
as ever; but down in her passionate heart stirred
a woman! feeling of resentment at his inex-
cusable se flshness in deliberately winning her
love, knowing that it could only end in sorrow
for her.

“She is good ‘enough to afford you amuse-
Inffnt;x she is not good enough to be your
w e.

The words sounded bitter falling from those
flawer-soft lips. Were they not true! Eugene
knew that they were. Yet—he had not meant
it! The temptation had, every time, been ual-
ly sudden and powerful. Away from Orio e he
could not calmly resolve to quarrel with the

i pioudfigl he had asked to marry him; it would
‘ a

, ,ungzi't say «imprint! n i. hard enough ‘

.topart without
Why did you tell me about love—make me
believe you loved mel You knew that you were
min; on to marry Miss St. Mark-that I was
no suitable mate for you, even if you had not
beenen knew all thetimathatlwas
W" ‘° 1 ’°‘}’ “iii-Eh" ‘ l.” 3 ‘0
. . or a ew ours, w an 01'?
 witahtis proud ladies {pd its plains of
mwere. eusto on. ouma eme
five you. You looked int; inv eves—vou drew

!

tardly thing to throw Miss St. Mark
“_0V81‘b081‘d,"88 the expression goes.

The only really manly thing to have done
would have been to have always let Oriole
alone—never won her with those soft, dazzlin
looks, those words spoken in tender tones whic
ve them double power—never so ht her out
in the arden, or b the lake, with gracious
atten one—never ld her of his admiration.
He had proven too weak to resist so fascinating
an inclination.

And—whenever he did come where the girl
was-he fell instantly madly in love with her-—

fl

swore to himself that the world and his fiancee
were well lost for such a prize—that this was
love, (pure and glorious—a passion he should be
prou to feel—a happiness that made eve

other emotion tame and dull. And so—wh e
he was with her he ielded to the delight, the
witchery of her beau y, the sweet madness of a
fascination which 3 rung from real sympathy
of two young, fond earts looking out of young,

i fond eyes.

He never meant to harm a hair of that

1 nocent nature; he on y gave way to the in-

 

stinct of happiness in her company "shared
with the sky and trees, the flowers an bees and
birds. They had been divinely ha ip in those
brief meetings. Alas, that he should ve been
so thoughtless of her as to allow it! He was
ashamed and sor More, he was miserable.
He loved Oriole With abetter love than he could
ever give another woman. He would be proud
of his wife, but—oh, the sweetness of a com—
panionship like this, could it last forever! His
ancy pictured Oriole richl dressed in the
satins and brocades and jewe he should give
her, flitting about his nd home, a lady and
yet a sweet, fond chi] , who adored him—who
cl-ungto him—who lived but in his smilel—a
creature, beautiful as a dream of houriea, con-
flding, fond—his own dear little bride!

“It is hard to have you say such things to
me ” he said, humbly; t en, with a groan:

‘ I tell you, Oriole, truly, were I free, I
would have you for my own sweet wife to-
morrow. But it would be a disgrace to me to
break with Miss St. Mark now. You and
must be wretched all our lives I su . .”

“ She does not love you. y culd we be
wretched when she is only after your money!
Were Felix Gathorne master of this lace—
Could he suddenly become the heir 0 you
think Miss St. Mark would marry you!"

“ I have never thought of it n that light,"
answered Eugene, coloring. “ I think she cares
for me as much as she can for any one except
her own fair self. I am not of a jealous tem-

rament."

Oriole laughed in his face.

“You do not care enough for her to be
ionlous. Suppose I were to encourage Mr. Ga—
hornel You know he stands ready to marry
me at the first word of encouragement I give
him. It may be the best thing I can do. He is
noble and true—he is not a double lover: his
pride docs not lead him to break her heart
whom he vows he loves! Perhaps I shall be a
bride before Irene St. Mark is. after all!

“ I can do Mr. Gathorne still a greater favor
than to marry him! Ay, for your sake, Mr.
Merle , who will make no sacrifice for me, I

have one a wrong and unjust thin . Ihave
kept Mr. Gathorne from his own. I ave it in
my power—mine. Eu enel—to t the love of
your betrothed. if it of the ri t mettle-to
ruin you—to hurl on down povcrt —-to

place your brother w ere you now are. and be
come is Wife, and mistress of Morley Beeches l”

She had risen to her feet and stood before him.
her lithe young figure drawn up to its full
hight, her eyes the ing her voice ringing—all
the ride and ssion of the Darien blood shin-
ing in her love y face.
an ‘fihat do you meanP—his voice trembled

t y.

5 What I have said. Mr. Morlely, it isstrango
you have never asked me where got the jew-
els I wore the night of your ball."

“ Hardly stran e, if on remember howour
only intirview 5 rice t on terminnfed. I had
meant to ask you then—only I hm! promised
not to speak with you alone. Why, how did
you come by them l‘

ain she laughed, almost with a cruel tri-
um ; her heart was ver full of him-mess
against the man she wo yet have died to
serve—so Contradictory are leve‘s moods.

“ I havesolved the mysterious ‘ Biack Riddle’
—lou ago—the very day after you came home
—qui by accident. I have Mrs. Morley‘s dia-
monds, her portraits, her letter of advice to her
little son—and her true and only will, written
and wide the day before she died—a Will
which leaves everything to Felix Gathorne—
everithing! You are a beggar, Mr. Morley!
But loved you, and I concealed what I had
discovered—said no word to any human being.
It made me almost hate Felix, to know that he
was the heir, and that I ought to give him these
fhipgs. I could not make up my mind to CS

t

“You have not givon them to him, than?
“Not yet. Listen. The night they thought
on dy —the night of your “slaw—I was
ere, on t 3 very spot, waiting for rs.’ Chal-
decott to bring me ncivs of vou. when Irene

 

 

MORLEY BEECHES.

2i

 

and her motht'r approached and stood in the
ualk and talked to ether. Irene told her mo-
ther that she was go ng to ask you to marry her
that night, in order that she might be left a rich
widow—those were her words—yes! she coolly
plotted for her Own welfare when she believed
you dyin ! I was so indignant that I followed
and told or on were not the heir. She affect-
ed not to be eve me—hut she did not propose to

on to leave her your widow! Go, ma her
_ f you choose, Mr. Morley! Do you thi , if I
should place your brother in possession of the
will, on your marriage mornin , your road
ail-idgnwould lead you a happy life in t e fu-

re

“ Oriole, if this is true which you tell me do

think I will marry the lad , allowing her

me deceived! Do you think will keep from
Felix Gathorne what is proven to be llle Na ,
I am selfish, fond of pleasure, thoughtless, wic -
ed, anything you p easel—but I am not a rob.
ber of other men! I have some honor, I hope,
Prove to me that this place belongs to my bro.
ther, and I shall not keep him out of it one da
-—one hour! Oriole, what are you crying for! ’

For she had burst into passionate weeping and
was wrin ng her hands; now that in a sudden
passion o jealousy, she had told him, she was
sorr and frightened, and would have given
muc to take back what she had said.

“I don’t want you to be oor, Mr. Morley!
I can’t bearto have it sol Ila) shall not be so!
Mr. Gathorne is used to it—ns I am ' but you~—
what could you do without Morley heeches and
your great income and grand surroundings?
They suit you—you were born ‘ to wear the
purple.’ Ah. forget what I have said! I was
angry and—and Jealous; I made up a story to
vex you.”

“Oriole,” and Eugene spoke with a sternness
shedidnotbeforeknowhewascapableof. “You

v have told me; I am no longer in ignorance:

our repentance comes too late. I know that

elix has always secretly believed himself the
heir; I th ht him a monomaniac on that sub-
ject. If he 8 right, and I am wrong it is high
time we should come to an understanding. You
say that you have the will—showit to me—now;
to-morrow I am to leave Morley Beeches; this

base of afiairs may alter all my lens in life.
Erin me the papers on tell me o .”

“ 0 not ask me or them, Mr. Morley. I
shall kill myself if I am the means of ruining
your h . l Oh, why did I not keep silent-i”

“ Hus little one! You should have told me
lon ago.“

“ n t my band should be the hand to wound

u!

“You are only doing right now. It was all
Wrong for you to keep this important secret
tI'Om those most interested. Come, my dar-
lins. this is a business that must be settled this
altemoon.”

“"You will hate me,” she said, half-wildly.

I “'0 Proved your curse. Oh, I am a then-
sandut‘imes worse than Irene! Why did I

He took her hot little hand in one of his and

311 the other smoothed her dusky hair.

NOV" mind, I know that you love me much
more thln I deserve. The nasturtiums are
0 member, on wore them the

time saw How well they became
my bright Oriole! Come! time flies. Where
“'3 m put-inn. papers! at the Lodge!"

Y” ‘11 you come there with me! Fa-
ther ‘3 “"1 but Betty is there; and if father
'°" ‘0 m 3011 Walking in with me he would
him“! to kill you again," she added, with a
melancho y smile,

32°" he flow affix-at the will!” b t 1

00’” 0‘", .Morle —ex. tw a
told Miss St. Mark. You m’. WW; keep to
younelf what you may learn, and things will
touon as they have always done_”

as lggt tempttme, little traitor,” he answer;

. e wen on an
he 818,16 d hyeavfly' toward the Lodge,

1h°hlio°ked u anxiously in his face; he was
m',1t3mnny ook had given lace to one of
dowfi was a crushin trouble s e had dragged
me win fig” “8113 8p rite of the young aristo-
mise 0, ad never known what it was to ex-

6 Mac {-denial. She could not picture Eu

own 0:? icy the guy, the debonat'r, brought
Mum P “C , economy, robbed of his sur~
Um $2“ 001106; her tears flowed afresh.

° “Y. sunning herself on the doorstep,

«I “Fag,an them into the little parlor.

05,010,,mdthc id. to see you again, Miss
Poor-

_  nor,” hagou are lener here, I know.

otset foot in my father’s

oi:isedncethaa-_d.ll
h... I theIake. But the box
“ “ I'll W?must produce it. Bit

 

down a few moments while I go for it; it is in
a locked closet of my sleeping—room.”

In a little while Oriole came down drooping
under the weight of the worm-eaten, brass-
boundmbohx she.d had firing up from it; algae of
years t e ga en; ugene sprung ai er
eying the box with deep curiosity as he placed
it on the desk near by.

“Oh, oh!” ejacula ed Oriole, sitting down as
if her trembling limbs refused to support her.
“ The papers are gone!"

thonel"

“ Gone! Everything else is in the box as I left
it. Nothin has been taken but the papers.
Who could ave done it?”

“ Oriole, I fear this is a ruse of yours! You
have repented of telling me and now on Wish
to make it appear the will is lost,” a spoke
gravely, with a searching look in his eyes.

“You are misatken. I swear to you, Mr.
Morle , I left the will with other papers, along
with t ese diamonds, this gold, tl . miniature—
takin the two ke s of the box and of the cup-

with me w en I went with Mrs. Chalde—
cott—and that it is now gone. I cannot even
imagine who the robber can be. Not m fa-
ther, I know! Not little Betty—she would ave
chosen the gold and trinkets. ’

She leaned back in her chair white and faint
with the shock.

“It looks as if the thief must have some
knowled e of the existence of such papers,” re-
marked ugene, thoughtfully. “It must be
Feliai.”

That was the most natural—seemingly the
only—conclusion to which they could come.
Had not Felix always been hoping to find the
will? Had he not everything to gain by such a
discove ?

“Mr. athornc was iiite familiar with the
Lodge,” said Oriole. “ 6 may have observed
where we kept the door-key. He has had
abundant leisure to prosecute his search in fa-
ther‘s absence.”

“It must be Felix,” repeated Eugene his
face as rule as the girl’s. “Well,” he added,
with an attempt to rally from his consterna-
tion, “it is all right. It saves me the trouble
of telling him.”

CHAPTER XXI.
GOOD-BY , Fonnvnn.
We must love, and unlove, and forget, dear.
—Bu1.wxn.
There’s net a flower, there's not a tree
In this old garden where we sit,
But what some fragrant memory
In folded up in it. —Ian>.

“Isitnnot getting chilly for you to be out,

Eu nel

fie dressing-bell was ringing as oung Mor-
ley after a few more words With riole, came
u the stately beech avenueto the house; it was
h a brother, who had been walking u and down
the broad porch alone, who accoste him with
an air of affectionate solicitude—for, although
Felix Gathorne would have liked his own as
well as any man, it did not revent his being
very fond of his bright, be me, sunny-tem-
pered companion. And the danger so lately es-
caped had made every one tender of Eugene.

‘Perhaps—I had not thought of it,” nd-

ed the muvalment, coming up the low, road
stone steps rather slowly, for he was tired.
“ i have been quite excit , this afternoon Fe-
lix, about something whichnearly concerns both
of us,” and coming close to his brother,- he
looked him full in theeyes, expecting the other's
look to betray consciousness of the secret he
was kee ing from him; but Felix regarded him
with u eigned surprise, waiting for him to say
more.
“ I undersitand thin you hatve recently come
into possess on o mportan papers—papers,
which, if you really have them ,’ you should in-
form me of beforeI leave here.

“ Im rtant papers? I have no idea to what
vou re er, Eu she. I have come into possession
6f no papers.’ There was no doubting the ut-
ter sinCerity of this declaration; the word of
Felix Gathorne was above suspicion, alwa
and now his frank eyes flashed with sudden n-
terest. “ What have you heard, old fellow, and
who did you hear it from!”

“Ch, never mind, new, Felix; I see I was
misinformed ” was answered with seemuwcam-
lessness. “ 1’. that the dressmg-belll ell, 1
think in aunt will excuse an elaborate evening
toilet; am too tired to climb the stairs before
dinner. I will raft on the lounge in the library

it is reed -
“1131190, Thereyls a de tful are there—just
moundde thehour foralover
to dream by. ”

 

’-

 

fi'

“Have You been trying it, Felix!" with a

lau h.

‘ ‘gYes. I have been dreaming; but my visions
were scarcely so rose—colored as yours will
Eugene. You are one of the blind goddess s
favorites, while I am one she  You
know thatI am not of awhining ha ’t,old boy;
but the guestion has Occurred to me, why, since
my han some brother had ev ' else, that
little Gipsggirl at the Lodge can! not have
happened all inlove with me I There would.
have been some com tion in that!" .i

‘ ‘ I believe I should knock on in the head if she
had!” laughed Eugene. “ ere! don‘t preach!
I acknowledge the truth of all you can sa ! I an
doomed to act like a scoundrel when t girl
is concerned i—and always without meanln it.
The fact is," with sudden gravity, “ I love er
better than anybody in be world! I don’t
want to—don’t mean to—but can’t help it. I
know it will not do—t! at I must fl ht against
it. Once away from he I lit? come to
my senses; but, oh, Felix, n’t e maddening-
ly beautifull—and so childlike! so confldin ! so
every way” captivating! so deliciously ' ted.

and Yyet—

“ on have seen her this afternoon,” inter-
rupted Felix, dryli. “Spare me the ' a!
hstanlngito what; nlfw «In welhalrea I."

‘ org ve 'me, rot an an wa orget
tin that outoo—h l"’ hub ”

owa u t at oungeint e rary drawn
up before the fire?” ’ I

“I am oing.” muttered the lover and, as he
went slow y through the darkening hall ha said
to himself-“ We have made a mistake. It was
not Felix who took the will! He lmows no-
thing,”—and, despite his heroie resolve to keep
nothing proved to be another’s, Eugene Morley
drew a lon breath of relief at this assurance.

It woul be a sublime act of self-abnega-
tion to give up the heirsbi unless Felix’s
right was brought plainly fore him. If
the will could not be found, might not Ori-
ole be. mistaken in her understanding of it!
Could it be his dutyto go to his brother and say
—-“Herel I have heard there is in existencea
will in your favor l—take my place and give me
yours! You are the millionaire—I, the poor de-

ndent.” He lay on the couch staring at the

re, asking himself questions 1' 0 these until
Dapple, who had twice summoned him to din
ner, ventured in to askif his youngmaster were

“Ill! no, Dapple,” answered the 0 gen-
tleman, with one of his old merryylauuZfis, “ I
hope not, again. I am well enough—bun
too! I trust on have something a tizin
store for me, ’and he went out to e lig ted
dininghrfimm, ate a fined dinner, convened

y with Miss arms! and his brother

—he had made up his mi to leave Morley
Beecheslin the morning so. in nothin to Felix
of what Miss Darien had him: i the heir
knew nothingmof this precious will was it not
likely that it d fallen into the possession at a
non fav‘gii‘ablfiu to himself! (file 1;: seemed to

'm; an customary of care or
mental exertion, Eugene took the threatened

dafir lightly.
en hey came back to the librarya ser-
vant told Mr. Morley that Miss Darien wbhed
to speak with him a moment at the door; he
went and found Oriole therewith the box.

“ You forgot to take this away with on, Mr.
Morley. It is roven that it is not as e at the

. I leave it for on to decide to

whom the jewels bel . ould think Mr.
Gathorne would be glad of his mother’s mini»
ture. Are you going in the morning!”

“Yles, Oriole; I see no reason for changing
in p ans.

e in isitive servant stood in the back-T
ground; t ere was nothing to be did or said;l
these two, who loved each other must part—he
loved her, but not well enough to do and dare
all things for her sake! The sneers of society
were powerful; besides, there was his
meat. He knew very well that Irene w d
not hesitate to defend her claims, even to a suit
for damages, should he break with her now—he
knew the Verdict of the world would be in her
favor—in short, there seemed so wagflopen to
that sweeter path of happiness which ole and
he might have trodden through life, had they
met earlier. I

The girl forced the box into his arms.
“Good-by, Mr. Morley. You know m fa»
ther is goin to send me away to I

1

shall have le t here forever before your return.
80, it is good-by. forever." and turning abrupt-

whamthw "on ' "M
aux-unmas- tension-Id

 

MORLEY BEECHES.

 

22

 

it down there,” said Eu ene, handing the ser- I

vent the box, and, as t e latter went up the

stairs with it, was off, like an arrow from the

30w, into the rustling, dry, twilit flower-gar
en.

Had sheesca him entire! 1 Was it true,
that bitter word she had splo en— arted for-
ever? He looked about in t 0 she owy place.
A pale bar of fading orange et belted the
western sky; the weird melanc oly November
wind sighed in the moldering flowerostalks and
whispered in the evergreens; a great, yellow
moon just showed her lden hemi here On
the eastern horizon. In t is growing llumina-
tion he saw a figure standin by the statue
of Psyche. ' He cre t silen l nearer and
nearer, until he coud hear t e supgiressed
sobs, see the bowed head, the glory o dusky
hair falling disheveled about t e lovely
the beautiful arm thrown up and clasp n
cold marble.

“ Eugene, Eugene,” she moaned, in a low, des-
olate voice, “you do not love me—neVer loved

face,
g the

me! It is the world—appearances, that you
rise! How calmly on let me 0! Oh I
would that I were sad—dead ead l” he

heard every word. The sight of her in her
'ef and beauty would have melted a colder
cart than his; it fired him to rash passion
which could only end in making them both
more unhappy.

In a moment his arms were around her; she
was sobbing on his breast while he murmured
unreasonah e words which to-morrow must be
repented of; fond, endearin , foolish words that
would be laughed at if col y set down for eyes
to scan; but which sounded sweet mend any
other music on earth to the infatua girl who
listened to them.

“ You must not say that I do not love you,
Oriole. I love one smile of ours—one has—
better than the favors of al the women on
earth. I would rather have you for my wife

 

than any princess born. If it were not that I i

am as firmly bound to Irene as if already mar-

ried—that nothing will eXcuse me from not ;

keeping my promise to her now—1 would allow
nothing to come between us, my darling. 0h,

do not think that I am less sensible of the ,

cruelty of our fate than ou—that I feel it less :

keenly! I seem tofeel t e very fibers of heart
and soul torn
I woul be willing to give u all an

be your father’s clerk for the sweet elight of
being with you. Oh. it is hard that we, who
love as we do, should be kept apart.”

a rt in leavin you this wa ;
dpa g yd ' drawn the capital prize in the lottery of matri-

And then she, womanlike, seein him really :
miserable, ceased to re roach and an tocom-
fort him—to beg of im to take heir cruel

separation as light! as possible—not to fret
about her, she woul tr to be brave—and so,
with piteous tears and cl
many lastwords and last e it‘lging of iond han
they parted; and she, shive ng and cold with
despair, crept slowly homeward b the yellow
moonlight; and he—went up to is room and
had away in one of his trunks the costly
iewels of? the- Gathornes, to be reset in latest
Ion, as his wedding present to his bride.
“Bow lorious she looked in them the night
of the ba ,_” he sighed to himself. “Alas, she
will never wear them again l”
As to that-;we shall see. “ Man proposes—

The fortunes of Eugene Morley, or his loves,
may not yet be declared.

—__._.

CHAPTER XXII.
' limits run wxnnnm.
oi! with wit, and beauty will fade.
d blood alone is’no worth a shilling;
But he that is rich his market is made,

For ilka charm about him is killing.

~mss Rslsar.

“ Han the cards gone out today, Irene?”

“ No, mamma—Tiffany has the list; but I
toh‘i'dhi’m not to send them out until I sent him
we .

“ It should have been done today. Two
Kiosk: should be given for a fashionable wed-

n .

“8A couple of days less will answer. I confess
mama, to feeling a shade of superstition abOu
it. Eu e was telegraphed for by Felix to go
out to orley Beeches on business of import-
ance. Eugene will not return before to-mor‘
row; suppose something should hap n to break
of! our marriage—it would be muc less awk—
maid if the invitations had not been made pub-

“ What on earth are you talking about, child!

' You ffightenlmo with your ‘ su titjons’ and

your suppositions’! t co pos‘ly hap-
pen to broth 0 f’ 

ifthemarrisae

A...

ingkisses and man i
i:

i
i
i
1
i
I

 

"There might be a collision on the railway  .thought you had toomuch pride for such jeal-

and En one be killed,” answered the bride-elect,
with a ittle cold laugh.

“You make me shudder! How can you im-
agine such things? They make me nervous.
For Heaven’s sake, I re. nothin will now oc-
ourto make us trou le, rene. have drawn
part of our last five thousand dollars. A suit
of rooms in a fashionable hotel for two months,
and your trousseau, have taken a large slice of
the ittance remainin to us. Remember, you
are in debt to me fou n thousand dollars, my
dear. I hope Mr. Morley will not grumble at
having to him it.”

“ Mr. or ey is generous, whatever other
faults he may have; he will pay it without a
murmur—provided he has the means!”

“Has the means! I understood his income
was not less than sixty thousand a year.”

“ You understood quite ri ht, mamma; only,
people sometimes lose their ncomes. I am not
certain but I would do better to take up with
the rich West Indian who has admired me so
devotedly ever since we came to the Clarendon.
They say his income runs over a hundred
thousam a year! It is true he is over fifty,
very small and ve yellow, and has a temper,
but—the excess in e income ought to balance
matters!”

“ How your tongue runs on today, Irene! I
suppose you are just talking to tease me. Tim
Senor Rolando is desperate] ‘ smitten,’as any
one can see' but I don’t thin the difference in
their wealth in his favor can compensate for
his not being of our own nation, nor young, nor
good-looking—thou h he certainly is very gentle-
manly;—yet, what s the use discussing it,” con-
tinued the mother flying about rather wildly in
the construction of her sentences, “ when you are
as good as married to Eugene, with your wed-
ding-dresss read out on the bed in the next
room, and is wedding-gift locked up in Tif-
fany’s safest—a present as magnificent as any
the Sefior would have given you, I think !—the
loveliest diamonds an emeralds I ever saw!
Oh, what a necklace! and that aigrette for the
hair! And that other set, with the sapphires!
I do think that sapphire butterfly ought to win
any rl’s heart! It is simply exquisite—fas-
cinating! I would not look at the Senor beside
Eugene Morley—so handsome, so open—hearted,
so good-temperedl—I tell you, Irene, you have

mony! If you were to havs a thousand chances
you could not better yourself! Thank goodness
you are so well off my hands! There won’t be
a finer wedding this winter. Eugene has or-
dered the flowers for the church, as well as for
the parlors at Delmonico’s and they are to be
the choicest, most unique hat money can y
for. I wonder what on earth Felix tel rap ed
for him to come to Morley Beeches or ust
now! He must know it is no suitable time.’
“Remember, mamma, we are going South to
be gape some time. It may have been neces~

‘ Yes; but Felix was to be here to the wed-
any" they could have had their conference
on.

“ Dear me, it’s not such a journey to Morley
Beeches mammal What is a fifty-mile ride in
the carsi"

“ Yet it was you first expressed uneasiness.”

“Not exactlyluneasiness. I said I felt the
one g of a superstitious shadOW' owing, no
don t, to my having a slight headache. It was
a whim of mine to leave the cards until Eu-
gene’s return. Has it ever struck you, mam~
ma, that Eugene is not a very devoted lover?"

‘ Why, no!” answered Mrs. St. Mark, with
an alarmed look at her beautiful daughter,
leaning back languidl in an easy-chair, lling
to pieces one of the {ac uiminot roses er be-
trothed had given her fore he went away,
and scattering the rich red petals over her dress
of cream-colored brocade over pale—blue satin.
“Why, no! that would be the last thing to
strike me. I have thou ht him most charming-
ly devoted—so acefu in his attentions! so
tasteful in his i ts! quite the model fiance.”

Irene was si ent a moment, completin the
ruin of the rose. Her bodice heaved a ttle
more quickly than was natural, making the

; diamonds in her corsage bouquet sparkle; her

long golden eyelashes quivered and her pink
lips trembled as she began a eaking:

“It is remorse, not ove, hat makes him so

llant, mamma. He does not love me one par-
iclel—all the love of which his light nature is
capable is centered on that little country beauty
—that black-e ed girl at the Lodge at Morley
Beeches. If e were free from me he would
marry her the next day!” , -

“Are you mad?” murmured the managing
mamma. aghast. “Oh. this is too absur l

. ousy, Irene l—that you had too good an opinion

 

of our own charms.”

‘ I am not jealous—at least, not very jealous
—for I am not deep] enough infatuated to
make me so. Eugene is very agreeable; I ad-
mire him; I could live comfortabl with him—
but his loss would not break my eart. I am
proud, mother-—too proud to care to be the
wife of a man madly in love with somebody

else!”

“ Irene you fill me with terror! For pi ’s
sake don‘t cherish such fancies! If Eugene e-
sired to marry that low creature he would have
doneitlonga o. Marry her, indeed! You do
not understam men. my dear. They have dos-
ens of fancies, the best of them; yet, when it
comes to the choice of a wife, you will find,
they are most circ t—she must be, like
Cmsar’s wife, above suspicion. That girl was
desperate! pretty there’s no denying; and I
dare say s e was flattered by the young mu
ter’s admiration and flirted outrageous! ; but I
Would not condescend to be jealous of or, m
dear.. I declare, you ave me quite a shock,

king as you did. shall not get over it all
t e evening. ’

“It’s your role to be nervous, mamma.
Come, I will tell you what to do: send our
waiter to the 8' nor with an invitation to join
us at dinner. Since Eu one is away we must
fill his lace; it is trials  ' g alonein our lit-
tle ar or.”

he mother studied the fair, languid counta-
nance of her daughter to read what this might
mefin; Irene returned her gaze with a cold
smi c.

“It is only a bit of politeness, mamma, in re-
turn for his flowers and his 0 ra tickets. He
will prnbahl takeus to the cademy to-night
—which wil help us to ‘pass the weary time
till our lord’s return.’ Send Ambrose, at once,
please, before it is too late.”

Mrs. St. Mark seldom thought of disobeying
her imperious daughter; Ambrose “as mm-
moned and dispatched to Senor Felipe Rolan-
do‘s apartments with the compliments of the
ladies, who would be delighted if in had no en-
gagementto prevent his dining with them in
their parlor.

The Senior had no engagement—or was pleased
to consider that he had none—which would pre-
vent this great bonor and pleasure: he came

romptly to the moment, bringin an exquisite

u net of white roses, lilies—oi-t e-valley and
mai en-hair ferns for Miss St. Mark. and opera
tickets for the three. There was a very nice little
dinner, with as choice winesas New York afiord-
ed, thou h Mrs. St. Mark wasindespair to think
how far neath in quality they must be to the
genuine amontillado filling the cellars of Mon-
sieur Rolando at his own home.

The Senor was quite satisfied with the dinner
including the wine. Never had liens looked
handsomer or been more brilliant than she was
that evening. The languor and headache, which
had troubled her all da , disappeared as by
magic. A levely light s one in her sap hire
eyes; a lovely pink bloomed h her do icate
c eeks; she was all smiles and little allies of
wit. the more bewitching from one so haughty.

The dark West Indian raved inwardly over
her blonds boauty; to him. she was al other
the loveliest woman he had ever behel . He
would have flung himself and his millions at
her feet, weeks agoi had it not been well under—
stood that Mr. Mor ey was short] “to lead her
tothe altar.” To—night he was glacial-ted out
of all prudence; he could not take bias as from
her fair, fair face; he drank his w e and
thought it their oilce ; so young and happv did
he feel With this beautiful creature smiling
across the table at him.

He wished there had been a thousand people,
instead of a dozen, to see him land her into the
carriage when they departed for tl e Academy
of Music, he was so proud of her, her grace, her
elegant toilet, her beauty.

‘ If you were only tobe mine I” he went so
far as to whisper, pressing her little loved
hand as he sat beside er, leaving the a hofe back
seat for the care of madame-’8 handsnnie velvet.
“ What would I not sacrifice for thnt great fe-
licityl Happy Morley! the very gods might
envy him!

Irene laughed her silver laugh, “low with
fashion, not with feeling," as she murmured:

“What if he Were unaware of his ow" good
fortune? ‘A rophet hath no honor in his own
0 untry,’—ne ther has a beauty. I dare say,
now in the tropics, my blue eyes and gold hair
would be appreciated at their full value. Here
they are so commonplace that even Mr. Morley
is not enthusiastic over them.”

“Not? Not enthusiastic! ’He is verv devote.

MORLEY I BEECHES.

23

 

 

If I had not observed that I would hdve tried
much to—what you call iti—cut him out. Oh,
yes, I would enter the lists against him—I would
gees him hard—I would have him to fight for

s lady. Ah-h! if onl I came not too late,
mademoiselle,” and he ed dee ly.

“While there is life, here is ope, Senor,”
regionded Irene, gale.

0 could see, as t e carria e stopped, and
the footm:m opened the door, y the glare of
li ht in front 0 the Academy, the uzzled stare
o astonishment, and fear, and elight with
which he was re rding her; and she laughed
again. a merry au 11 which mi ht mean en-
couragement or moc ery, as be c ose to take

it.
She kept up that dazzling, punlinz manner
all through the o
A thrill of fie
veins of the W
“ If she is pla
he thought. “

ra.
peh ran through the warm
Iggitm

ing with me she does it well,”
t is curious. the way she treats
me to-night! Mr. Morley is gone—can. they
have had a lover’s quarrel? _I so, now is my
time to take the advanta of it. How beautiful
she is! They all turn t eir lorgnettes to this
box. Such an air as she hasl—and dresses like
the empress!”

His pension and hope shone in the brigh t, black
eyes which lighted up _his thin, dark face; he
was immensely impressive in hisattentions; im-
mensely sorry when the long Opera came to an
end, and the short drive to the hotel, and he
was obliged to say good-night to the ladies at
the door of their parlor, kissin their finger-
tips and asking rmission to c in the morn-
ing to inquire a ter their health.

‘It is plainly to be seen you could have him
at your feet at a word,” complained the mo-
her as the door shut him out.

“ ite plainly; and perhaps I shall speak the
word mammal ’

“ on are jesting, Irene! Don’t do it! I am
very f d of En no; I am really attached. to
him.  seems ike my own son. Something
-uust have happened— beginning to wipe her
6 es—“ you must have uarreled before he went

, to be talking like this, Irene.”

“How affectionate you have become, all of a
sudden, to poor Eugene," said Irene, mockingly;
and turning to remove the lace and flowers from
her hair, at the great mirror, she gave a sudden

or .

gomo one, who had been sitting on the sofa
three hours awaiting their return, who had not
before been perceived by either of them, rose
from her place.

“ Pardon me. Miss St. Mark,” she stammer-
ed, “for intruding here. I have come to you,
unknown to them all, to do you a service.”

“ mm do me a service!’

“ I eve you will consider it so."

“ This is strange, Miss Darian.”

:z¥a, {It bk .n

on 00 var e and tired. Will u
have anythin l” y pd yo

“ Your mai brought me a cup of tea. I wish
nothing more. I—I would have liked to have

no back this evening-but it is too late now.

here will be no train; and I should be afraid.”
You can sleep with my maid. Will you tell
meyour errand now Miss Darien, or, will you

wait until morning!”
I will tell it now. I must return early in

the mornin . I d
that I e are)? not care to have them know

CHAPTER XXIII.
1 mm WAY SHE MANAGED IT.
ve strained the s id ‘ bread
'Gainst the )roxnise (13f fin-aid-
I have weig ed a grain of sand
’Galnst her plight of heart and hand.

A! twelve the following morn! Gen 
rlington’s carriage drew up befornegthe Diar-
arlidou and his two pretty daughteis descended
aimirmand went directly to Mrs. St. Mark’s
Emlcgm. anathey found the two ladies they
“ "5110, Our dresses have come!” th ried
in one voice, after saluting madame. ex 'I‘hey
“82°:mmer yesterday—they are ex—

ho Iweetest things! Oh, you

must st
and 3,; mg"??? and come right over

“ Pale pink mun ‘
some soft Wm ' ll)! with over-dresses of
flows? of whig furigivnufl With pomt-lace and

ran on Violet.
course
it?" asked Pan ywocmtgwtofll May we see

think on - ll hted I am to
enjoy 1: wfinél‘f tf’ bridefiifaids! dWe do
sent out . 8 car s were

‘ a; i i  not De Witt make a

‘1',:»

. r,- ,Wk uniform! What’s

 

the matter with you, Irene! Did not our dress
arrive! You are so pale and worrie -looking—-
it will be simply dreadful if you are kept in
anxiety about your thin 1”

“Oh yes, indeed, it will be awful! vok-
ing,” chimed in Violet. “I hope no ng will
happen—110 accident to the steamer. It would

be and enough if she should encounter an ice-
berg, or take fire, and your lovely, lovely trous-
seau should go to the bottom 1”

“Do not borrow trouble, girls,” said the
bride-elect, with her cold smile. “If on will
allow me to slip ina word edgewise 1y will in-
form you that my things have arrived all
right—in seven flat king-cases which
0 ned yesterday. T dress is now laid out on

t e couch in our slee ing-room and Rose will.

show you the other: ‘ ou ask her. I have a
headache, and if on w excuse me, while you
look at them, I will kee quiet.”

“Certainly.” “Oli,t anksl" “Oh youdab
lin l”-—they kissed her and rushed 0 into the
ad oining room, where their exclamations of
rapture were too much for Mrs. St. Mark to
hear without joining in the entertainment; she
arose and followed the bridemaids, leaving her
daughter alone, lying on a sofa, pale and with
that digit frown draw ing down her delicate
brows w 'ch betrayed her to be either ill or ill
at ease.

Yet, she had not neglected her looks. Her
morning toilet was of the daintiest. and there
were fresh roses in her belt and olden hair.
She looked more girlish and fair even in
her costly evening-dress at the opera. She was
not lookin for Eugene until the afternoon; but
Senor Bo ando had asked permimion to call
that mornin , and she had not spared Rose
troublein ing her charming for the occa-
sion.

Ah here he came, the little dark gentleman,
with his elaborate civilities and the usual ten-
dollar bouquet of rare cut-flowere—so lite, so
impressive and so—tiresome. One of ugene's
frank smiles and unstudied sentences were
worth an hour of Senor Feli Rolando’s fine
efforts to please. Is it not sai that “ blessings
brighten as they take their flight?” Never had
the image of her absent fiance floated so fairly
in Irenes mind—his laughing, deep-blue eyes,
his sunny expression, his blonds beauty of fair
hair and clear, lightly-flushing complexion.

“I never dreamed I thought so much of
him!” she had told herself more than once
during the sleepless hours of the preceding
night. Fair, indeed, did Eugwe’s youth an
comeliness rise up in contrast to the dark thin
features, the crisp, black curl the s arp,
bright eyes, the fifty years of the cat Indian,
who lingered and ingered over his morning
call, very evidently loth to put an end to it.
There were seven tin-lined cases of finery to be
examined in the adjoining room; so it goes with-
out saying that the Misses Carling'ton tamed
there a oodl time.

“ Whesn doe); Monsieur Morley return?” asked
Rolando, secretly noting a certain melancholy
in the fair face before him.

“Soon enough—this afternoon,” was the
languidre l . .

“ Soon egoyugh! Yet mademoaselle’s cheek is
alread le!” _ _

” N oytv 2: Mr. Morley’s absence,”she said, With
a sweet smile. .

“ No! What else can make her so tnste 

“ I found a very important message BWflltlnfi
me after we parted from you last night, senor.

Irene said this slowly, looking down at the
diamond engagement-ring on her white hand,
and sighing.

“ Nothing bad—nothing to make you un-
happ , Miss St. Mark?”

“ nor, if I dared—to confide in you,” she
almost whispered. .

“You would do me too much honor—make
me toohappy!” he said, eagerly, his dark face
brightening _

“ Ah, but this is a serious matter. You would
have to be a true friend.”

The sei'ior made a movement as if he would
kneel at hér feet. but she raised her hands en-
treatingly and he sunk back in his chair.

“ i need some one to advise me ” she went on,
looking at him piteously out of her blue eyes.
“ My mother is very of course; but she is
a woma like myself; an I need the practical
advice 0 a brother—a friend—some one, who
would look at my trouble not with the romantic
ideas my mother has, but with masculine Wis-
dom. I.have thought of you, senor—3’

“Ah! You flatter me most immensel— on
make me very hap : butnwhy not Mr. or-
ley'l” he added, ohec hie- extrav t ex-
pressions of pleasure and with

er
suspicion. ‘

 

" There it is, senor! You may well ask that!
How can I consult Mr. Morley! He will n00 be
a disinterested adviser—far from it l—wh i331 “u,
sefior, surely would be entirel disinteres .”

“Certain y, oh, entirely, o coursc! if I can
advise you—if I can do you an fmlr. from
the least to the greatest, all the I have is at

our command, mademoiselle! You Cannot but
aware of my keen desire to be your friend—-
of m ardent admiration—my—”

“ ere, hush, Senor Rolando! Your South-
ern fancy gets the better of your conscienCe,”
she interrupted him, with a merry laugh.
“Reallv, I never knew that you a 'mired me,

ticularl ,” and she looked at him with art-
fe: naivet ., “but on Southern gentlemen are
such flatterers! ell, it will not be n
for you to admire me—only to be my friend and
give me sincere advice. Oh, I am very unhappy
after all,” she cried out, With a sudden change
of manner, the tears welling up into those sag
phire springs of light, “very, veryunha py!
had a brother to rotect my rights Should
not be treated so! k, sei'ior, on that table i—
that envelope—will you examine it!”

Half-bewildered, Rolando took up the thick,
creamy enVelope, while Irene. iising from me
sofa, walked up and down the room, wringing
her white hands.

“Wh , them: are the wedding-cards of Miss
St. Mar and Mr. Morley,” he said, looking agi-
tated and disappointed. “Do you show them
to me to disconcert—emhari-ass me, mademoi-
selle! Yet I knew it, of course! I understand
everything but your attitude this morning.
How can you need a bra! —a frimd—when
you have ahusband so close at hand!”

“ Because it is he who wrongs nie!”—as Irene
thus answered she used before him, her eyes
flashin , her head t rown back.

“ By eaven, then I will fight him P’exclaimed
the senor, smiling for joy at the thought. “ You
make me too proud—too )py, Miss St. Mark.
Ask of me what you will— or you to command
is for me to obey."

“I only want our friendly advice," mur-
mured Irene. “ have taken it into my head
that you are a man of judgment. Listen, senor.
I cannot say much now, for we may be inter
Luptedpany moment. Mr. Morley hasbeen false

me ‘

“I am glad to hear it,” murmured the sailor,
not knowmg enctly what he was saying. “ Yet
it is incredible that any man so favored
be false to y mademoiselle."

“ I suspec it last summer—new I know it."

“It is fortunate that you are Command in
time ” was the significant answer.

“ ntime! Ah,senor; all the world knows—”

“Pah, what matters what the worlu knows!
The vows have not been spoken at the altar—
that is enough. gain marry one of whom you
are jealous you be miserable,”—he spoke
eagerly, rapidly. “Mademoiselle, there isone
who loves you truly and only—who would lie
as ha pyes he was proud, to win you away
from be poor creature who does not halfappre-
ciate you—" . ‘

“Spare me,” murmured Irene, covering her
eyes with her hands. " Remember that I loved
him—that I expected—3'

“ Ah, but let me teach you to forget him! He
is unworthy to brin one small tear into those
eyes that I adore. on are right—I Will not be
selfish—sit down, dear Miss St. Mark, and tell
mil-211'" km an h i near

ne sun i into the easyhc e r
her, drew her lace hagdkerchief across her as:
eyelids, and began, falteringly: '

“ She came here, last night—was waiting for
me when I entered, after saying good-night to
you. On her knees she told me that I would
make Mr. Morle wretched fer life if [persist-
ed  [narryln r in], k110me  lid lUVed her
to distraction? She avowed that a sentiment
of honor alone prevented his breaking the
enga ment! Senor, I might not have believed
her, ad I not seen with my own eyes. heard
with in own ears, so much of th s while as
were at orlev Beeches, his country-s at. His
conduct with her was the scandal of the whole

lace. It even went so fir that her father shot
him, and came within a hair’s-breadth of lull-

' ing him. And who do you think she is who

thus rivals Irene St. Marki—aius‘ic beautv—
the daughter of the keeper of the bed is! Oh,
but it was an insult bitter to hear! I owever,
he conf to a passing folly, begged my par-
don, irnplored forgiveness—we came away, and
once free from her vile influence. he seemed

' again my true, manly love. 'lhe preparations

.‘ for our marriage have gone on. Tlere were ex-

4
l .

t :

tensive alter-at one going on at the Beeches: dud
when Mr. Morley went out there. now and then.

i

 

 

I
0+

H

 

. . x. I -A.._V..._._.. -..4__7__..

 

 

to see, as he said, how these were pro g,
l was too proud to feel or betray suspicion.

“ Yet, last 11' ht, I find this 'rl in my room,
come-here tote me that Mr. orley is break-

his heart because he sees no honorable way

of reaking 03 our marriage. Senor, I have
no “W110 brother—or should not have
been thus! I have a miserable night.
When you came in, a 'ttle while ago, and I saw
you, a gentleman and man of honor, so kind
and friendly, the temptation to ask your advice
was overwhelming."

“There is only one th
eflmyour engagement with
w‘ come from on; it will be unpleasant the
—what you call tl—notorie , for a little 0;
but you cannot be harm . If there is an
censure it must fall on him. And you w i
find a thousand admirers ready to—chsmpiou,
is that iti—your cause, and one among them
who would give a world, had he so much to

g1ve—”

Again Irene held up her white hands, beseech-
ing silence.
.d ‘ Remember what I am suffering,” she plead-

“I forget: but I will have patience—I can
wait ” be said, eagerly.

“ 0 not speak of this to a living soul until I
give on mission, Senor."

He aid hand on his heart and bowed; she

ve him a faint, sad smile eloquent of grati-

ude; then, Ambrose, knoc in , asked if he

should bringin luncheon; and t e Misses Car-
Iington came in, radiant, while the Seller
rose and made his adieus, and the door closed
on his happy face, leaving Irene unable, for a
moment, to look her visitors in the eyes for fear
they should detect the strange smile of triumph
in her own.

to be done—break
. The dismissal

*

CHAPTER XXIV.
nuns.
I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief.
—CAMPBELL
But she is crazed! Believe not what she saysl

——Snsu.isr.
FsLix Garuoann had been wandering, in a
restless mood, over the great, solitary house.
It was the week before Christmas, and the city
artisans, who had been decorating the drawiu —

library—all the first floor, in fact—wit
lovely frescoos, rich paneling, Japanese designs
in. costly wall-papers paint and gilding ebon-
med osand carv mantle-pieces, had gone
totheir homes for the holidays. Himself and
Mrs. Rico, the housekeeper, were the only hu-
man creaturee in the great mansion. Even the
was fastened up and deserted; Zo hiel
Darien had gone to New York to look ou for
some occu n in which .he could emplo the
few thousan dollars of his savings to a van—
”; and as there was no need of a gate keep-
er the. winter, little Betty had gone to
live wi Mrs. Chaldecott. His brother had

(1
been urgin Fe' for the st fortni ht, to
leave hisҤ%%a Morle
W

es, an come
down to the for a li e easuring before
the wedd , lab was to ke place in the
first wak o the New Year. He had felt no in-

clination to accept these invitations so far; but,
today, he was certainly lone! ; his social in-
stincts had begun to assert alumselves after

' have gone on feeding mgpsssion on her sweet l
1

 

; few days of fresh air and free moving.

long repression; it was absolutely melancholy 1

toroam from room to room from allerytc
gallery} with no semblance of humani y to wel-
come m but the portraits on the walls.
Outside, a soft, light, feathery snow was
coming lazily down—too lazily and too lightly
to vs no promise of sleigh? for Christmas;
in eed, a it of blue was y showing over
the trees at the west.
up and down in the picture-gallery
often by the double wmdow at he end

at the brre brown forest, the dun
clouds, the flyin eathers of snow, the break of
blusinthah n,Felixth ht of many

things—among others, of rumoglfie had heard
ofa certain sort of mo 1 or mental insanity
which had seized upon phlel Darien—the in-
sanity of going into Wall street with his little
savings—not more than ten thousand dollars in
all—and there entering the lists against the
experienced speculators whose dail food was
just such morsels as this man’sh .
“ Of course they will gobble his foor little tea
d dollars in no time; an then, Oriole
will have to come out of that expensive school
where he has laced her. I thought Darien a
person of scan or judgment. I wonder when I
V see her I t has been more lonely
here than as if she and Chaldecott had re-
mainedatthel e,as WMthen
'Imdmadebm plans orthe Better forme,
on ' .

lshewillneverlcvememngte

looks—listening to her vine singin —-—watch-
ing the development of her flower-ii e loveli-
ness would have been foll —madnessl-

“ I believe I will go an call on Mrs. Chalde-

 

MPRLEL 355931595;

(

cott. It is more than a. week since I have done "

so. I am ver fond of her.
friendless, as s e seems to be, she is the most
perfect lady I have ever met. I wonder what

s the charm she has for me! Is it that she was
my mother’s friendl—that my mother loved
her? She seems to return the interest I feel in
her. It is evident that she believes me the heir
and longs to befriend me by provin it.

“Yes I must have a good run 11 the open
air, to shake ofl ‘ the blues.’ What better direc-
tion than Mrs. Chaldecott’s cottage? Let me
see—it is three o’clock only—plenty of time for
a nice call and home again before dark "—and
he ran down-stairs, ut on a light overcoat, a
seal-skin cap particu arly becoming to his dark
eyes and regular features, seized a stout walk-

~stic and set out on his ramble through
fie ds an woods.

“ By the by,” his thoughts went on, “ I have
not made that second visit to old Diana etl I
thought surely to have done it beiore his. I
would have gone there to-day had I remember-
ed about it earlier; it is only a five—mile jaunt
and back.”

As it was, it was rather late, and he continued
on in the path through the woods which would
take him out near the cottage.

A delightful surprise awaited him when
Esther ogcncd the door to his knock. There, by
the brig t fire, sat Oriole Darieu: Oriole, love-
her far than even his enthusiastic memory of
her! The journey, the excitement of meetin
her friend, the glow of the fire on her splendi
colorings—it was not these things alone which
made her so beautiful; but a more womanly ex-
pression,and even—tor fashion has a charm for
all of us——the style and finish of her toilet, quite

ual to that of the mast aristocratic of Madame

irabeau’s young ladies.

And there, on the opposite side of the hearth
sat Zophiel Daricn, regarding his lovoly child
with a still, deep gnzo of exultation, as if full
aware of the rowth of her perfections and tr -
umphing in t e secret sense that his love and
his money had fostered them.

Mrs. Chahiecott’s pale, sweet face wore its
bri htost expression. In the little kitchen be-
hinfi the sitting-room Betty’s voice could be
heard singing as she moved about making pre-

rations for the early tea-dinner which the

ostess intended for the travelers.

“I am so glad ou came,” said Esther. “I
was goin to sen Betty to ask you, the first
moment could spare her.”

“ I am very glad I came, too,” replied Felix,
ashe shook hands with the Darlene. “ This is
an unexpected leasure.”

“it is the C ristmas vacation ” said Oriole;
“ I had to go somewhere, or spend my holidays
alone pacing the deserted school-room. Father
wanted to take me to the Fifth Avenue, so that
he could shew me the theaters, opera ioture-
galleries, and, above all, the fashionab e ladies
of the avenue”-and the girl shota laughing
yet half scornful lance at her parent; “ ut
assured him I shou d die unless he allowed n11; a

ou
Imow. there is a Gipsy strain in our blood: and
I’ve never been used to being shut up in a

boarding-school. Oh, it is frightful! Some
gays I felt as if suffocating. I am so glad to be
erel '

She sunk down in her chair again with a sigh
of content.

“ Yes, she would come," murmured Darien.
“Don’t you think her improved, Mr. Gathorne,
in spite of the terrible want of fresh air?"

Felix was no flatterer, but his smile told the
father what he thought of Miss Darien.

“ I am only to have her three days,”snid Mrs.
Chaldecott. “ Mr. Darien thinks that her edu-
cation requires to be carried on during the holi-
da s.”

‘3‘, Yes, I am to be finished,” added'Oriole, and
again in her merry
scorn. Felix felt at once that the old perfect

sympathy between her and her father was de— I

cyed. “ Having grown u a child of nature,
wil asthe butterflies and t e burdooks, I am
now to be made a lady. I pity myself and my
teachers! Come, Mr. Gathorne, my toes and
my fingersare warm; will you with me for
a scramble ‘through bush, through brieri’ I
can’t stay in the house another minute, aunt
Esther—so you must 1 ve me.”
Takin asilk has of from her acket-
tieditover harrieh dark , say-
thalaugh. “Ican’tbe bothered with a

,W‘

Poor, solitary. ‘

< hea

 

laugh was that lurking v

 

 

hat; it would be asbad as Absalom’s hair,” and
then she declared herself madly.

And a wild race she led elix through the
forest and over the hills and fields. At first she
avoided the house and the grounds immediately
about it; but in the course of an hour, quite
suddenly she found hersolf in the old garde
walking its alleys, sin at the blacken
flower—stalks, the w itc che glimmering
through the lightly-falling lakes of feather
snow; and in another minute she was in the
summer-house, down on her knees, her face
droo ion the wooden seat, sobbing as if her
would break.

She had for Iottcn all about Felix. Poor fel-
low! he won! have given the world to raise
her from her knees, to smooth her flying hair,
tosoothe her with the story of his own love;
but he knew that only a desperate repulse
awaited him should he attempt t; so he wan-
dered about by himself, discontented and won.
dering that Eugene should be so happy as to be
thus mourned by this glorious mung creature.

Presently a timid hand was d on his arm,
and great, wet. shining eyes were lifted pita-
ousl to hm face.

“ me, I am ready to go back, Mr. Gathorne.
How selfish 1 have been! To ask you to come
with me and then to treat you so. There has
been a winter storm you see; but the sun shall
set brightly for all that l” and she forced a gay
laugh as she eluted to where the “ orb of day
was burning ike gold below the clouds.

Just then Mrs. Rice, peerin anxiously out
from under a huge hood came into the arden.

“Oh, there you be, Mr. Gathorne. Ill des—
prit glad; for there’s been a colored boy here
waiting most an hour: here’s the note he gave
me to give on. Well, I declare, is that you,
Miss Durien How do you do! A-visiting iss
Clinldwotti Well, I’m right glad to see on
looking so well au’ handsome—ain’t she, 
Gathorne?”

“ She is, indeed, Mrs. Rice,” responded Felix
heartily. as he opened a half-sheet of soil,
note-paper, fastened by a piece of red wafer,
and glanced at its contents.

liiids face changed as he read—flushed, then

a c .

p “ Can ou find your way back to the cottage
alone, MISS Darieni I am afraid I must leave
you at once.”

“You know I can—or have, a hundred
times,” smiling. Then, as the thought came to
her that there might be bad tidin rs from Eu-
gene. she added, losing a. shade 0 her bright

oom:

“ i hope there is no bad news, Felix?”

“ Not from my brother," he said, reading her
thou ht. “ If you will take this scrap of pa r
to rs. Chaldecott you will oblige me. gigs
will be nearly as much interested in it as I am.
And now Mrs. Rice, if you will make me a
of tea while Michael saddles my horse, I SIB

t of! as soon as possible. Good-night. Miss

arien. I will call over in the morning.”

Mrs. Rice made the tea and put some cataqu
on a salver great! disa nted that the
gentleman had nozcontip ed the contents of the
note; Felix hast-ii made a light meal, mounted
the horse which iohacl brou ht to the door,
and rode away—not on the ghway but talk-
in a bridle-path leading through nes and
fie, as into the wood; it was five o’clock, the sun
was set, and he wanted to make five miles be-
fore it ew entirely dark.

The ' e which was scrawled feebly en the
folded paperzlvaslthis:

u()ome‘quic y. amd n .butIaminm se
and must see the son of £51m. dead motives.“

MDMLVI

The shadows lay deep in the thick forest as
Felix ur ed his animal along the narrow path.
His hea beat faster than usual' his brain was
bus With many conjectures. The last mile he

rather to see than feel his way. At length
he came out on a narrow, seldom-traveled road'
the large st .11 of winter were shinin here an
there between the breaking clouds; e rode on
for a few rods and dismounted before a l
but which stodjondfiainst a background of “.33:
yet almost y on the wild country road.
The red light of a fire and candles shining
through the white curtains told him here was
Diana 3 home.

They must have heard his horse’s a preach,
for the door ogned, as, after effing t e bridle
to a ssplin 11! approach the steps. A
middle-ages? colored woman and her husband
appeared—the samo ones who had had the care
0 old Diana for years and whom he had seen
when he visited the but last
“it”? “13‘ a

0 8 You . .
She is very bed; an' she has

summer—and

Gather-no.
ferfe're?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

!

i

 

 

    

25

 

MORLEY BEECHES:

 

wouldn’ get her’. The minister is her’ hero, you

she wanted him for a ’liabul witness, she said.
Walk right in an’ warm yo‘self to de fire.”

The oung gentleman removed his cap and
stepped, forward into the large, cleanly, not uh-
cheerful room, with its great blazing fire and
its kitchen utenSils glittering on the walls. lie
glanced toward the bed, but the dying woman
was not there. .Slie sat in a great splint hot-
toni rockingchair to one side of the fire, with
her feet on a. stool wrapped in a quilt. She sat
quitO erCCti.t_lli‘iiing her face toward the a )-
proachingyisitor: and a remarkably fine-loo -
mg and mi rcssive rsonage she appeared,
even yet. all, of sp cndi'd, stately figure» 1101'
imposing head wm iped in a red silk turban,
every movement full of a natural majesty which
had always distinguished her, and had once
made her pretty young mistressdeelare that she.
must be a Nubian princess—even now blind for
twenty years and dyin -Diana held or own.

“ Speak!” she said, olding out her Lands
cold and (lamp with the dew of death, "let me
hear the voice of little Felix—m darling boy,
to save whom from the flames I ost my eyes.

“ Is that so, dear nurse? I was never told,"
said Felix kneeling beside her chair and press-
ing the cold hands in his warm ones.

‘ Oh Diana, can it be you are really dying?
——and desire so to have you tell me of my me-
ther. I know she was very fond of you—I
know you were devoted, heart and soul, to her.”

She passed her trembling hands over his
smooth young face.

“ You are beautiful—you have the Gathorne
features. They tell me you came here last sum-
mer, but the cloud of fire was over my brain
then and I did not know m little boy had
come to see me. Now, it is all gene. I recall
the past, I remember I recognize all thin vs—
proof enough that I am dying! Yes, ear
young master your r mother trusted Diana
as she trusted no 0t er human being. Poor,
poor darling, the pet, the idol of every one!—
the dearest dear of her first husband—they
were brought u together, elbow-cousins as

ou know—and s 0 never had a trouble till he
died—died in the first car of her marriage-:—
vou never saw your ather, poor boy! d
then you were born and she lived on—a widow,
beautiful, young, rich—ay, she had her own
fortune and yours, too, my child, for he willed
her everythin ; and Mathew Morle learned of
it, and with a?! the arts of Lucifer 6 went af~
ter my darling, nor gave her one hour’s peace
until he had worrie her into marrying him.
Then he set to work to break her heart, and he
made out. He shut her up—kept her friends
away—sneered, jeered at her—to (1 her he had
married her for her money—kept her down-
crushed her by inches—oh I have cursed him,
out of his hearing and to his face! 1 was her
only friend—her on! protector. Where is Mr.
Newcomef" asked iana, pausing in her low,
excited narration.

A )el‘SOIl whom Felix had not previously no
tice arose from a remote corner of the room
and came forward—a clericallooking rson,
who stated to Mr. Gathorne in an umertone
that he was a minister of the Baptist persua-
sion, who had come at old Diana’s request, to be
a witness to what she might affirm, and to her
being of sound mind at the time of giving her
testimony.

“ I am here, Diana.”

“ Listen to what I say and swear. Mrs. Mor-
le made her will the day before she died. She
willed everything to her own son, Felix. At
her direction I put the will—with some of her
letters, and a paper written for Felix to read
when he shoul be older, and all her own fam-
ily jewels, and some money of my Own which
was due me—in a certain box, and carriedit out
at midnight, after she died and buried it in the

arden, to keep it from Mathew Morley until
Icould place it in roper  e awful ac-
cident two nights Liter, which deprived me of
my reason and left me blind and (-razy,has
kept me from ever taking the box from the
earth where it lies hidden; and I am told that
Mathew Morley for ed a will, retending his
wife’s fortune was le t to himse! ; and that he
had the wickedness—it was just like him !~to
leave in poor Felix's money allto his own son,
0h,if Ihad strength to be carried to that old
garden! But, Ihave not. I can only tell you
tomaasuro three hundred and three paces di-
rect! south in a line from the south face of the
towel: and you will find the box. That Will is
the only will Mrs. Morley ever made. The
other was a forgerfi. Everything belongs to
my boy here. And thank God that he has
given me these few hours of reason in which to
right this wicked wrong. Oh, all comes back
as if it were yesterday! The cloud of fire by

\

day, the pillar by night, no longer scprches my
poor bmm. I see my precious darling in her
coffin, and her little son sleeping in his white
bed—and the storm drives closer—the light-
ning flashes-the terrible thunder shakes the
house—and then, oh, mercy! there is a sea of
fire, and I struggle in it for those children’s
lives. They are safe and I leap from the win-
dow and run, in my agony, I know not where—
my clothes are dropping from me in shreds of
flame; but there is a brook somewhere in the
forest, and I seek it, and find it and fling myself
into it— Hark! \Vhat is that? Oh, glorybo
to the good Father, my darling, my darling!”

She grew quite still, turning her head to listen.

There was indeed, a sound at the door; it
opened, and into the log-hut, came Mrs. Chalde—
cott, white and wild, followed by the heavy
Steps of Zophiel Darien.

 

CHAPTER XXV.
WHAT FELIX BEARD.

What, if her spirit
Reentered her cold corpse? —Couamol:.

To stupefy a woman‘s heart with anguish
Till she forgot she even was a mother.
——Mmmnm.

ORIOLE had walked rapidly back to the cot-
tage, through the pale yellow light of the win—
ter sunsetting, while Felix was taking his hur-
ried tea and waiting for his horse to be brought

u ).

IShe found Mrs. Chaldecott’s a petizing tea-
dinner waiting to be served, and hat lady dis-
appointed because Mr. Gathorne had not re-
turned with her; for all excuse for him the
girl put in Esther‘s hand the note Felix had re-
ceived and had asked to have given her:

“Come quickly. I am dying, but I am in my
senses and must see the son of my dear dead mis-
tress. Dun."

When Mrs. Chaldecott read it she turned
very white and burst into tears—a. most unex-
pected display of emotion in one so reserved
and self-controlled.

“ I must go, too," she cried,
in Zophiel’s hand. “Oh Mr.

.flnd me a way to follow helix?
must go I”

“ I know where Diana lives:— rhaps I
might get a couple of horses from C on b, the
farmer. Can you ride, Mrs. Chaldecott?’
d1“ yes. I used to be quite at home in the sad-

0.

“I must go with on. It will be late and
dark. Come, let us a least have a cup of that
delicious coffee, for we will need it; there is
probably no such haste that a half-hour will
make much difference; then I will get the
horses and accom )any you. Esther, you are
strangely excited,’ he continued, watching her
trembling bands which spilled the coffee as she
ured it.

“I am—I am! Oriole, my dear, I am very
sorr to treat you so inhospitany - at least you
11091 not hasten your dinner. on will be
lonely; but you need have no fear with Betty
and the dog towatcli With you. Do not wait
up for us; there is no telling-when we will re-
turn," She pressed everything upon Zophiel
but ate nothing herself, however, she drank a
cup of strong coffee, which braced her shaking
nerves.

Seeing her agitation and anxiet to be 03,
Darien made but a hasty meal an set out in
search of horses; as it would be several miles
further to attempt to go around by the car-
riage—road.

lacing the note
arien, can you
I must go! I

In less than half an hour he was back with f in a bum I won

two tolerable animals; Mrs. Chaldecott, wait-
ing on the step, sprung onto the one assigned
her, and they galloped away in the pale after-
glow of the sunset, into the cart of the leafless
woods, the lady urgin her horse to such speed
that Darien had ha work to keep up with
her.

“ Ten to one but my long-cherished suspicions
about Esther will prove true,” he muttered to
himself, as he spurred his animal to keep with-
in sight ot that flying figure, slender and erect
as a girl’s. “Stranger things have happened!
How she must haVe secretly scorned my
sumption in asking her to be my wife!”

On and on, thro h the twilight dee ning
into night, fled Est or on the powerfu horse
which carried her as if she were but a feather-’11
weight; on and on, until she pulled bridle rein
before the but by the roadside, when she flung
herself down before Zophiel could come to her
assistance andhstoodd ti(:(o)ul’ii)iidei thiligfautgblehdoor,

raging or an er pa 3 out,
Emile s struggled for composure.

 

It was then that Diana had turned uneasily
and With a strange joy lighting up her still
comely face had cried out:

“My darling! My darling!”

Then the door h opened and the two visit-
ors came in.

“ Diana!”

The low, sweet or thrilled thro h the room.
Mrs. Chaldecott ha thrown aside er hat, and

was kneeling on the hearth by the chair of the
dying woman; she had the already cold hands
in her own soft white ones, and was kissing

‘ them.

 

“Do you know me, Diana! Do you know
my voice? If you do, testify before these who
I am, that it cannot be denied afterward Do
you know me, Diana?”

“ Am I (lead? Am I in heaven, almad , with
the blessed spirits, that her 8 irit shoul come
first to welcome her poor 01 black servant?”
asked the old nurse, in an awe-struck whisper,
stretching out a hand to feel the upturned face
near her.

“No, no, dear Diana, you are not with the
blessed dead; you still hve, and so do I. Speak
my name, Diana.”

‘It is my own oung mistress, Esyth Gap
theme—Esyth Mor ey, when she died—come
backto life! Oh, that I could have my sight
for one little minute, to behold the sweet face
of in; young lady!”

“ can no longer—worn and faded, Diana,
with tron la and time. Yes, it is your Eoyth
who speaks to you. I have been here a hundred
times before—as your ood relatives can testify
—thou b they dream not of my true name;
nor di my poor nurserec ' me."

“ Ah, Diana’s wits were a astray; the cloud
of fire was over me. I have always believad in
miracles—is this not onei—that my darling
should be dead, yet here speaking to me!”

. “No miracle, in one sense, dear nurse; yet,
in another, surely one. Diana, when they
thought me dead—when they laid me out in
my coffin—I was only in a horrible trance!
The agony of those slow hours dragging on into
days when I lay there be] less, hearing every
wor which was spoken, 'nowing every pre-
paration made for my burial—ah, Heaven! I
dream it all over again, night after night. No-
ver were my senses more acutely wrought to
terrible keenness than when I lay there unable
to move a finger, to raise an eyelash. Let me
move it to you, Diana! I knew when my bus-

nd came into the room that second night and
demanded of on to give u the jewels and the
W111. I hear every wor —your refusal, his
threats.”

“The Lord have mercy on my soul!” mur-
mured the old nurse.

“ I am certain I should have continued in my
trance-like fainting~flt, and would have been
buried alive the next day, as was arranged, had
not Providence, Diana, rescued me—not by.
what you would call a miracle, perhaps but
through the o ration of natural laws. When
that fearful t underbolt struck the house, the
electric shock did what my own frantic will
could not do—set free the awful thrall that
bound moi—in a moment I was sitting up in
my coma—the next, I had sprung from it, and
seeing the room in a blaze I rushed into my
dressm -room, caught a garment hanging there,
threw i about me, and Went out into the corri-
dor. Others were there by that time; but I
passed unrec ized in the excitement; as the
garment I had taken by chance proved happi-
ly, to be a wate roof cloak, in which I wrap-
ped myself comp etely. I fled down the stairs
out into the storm—and then—I thought of in
little Felix, asleep and my room adieining a

id have rushed bac into that
sea of fire, but just then, lookingru , I saw you,
good Diana, lowering both my x and little

.ugene from the balcony. Alas, your dress
was in a blaze !—I wrun my hands, you lea
over the balcony and fa heavily, bu strugg ed
up and ran, your clothing dropping from you
in shreds, and I pursuing, trying to overtake
and help you 1".th the ker 3 voice melted
into tears-she paused to c eke down the sob in
her 'Elii'oat.t

“ heni was you, in chil who (1 1110
out of the water and kissed (hiy pmizagscomgedhed
face! Ah, I thought you was a spirit. and
what”w1th that, and the pain, I went raving
ma .

“It was your poor th Diana. I 10“ you
to some of your kinfiiyho ’lived there in the
wood—led you to their door and then I ran
away' for a desperate resolve had taken posses-
sion 0 mo never—never to let Mathew Morley

know or suspect that his ill-used wife was not 1

dead, and her very body consumed in the fire,

I as he thought her. I had no money—no clothes

 

I~her hand sunk

26

MORLEY BEECHES.-

 

but my ve-clothes and that cloak, out of
which I ashioned a dress—no friends that I
dared appeal to for fear they would betrafihe
fact of my existence—but I would not go ck
to live w th Mr. Morley—no not even for the
dear boon of being with my boy!"

As she uttered those two magic words “my
be ,” alow cry broke from the very heart of
Fe ix Gathorue:

“Mother!”

At the sound Mrs. Morley dropped Diana’s
hand and sprung to her feet; half sh ly, like a
maiden Who loves and doubts, she ooked to
ward Felix, and her eyes shone like stars, but
she did not rush to him—only stood and gazed,
faltering and smiling.

“Can you learn to think of me as your
mother!” she asked, timid]

He took her in his arms,
head very tenderly.

“ If you could dream how sweet it is for me
to gain a mother, ou would not ask. How is it
possible you co (1 be near, with me, and yet
your heart not betray the secret in your voice
and eyes!”

“Lon years of sternest sorrows have given
me self-control, Felix. Oh, I have )ined
to sp you in my arms—to call you my r3 1"

“Yea, but—Eugene?” stammered be ha ly
knowing how to, or meaning to, put the ques-
tion of pro rty; yet, feeling it stran e that his
own paren he undoubted owner 0 the whole
Morley moneys and estates, should have re-
mained b , the nearly four years since Mathew
Morley’s oath and dishonest will, withoiit put-
ting forth an effort to take her own, or to give
her son the benefit of it.

“ I know, dear Felix, you will think me weak
and foolish. Ihave spent all this time in try-
ing to find in ownWVill—buried in the garden
by Diana to eep it from the destroyer.”

“ Ay, a ,” interrupted the dying old nurse,
half-wan ering again, after that lucid interval,
“ ay, ay, she knows—

' Three times one hundred and three
From the tower bell to the red-rose tree;
Diana‘s riddle is riddled there——
She that is dead shall name the heir. '—
not dead—not dead. She that lives shall name
her son the heir."

“ I was afraid, my dear son ” went on Mrs.
Morley, again kneeling by iana’s side and
chafing the death-col hands—“ afraid that

and his lawyers would deny my iden-
tity—laugh my stay to scorn—make me out an
impostor of the bol est type—and, what would
be worse, accuse you of criminal connivance.
They may do it at: but I think not: I think
the testimonyo this faithful creature, before
these witnesses will aid in securing in rees-
tablishment. a recognised my voice as
soon as I spoke to her. Dear nurse and faithful
friend, have you an doubt of who I am?” she
asked, gently, fon ng the cold hands.
’ “No doubt. I felt you, my dear youn mis
is? before you came in the door. am lind
but know my Esyth. And have you not told
me what took place between Mr. Morley and
me, when there was no other soul present but

ou,l ng there in our cofilnl” and then her
Lenard-ions voice, ric
dances,

Kissing her pale fore-

even in these its last one
began to sing:
“ Jud not the Lord b feeble sense,
ngtrust Him for is race;
Behind a frowning Prov deuce

Be hides a smiling face."
One or two of her friends joined in the hymn;
but before another verse was sung the yigg
woman still sittin erect in her chair, call
out loudly—“ Es t l” and grepin about with
ack in her seat, cad.
“0h, D na,” sobbed her mistress “intelli-
gent noble, heroic, faithful, was t are ever
 ano er servant like unto oul”

Zopliiel Darien aided n carrying Diana to
the bed, where Mrs. Morley closed her eyes and
folded her arms over her bosom.

“I have little money about me, Felix,” she
whispered to her son, ‘ can you lend me some
to ve them to insure a decent burial?”

1 en allwas done that they could do the
three mounted their horses, and, by the light of
a laterising moon, went back over the tedious
five miles to the cottage. -

Felix never forgot that weird ride through
the winter woods, with the black shadows of

the leafless branches lying thick over the bridle-
“ th. He was dazed; almost be believed that
K: dreamed. This lady behind whom he rode,
his mother! Mrs. Chaldewtt, the gentle, the
reserved who had always attracted him—this
dweller ina woodland cotta ge—the proud lady
of Gathorne Towers and Moray Beeches, whose
brief, unha y history had ready become a
legend! Iggy. hemustbeinadreaml

And he, Felix Gathorne, the proven heir of
all these broad acres over which they‘were rid-
ing! He—the “ poor relation ” whom young
Morley’s guests scarce Igave a thought—the pos-
sessor in prospect of u imited splendor!

And Eugenel—what would he say and do?

And Miss St. Mark—what would she do?

And Oriole—would it make a diflerence with

her!

“ There is no time to be lost,” he thou ht, “if
this is not a dream, then Eugene must now—
and his bride-elect must know—the truth, be-
fore the marriage-day.”

 

CHAPTER XXVI.
AFTER MANY YEARS.
It must separate usl—Tmouan.
“ She hath taken flight none know where.”

A GREAT fire was blazin r and sputtering on
the hall hearthstone of Mor ey Beeches. A fine
dinner was being repared in the kitchen. It
was four o'clock ogthe day after Diana’s death,
and nearly dark at thathour, for the days were
at their very shortest. It still threatened snow
which had not fallen; the world and sky wvre
dun-colored; the thermometer was falling below
freezing- )oint.

Michae had gone to the station for Mr. Mor-
ley ; as Felix had telegraphed, early that morn-
ing asking him to come to the Benches imme-
diately on important business. Felix was stand-
ing before the hellfire, drcndin to hear the
sound, soon to be expected, 0 approachin
wheels. He was alone. His mother and Du -
en, and the fainil lawyer, were to come to the
house at seVen' ut Felix had asked that his
brother might have his dinner and an hour's
rest, before the business was broached—the
ver unpleasant business, for Eugene, to hear
wh r‘h he had been sent for.

“I am actually miserable about it,” said the

ung man to himself. “ Eugene enjoys ever -

hin so much—it is such a pleasure for him 0
be r ch—he nds money so magnificently—-
that it seems ittle less than barbarous for me
to step in at this late hour and deprive him of
every hing! Poor little mother! she on rht to
have come forward the da hiatlicw orley
died and then Eugene woul not have been so
cruelly disappointed. She did very wrongto
let us our separate ways without declaring
horse . Thereis plcnt of truth iu.what she
says about the diflicu ty of establishing her
identity, the danger of being thwarted as an
impostor, and the other difficulticsshe brings
forward; yet since she was conscious of the
truth, shacught not to have been so timid. It
only show‘s how she must have sufl’crcd to be-
ecme so unnerved—so afraid to confront such
obstacles as there were, r, dear, unhappy
little la lyl Well, I trust rr trials are over, at
least' yet I cannot help feeling like a thief and
a robber, to meet my brother with such a story.
On the eve of his marriage, tool Ah! there
comes the wagon and—Eyes, Eugene. I never
felt so mean in all my 1' o!”

The clear dark skin of Felix was suflused with
an actual blush as he hurried out on the piazza
to meet his brother. Eugene sprung out of the
wagon and came up the ste as happy, as care-
less, as handsome and brilliant, as a man could

be.

“Well, old boy, this is somethin of a nui-
lance,” he said as he grasped the and of his
welcomer, “ calling me out into the country at
this time of year and only fourteen days to my
g wedding tool “’hat’s up? Isn‘t the Work 0-
‘ ing to suit you! I know your taste is critics .”
l ‘You shall see the improvuinents for your-
‘ self, Eugene. I think there is still light enough
to oover the drawing-rmms. After that we
wifi have a cosey little dinner—just we two;
then, business.”

“ All right, Felix. Though I’m ,uzzlcd to
know what on are after. Rooms 0 me you
are not lodging entirely well,” he added, scru-
tinizing the dark bcnut of his companion‘s
face, where the troubleg expression betrayed
mental anxiety. “You are not going to it‘ll
me that you are in love—or engaged—or an -
thing oft atmrt?”withas1iddcn uncomfortab e
pang, as he thought of Oriole Darien—albcit, be
ex .cted to wed another girl in two weeks’time.

‘ I have no such good news as that of bein
engaged ought to be,” responded the other; bu
he made no explanations; and after Eugene
had divested himself of overcoat and loves
and stood a moment before the cheerfu fire,
they betook themselves to the drawmg-room
to glance at the work which had been done there.

‘ It soon w too dark for that, however,
and they strolled into the library, where every-
thing had been made as pleasant as possible.

 

 

 

 

" The old place is not so stupid in winter, af-
ter all,” remarked Eugene, settling comfortably
into a. big easi-chair before the hearth and
glanc about im. “This is as coseyas pos-
sible. I Irene had any domestic tastes I should
expect to spend a good deal of my time here,
even in Winter. I don’t mind mying to you,
old fellow, that I have a growing impression
my princess is marrying me for my money. I
discovered—finite accidentally—the other day,
that old St. ark lost almost everythin before
he died, and that it has taken their 1 dollar
to provide the wedding trousseau—not that I
care for the fact that my bride is dowerlessl—
goodness knows I have enough for both !—but I

on’t fanc the deceit about their means the
two ladies ave racticed.”

Felix walked the window and back again;
there was a lump in his throat which made him
hoarse when he spoke—which was not in an.-
swerto his brother’s confidence, but on some
trivial subject.

“ You are not very sympathetic," said Eu-
gene, a little hurt.

‘ers, I am—I am; but—you don’t knowl—
wait until after dinner,” stammered Felix.

“ I do believe he is afraid I will fiing u the
match, yet, and win my bird Oriole away rom
him! I would to Heaven I could—honorabl l”
and Eugene fell into a brown study before 0
fire, while the early twilight deepened, the
branches of a rose bush, outs de, ratt ed against
the no. the great ruby coals dro {ed with a
ligh click, and_his companion wag) ed slowly
up and down Without interru ting his reverie;
until finally Mrs. Rice came Ki to drop the cur-
tains, renovate the fire and say that dinner was
on the table.

A very choice little dinner it was, brightened
by a Vase of roses which Felix had sent to the
vill florist to obtain; Eugene’s idea about his
lady- ove’s selfishness did not ap ar to have
spoxled his appetite; he ate well, c tting away
lightl about the opera, the new singers, the
last p ay, his trip to Florida, not noticing that
his vis-a-vis at the hospitable board scarcely
touched his food, or res nded to his desulto
chit-chat. When they sit the table the poop e
Felix was expecting had arrived and been
shown into the library.

Some one else was there, too whom he did
not expect-Oriole, who had refused to remain
with B ‘tty at the cottage, sayin that she had
some testimony of her Own to a d to theirs.

The shinin of those great, dark eyes was the
first thing Lugpne saw when he reéntered the
room; their llg t pierced his heart with a sweet,
sharp pain ' a thousand memories of those bliss-
ful, stolen are of the summer almost over-

came him.

“ Why did you not tell me Miss Darien was
tobe here!” he whispered to Felix. “ The sight
of her has set my pulses to flying at the rate of
a hundred a. minute. She is loveher than ever.”

“ I did not know she was to be here this eve-
ning; al tho h aware that she was visiting at
this lady's co tage. Eugene, I have a greatand
painful surprise for you. Dear brother, I hope
you will believe me when I say that it make.
me unha py to think that you must lose by my

sin. TElS lady, whom you have heard of as
. Cbaldecott—”

“ Ah i” cried Eugene, with a sudden, sharp
accent, likea cry—“I know what 'ou are go-
in to tell moi—the will has been oundl” and
he ooked over at Oriole almost with reproach;

an ale and a tated sunk into a chair.
“ ot the wil , Mr. Morley,” ke u his le-
adviser, “but the makero the no i We

iave an extraordinary announcement to make.
This lady, whom you have known under an as.
sumed name, asserts herself to be Mrs. Morley
your father’s second wife, whom all behaved
dead and buried twenty ymmo.”

‘ ‘ Assn-ts herself—3’ murm Eugene, glanc-
in at her, suspicio ly.

‘ And has proved it my dear boy. I am sor-
ry—-we are all sorry for yolk-but there is no
need of fighting the evidence—it is too strong
-—thero is nothing for it but for you to resign
to their owner the moneys and estates your
father retended to have inherited rom
Esyth atliorne Morley. Mrs. Morley is here
to claim her OWn; Felix has found a mother,
and you have lostafortune—that is the long
and short of it. It is rough upon on; but you
are no coward, Eugene, to shrink from bearing
disa pointment; and your step—mother, I know,
willqle more than just—she will be generous.”

" ‘es, dear Eugene ” said Morley, com.
in up to him, and ta his limp, cold hand,
“ f loved you almost 68 0nd1y as in own boy
when you two were little together— look u
you as m son, still; my v0 own son, dear o
gene; an , assuch. you fare as Felix fares:

 

 

 

2'7

 

 

 

MORLEY BEECHES.

 

our allowance shall be the same as his while 1
five, and at my death the property shall be
equally divided betwcen you tu'o' this house is
still your home, as it is my son 8 lionio' and
your bride shall be as welcome to it as can
make her.” '

His bride! Eugene started, as the viSion of
Irene, haughty and hard to please, coming to
Morley Beeches, not as the mistress, but the
daughter and dependent—came before him; in-
voluntarily his glance Sought Oriole’s, but she
was looking down. .

There was a moment‘s fierce struggle With
his own pride and disappointment; then, his
careless but generous nature rose su nor to
envy or bitter humiliation' he looktx up into
the gentle, loving eyes of PS. Morley, and a
smile came into his own blue ones as he answer-
edhlet'r: good t and I am very

“ on are vcr ' 0 m6.
gratefuL Felix )doservcs his  luck, and I
shall try to be lad that he has it;” then, after
amoment’sh tatlon: “ This is, indeed, a great
surprise and marvel. I am quite ready to lis—
ten to an explanation "—ai‘ter which there was
a long conversation, in which everything was
gone over, more fully than it had been so far
done even to Felix.

“ My father seems to have been a scoundrel,”
reinar ed Eugene, rather bitterly; for, soften
the truth as she might before his son, the per-
secuted wife could not rightly eXplain herself
without revealing her Own martyrdom to the
systematic cruelt of Mathew Morley.

“He was!” spo e up the old law er, sternly.
“I knew that always. Thank 0d, you are
not at all like him, body or mind, Eugene! So,
that is enough of him! There is no use in hurt-
in our feelings any more by reference to his
mi eeds. I dare say we shall have great
amusement in organizing a grand hunt for
that box old Diana hid soover-securely! Eh,
In children!”

on Eugene looked at Oriole, who, with
flushing cheeks and lowered lids, confessed to
having found the hidden treasure so lon ago
as lastJuno. She said she had read the Wll , but
could not make up her mind to avow her dis-

because—because—
ooxcl‘lre’i‘ver mind the reason, Miss Darien ” said
Felix, pitying her embarrassment. “I dare
say you thought affairs were better as they
H

“But I told Mr. Morley before he left here
. ” e went on.

 slsild told me,” admitted Eugene, color-
ing deeply under their looks of surprise. blie
ave me the jewels; but the papers were miss-
lzng—amo them, the will. ow did I know
there had n a will! Miss Daricn said so,
and said she had it' but when I besought her
to bring itto me that Imight show it to my
brother she could not Fproduce it. I admit
thatI should have told elix_Miss Darien had
declared there was a will in his favor ; .I meant
to—some time. I did, indeed. . X on Will admit
it was hard to give up everything on an uncer-
tainty!” ”

“Some one stole the papers from the box,
added Oriole, hastily, wishing to‘diVert atten-
tion from poor Eu eiie’s fault. ‘ I never could

' who di it.”

"fill  I can tell you,” spoke up Zophiel,
his deep-set eyes lighting up. “ bomethmg ood-

curred a day or two before Mrs. Eat. Maik an
her (in later left Morley Beeches, which has
always on a myster to me. I have never
spoken of it before. 1 ad been away, and re-
turned home earlier than I cxfiectml—about
ht o'clock of the evening. y door was
lockod—Bett evidently being away—but, the
key was not n the place Where. 1 had told her
always to leave it. st00d t‘lwre,.puzzlc(l what
to whenIheard the door being softly un-
lockia from the inside. Ithought my dau h-
ter—who was then staying With Mrs. Clial e-
cott—had come home for some of her clothes;
bu anthers was some—hard feeling—between
us at that time, I considered that it would be
leasonter for her not to See me, so I stepped
ck in the shadow of a rose—bush and remained
uiet. The (1001‘ slowly and cautiously (pulled
and a woman came out. I could tell, at once,
that it was neither Oriole .nor Mrs. L hnldecott.
I was ver curious about it. She fastened the
door an placed the key under the stone,
lanced about her, and moved awa iii the di-
gection of tne mansion. .followe , at 65113—
creet distance. Q“ma “flaw that I mgmwd
the tall slender figure, I was desirous to be fully
 . and verily, when the lady came under
' the two lam s on either side the

:fiiigi’im‘l’i a full look at or face, and it was—-
Miss’St. Mark’s.” _ |
to his feet as if he would have

Eugene uvruni'z

 

knocked the speaker down. But, at that, Oriole
gave a little cry.

“ I understand it all,” she said. “ I had told
Miss St. Mark about the will the night they
thought Mr. Morley was dying. I heard her
say to her mother that she would not marry
him em-ept that he was rich—that she was
going  his bedside to persuade him to leave

er a rich widow; I was so outra ed h the
cool way she talked that I follower an told
her my proofs that Mr. Morley was not the true
heir. Of course she went to the Lodge after-
ward to search for the will! It was she who
took it from the box—and destroyed it! Doubt-
less she felt finite safe to marry Mr. Morley
after she had ( estroyed the will!’

A silence fell upon the little company who
pitied Eugene Morley from their lit-arts. “'11:!
it not hard to lose fortune and faith in woman-
kind at one fell blow? Eugene sat quite pale
and still for a little while; then he looked up,
and something resolute shone in his handsome
bluee es.

“If it is true that Miss St. Mark has done
this-and prizes me only for the fortune I no
longer possess- it will be happy for her that she
learns my loss in time. At least, it will prove
her—you will admit that! If she loves me, and
will marry me still, I shall keep my promise to
her; if she wishes to try her uck at a better
match, I shellfive her the opportunity. Until
she has decide for herself I prefer to hear no
one alt ill of her.”

As e said this his manly glance did not falter
-—no, not even when it met those soft dark
glowin'r eyes fixed on him with such a lock of
mingled hope and fear. despair and love, as be-
trayed the whole fmlish, impulsive, passion-
ate heart of the girl who worshiped him.

“I should think even Miss St. Mark might be
sati<flod with half of what 'ou believed your
fortune, my brother,” said ‘elix. affectionate-
ly; “and that much my mother‘s promise as-
sures you. I have been going over everything,
to pass the time here, this winter; and I find the
Western property has more than doubled in
value; that, in fact, our possessions have reach-
ed a point where the cannot help growing,
even f left alone. y need there be any
trouble?”

“ At least ” answered the other, after a
pause, “ I will test Irene’s love. I have doubt-
ed it—here is the opportunity to

‘ Put it to the touch,
To win or lose it all.‘

I will tell her this marvelous story of our mo-
ther’s return to us, of her claim on everv do!-
lar—but I will not tell her, dear mother, of your
generous offer—not at first. If she loves me as
a woman should love him she consents to mar-
ry, here will be her chance to come out as a
heroine Oi the first clam”——with a. melancholy
smile—“ to avow her contem it for more riches
—her undying devotion to or lover! If she
caresonly for that wealth I shall seem to her to
have lost, then she will easily invent some wa ,
even yet, of slipping out of her romise. ,
how unfortunate!" he cried, sud enly, half-ris-
ing from his seat; “ the invitations were to go
out to-da I This will complicate matters most
awkwar ly— rovided Irene desires her free-
dom. I won] it had come a little sooner—this
strange change. ”

“Do not make yourself nnhap y, Eugene,”
whispered Mrs. Morle ,sit'tini.r by im an tak-
ing his hand. “ Miss B . Mark may prove all that
is noble—or, the cards may not have gone out
to—day; and you will see her tomorrow.” But
Eugene was, naturally, in a restless mood, with
the bewilderin revelations made him and the
uncertain of ow Irene would receive the bad
tidings. et, through all his excitement he
felt a deep satisfaction in knowin that Oriole
Darien was in the same room; while occasion:
ally his heart gavea wild throb at a thought

 

that would intrude—the sweet, glad tho ht ‘

that-if Irene proved false, he would be at ib-
erty to—woo and win some lovelier, softer,
sweeter, dearer child, who would love him for
himself alone.

 

CHAPTER XXVII. .
A man IN ran BAND.
1 to ,
iii!" Willem 2. 3:32;?"
Love at no ties, but Destin
Shall cut them with a swor .
-—sinnnr Moan.
Miss 81‘. MARK had contrived to partake of a
delicious little luncheon in company with her
mother and the Misses Carlington, after that
call from Senor Rolando, and was just compos-

 

abnsg knock, Eugene Morley came in—unex-
pact; , for Irene had not looked for him be-
ore that evening or the next morning.

He was lookin ill and care-worn, and there
was tEdpcrceptib e tremble in his voice as he

ree his fiancee. The kiss which Irene gave
im was warmer than she meant; for she could
not well helfiafeeling sorry, in any case, to see
that bright, ndsome face clouded; and—for a
few moments—she pitied him. Then she asked
herself—“Why do I feel regret for him? He
is still far better off than almost any other of
my acquaintance. Half of the Morley fortune
would satisfy most people. I Poor, dear Eugene!
ou never appeared so fascmating to me as now!
{Vould the fabulous old of that ellow W‘est
Indian repa me for t e sacrifice, 011ch I give
you upl— o, no. That impertinent girl was
right. glow is the time to prove my evotion

to on.
he drew him to a seat beside her on the sofa.

“ Whatis the matter, Eu no? You look ill.”

“I am not ill, my love, ut I am in trouble.
Not that I care for myself; but I dread the ef-
fect on you Irene; I fear you will be deeply
disappointed; and I want to say now, before
anything else, that if my bad news makes you
feel a wish to be free from your promise to be
my wife in a few days, I admit that you have
a meet to so decide.’

“ by, your news must be very bad news,
indeed, remarked Irene, smiling.

Then, in a burst of excited feeling, he told
her what it was, and was deeply surprised tofind.
how calmly, almost laughhingly, she receiVed it.
Had be mistaken her c aracterf Done injus-
tice to her womanly nature! She was looking u
at him with those lovely blue eyes uncloud
saying, cheerfully—not ‘vingahint that she
had‘ been apprised of all before:

“ Is this your terrible news! Well, Eu-
gene, if Mrs. Morley keeps her promise, and di-
vides equally between her own son and you, I
don’t see that we need tostarve. There have al—
ways been rumors about the will, on know: it.
is better to know the truth, now; , for one, am
willing the melancholy Felix should have his
share. Quito romantic, and like a book, is it
not? Now, if Felix would only marry the‘gar-
dener’s daughter, we should be a happy fam' y.”

“ Never mind her," said Eugene, fiushm
slightly. “If you love me truly enough to
low this to make no difference with you, Irene,
I think our prospects of happiness are satisfac-
tory. Indeed, you take a heavy wei ht from
my mind, my darling; I am gratef to you
for the way you have home this blow,”—and
then he, in his turn, felt remorse that he had
been conscious of a remote hope that Irene.
would break the fetters which bound them to—

ther, and so leave him free to fofiow that other

oolish fond inclination.

Thislurking consciousness made him a very
devoted lover that afternoon. There was plen-
ty to talk about, and the wedding-dress had to-
be viewed' it was settled that the cards were
to go out t 8 next morning; and Eugene, put-
ting all thoughts of Oriole far away, resolved to-
be a good and true husband to this noble girl.
who had remained so devoted to him: while-
the “noble girl " was secretly consoling herself
with two wise proverbs:

“Ahalfaloafis better than no bread,"
“Abirdin the hand is worth twoln the bush.“

The Senor had not actually proposed- so it.
might be madnem for her to jilt Mr. Morley on.
a bio uncertainty.

f we could read the minds of many fair-
brides would not thoughts and motives as self-
ish be found, where the lover fondly behave!

that only pure affection has room to livef .

Not thus was love tempered b prudence in
the pamionate heart of Oriole 'en. With
her, poor child, love was all. When she had
sat t are in the Morley library with the others,
and saw the shadow on Eugene Morle ’I face
on learning that he was disinherited, or love-
had risen to something better than the mad, un-
reasoning (passion of a romantic 'rl. It sub-
limed to evotion. She despise? herself for
havin felt glad that his disappointment would.
bring im nearer to her. She longed to nerve
him—even if by so doing she sacrificed herself,
utterly. And so the foolish fancy came to her
that, perhaps, if she could see Miss St. Mark
first, she could persuade her to be true to her-
lover in spite of his losses. And she bad all
away from Morley Beeches, alone, and we ed
to the distant station in time to catch the eight.
o’clock train to the city; had one to the
Clarendon and waited until the adieu came.
from the a; and then, alone with her
rival, the had told her how affairs were go-

ing herself for asiesta on the sofa. when. after 1 in: at Morley Beeches. begging Irene not to.

 

MORLEY BEECHES.

 

 

28

add to Mr. Marley's bitter mortifloation, by re- ] “ Father, can I ride back with you i”

fusing to be his wife: painting the generosity
of Mrs. Morley in the most glowing colors,
and adding her conviction that whatever that
lad promised she would more than fulfill.

Vahen Irene mockingly asked her why she
had come on such an errand, she had meekly
admitted that it was because she loved him so
well that she only wanted him to be happy;
that she had given up her own wild foo ish
thoughts and wishes, and only grayed for his
welfare' and she had believed t at by coming
lfirst, and ersuading Miss St Mark to see the
bright si e of the icture she could reconcile
her to it before her over spoke to her about it,
and so save him any further disappointment.

“ He would not allow them to predict that it
would make any difference with you, Miss St.
Mark, so I thought I would tell you what faith
he had in you that on mightbe proud toprove
yourself wort y of t.”

Irene had laughed in her sarcastic way.

“ You are a very singular girl, Miss Darlen,
as perhaps you are aware. Your unconven-
tional way of doin thin s is amusing. More
than one young la y wou d not care to be told,
as a girl as pretty as you are, how much on

ore the gentleman she expects tomarry:

b
utf ‘
in your case, one excuses you, on the ground 0 i
8’0

your ignorance. It is too late for you to
away from the hotel to-night; you can share
my maid’s bed. I shall not care to see you
again in the morning—but, if it will content
on to hear me say it, I may assure on that I

vs no present intention of changing my ar- ‘

ran gemen ts. ”

“I am very glad,” Oriole had answered her,
simply. “ I can bear your contempt, and even
your amusement—they make no difference with
me—now that you know of his loss and are still
trueio Mr. Morle . l neednotbo told that I am
not like other gir s. I have lived in a solitary
world of my own all my life. I know only a
few people, and those I love I love with all my
heart, and those I hateI hate with all my heart.
I cannot be Mr. Morley’s wife, but I shall be
his friend. I would walk around the globe to
do him some small service. I do not forget that
he was nearlykilled for a fault of which he was
innocent. Again, I say, I am glad you are go-
ing to fulfill your word to him.” I

‘ How those great dark eyes of hers glowed
when she asserted that she would walk around

‘ she had

the globe to do him some small service!” mused ;.
Irene, after she had dismissed her strange vis- =

itor by calling her maid to “share her room
with this young woman.” “I don’t wonder Eu-
gene came near being infatuated! She‘s quite
the prettiest young creature I ever saw.
must marr him, if only to keep him from her.
Imagine t e elegant Mr. Morley, of Morley
Beeches, playingr at love in a cottage with his
gardener 3 daughter I”

And it was this hateful jealousy which be-
came a powerful motive to keep Irene from dis-
carding Eu ne. Never was a scheming wo-
man in gree r doubt what move to make next
than was the bride-elect on that day of Mr.
Marley’s return. We know the encouragement

she had contrived to give the Senor; yet to Eu- ‘

gene she appeared fond and true.

Meantime, Oriole, not once regretting her
visit, but lonely and very sad, had returned by
an early train, and getting off at the village
had seen Eugene stopging onto one going in t e
gposite direction. he draw down her vail

at he might not recognize her.

“Good-by, my love, good-by!” she cried, si-
lently in her heart.

" Zophiel Darien was standing on the platform.
He had come down to the station with Mr.
orle and was to drive the wagon back.

D 11 had had something to sa privately to

is former employer—the man w 0 had made

‘ dan hter so unhappy—the man he had once

nearly illed in a sudden fury—and he had said

it as they came along; it was something like
this:

“Mr. Morley, I have a good deal of mono ,
and nothing would please me more than
make it useful to you. You are mg to be
married and go on a long journey. f y on need
funds, to almost any amount, I will consider it
a favor if you will only come to me.”

And Eugene had thanked him very cordially
and earnestly, not ugreatly surprised—for he
knew that Darien h saved money and at it
at interest; and thinking his “ funds, to a most
an amount ” meant the loan of a few hundred
lichens—and had said gift Mrs. Morley had in-
sisted on his not ohan his arrangements in
any way, but to call on banker in his own
name for the present. Oriole had seen the two
men shake hands at parting, and the sight had
given her pleasure. I '

 

“Child! Where do you come from! Mrs.
Chal—Morley would not tell me; I suppose it
is all ri ht since she approved.”

“ I think it is right enough, father; but I am

tired,” and she looked so, indeed, as he lifted ‘
her into the wagon, though she smiled faintly. ,

“I don’t mind telling you I have been to see
Miss St. Mark, and that—they—will be mar-

ried—and how glad I am. You and I must be .
friends again, father, as we used to be-dearer ‘
1

friends t an ever; and I do not think I shall
ever again give you so much anxict . You are
all I have in the world. and I am all, you have.
Let us find a little home somewhere—away
from here, father—and never again be separa-
ted for a day. I don’t think I care to go back
to school.”

“I don‘t care to have you, daughter,” an-
swered he, in a voice hoarse with emotion. “I
shall not want you away from me, now that I
have my little girl back again; yet, it ma be
best for a few weeks or months, while I look
for a home that will please us. However Mrs.
Morley is anxious to have you stay with her
at the Beeches. She is fond of you, and quite
willing to go on with your lessons for the sake
of your society."

' It will be harder for us to begin to try to
gorgelt—there,” murmured Oriole, very low and

aint y.

“ Then my little girl must go away,” he said,
tenderly; and they were silent for some time,
as the horses flow along the frozen road.

Oriole ot out at the Lod e, for somethin
0ft there, after w 'ch she walk
slow! and thoughtfull up to the great house,
for rs. Morley was t iere now instead of at
the cottage, and it was understood between
them that she was to come there on her return.
DaLppIe admitted her and told her she would
tin Mrs. Morley in the library: so she hurried
on, and only lightly tapping at the door, open-
ed it and went in.

Mother and son were standing near the tire,
their faces toward it, talking so earnestly that
they remained unaware of her presence.

‘ md knows how glad I am to have a mo-
ther!” Felix was saying. “ But as to the rest,
I tell you truly, mother mine, I would gladly
give back all to my brother, and be again ‘ only
a poor relation ’ if by so doing I could win the
love of Oriole aricn.”

Oriole heard it and shrunk back.

The next minute a sudden light shone in her
great lustrous eyes; she was so lonely and here
“gas a mother and a lover if she would but have
t em.

“ Give me time—to forget,” she cried out, and
they turned and saw ln-r standing there, so
beautiful, looking at them in piteous entrcaty.

 

CHAPTER XXVIII.
“ A GREAT nacassranss YOU MAY an.”
Younggsmie lo'ed me well and he sought me for his

89
But saving a crown he had naething else beside.
—anssr.

“IT is easy enough to trace the resemblance
now,” said Felix, standing with his mother be-
fore her portrait, painted in her lovoly youth.
“I have often puzzled over the something in
Mrs. Chaldecotts face which drew me to her
and gained my affection and interest; but,
trul , I am honest enough to confess, Madame
Mor ey, that this black velvet dress and point-
lace dgive effect to your ood looks! Which re~
min 8 me l—how about t e Gathorne diamonds!
You know Eugene has had them reset and pre-
sented to his bride.”

“ Ay, I have been thinking about it. Eugene’s
bride must not have those jewels: they belonged
to my mother—and my mother’s mother, some
of them—and to my Own dear son they must
descend, when I am done with them. They
have far more than their money value to me;
and to vou belongs the privilege of gracing
{fur wife with them some da . I must write

Eugene about them imm late] ; for the
wedding comes of! in three days. 1% will be l
little awkward; but I shall send him a check
for the urchase of other handsome ones; and,
althoug Irene may be vexed, she must see the
inane: of the demand and yield them grace-

u .

“ on’t write, mother; since we are {ring to
town tomorrow to remain until after the wed-
ding, you can explain ‘by word of mouth’
more kindly, I think.”

“You are right, Felix. And I will ask Irene
to accept some one of the ewels as a bridal

resent from me. Poor Orio i I don’t like go-
ng 0! for several days and leaving her here

\

I alone. She will do too much thinking; and she
; is already much too melancholy.”

. “ Mother, do you believe I can ever win her
' love!”

“Time works wonders, Felix dear. I can
only repeat what she says—‘ give her time to
forget ’—or—give on, time to forget! You
may be mistaken n the feeling on have for
her. She is exquisitely beauti ul—I admit
that—and has many other charms; but I can-
not but feel she would be better mated with
some guy person like Eugene than with you,
my grave and earnest boy! No, I still hope to
see some nobler, grander woman my son’s
wife:

“ ‘Some daughter of the gods divinely falr.’

Not th::t I am not very fond of Oriole; she is
enchanting in her way; but—I confess it—I am
very ambitions for my boy!” and she half-
laughed, half sighed, as she glanced up at him
proudly.

The next day Oriole found herself alone in
the rent house with only the servants.

“ am so sorr to leave on without com-
pany, my dear. s there no riend of yours at
schOol for whom I can Send to spend the time
of our absence with y u?” Mrs. Morley had
asked before going away; and Oriole had de-
clared her re erence for being left solitary.

“My fa ier will be out to see me once or
twice during the time,” she said.

Zophiel Darien ap a.er to have important
business in the cit , at not even his daughter
understood what it could be. He went in on
the same train with Mrs. Morle and her son;
after arriving in town the los sight of him.
Rooms had been secured in he same hotel with
the St. Marks and there Felix and his mother
stopped, awaitinidthe wedding-day.

Irene receiVed rs. Morley very sweetly. If
she married Eugene it behooved her to make
herself agreeable to his ste mother, who now
held the purse and had all t e favors to confer.
The very evening of her arrival Esther Morley
took the bride-elect aside to explain to her as
kindly as possible that Eugene’s presents of
jewelry must be returned, as they were the
family jewels of the Gathornes and entirely
her roperty.

“ lect some one of the pieces, Irene,” she
added affectionately, “as a gift from me.
You shall not be greatly the loser: Eugene shall
go to-morrow and select you some handsome
diamonds; but these are heirlooms from which
Icannot art.”

Irene listened in silent anger.

“Ver well,” was her short reply. “ Since
you claim them, Mrs. Morley, I sha l of course
give them up. I dare sa it will be sowith
everything now; the ve read we ut in our
mouths W! i be yours. confess, I ardly like
the situation,” and rising abru )tly she retired
from the private parlor where t ey were to her
own bedroom, where she walked hurriedly
about, her eyes burning blue fire her pearly
teeth biting savagely at her trem ling under

lip.

“What is the matter?” asked her mother,
coming to see what kept her.

“Matter enough, mother! And quite too
much! I see my ition plainly enough. I am
tobe a lwggar, ed by the bounty of that wo-
man! That is what my splendid catch' has
proved to be. I must ask for what I want, and
drop a courtesy when I ret it and say ‘Thank.
you, madam, how kin you arel’ It is in-
tolerable—intolera ble !”

“ Be calm. Irene. Do not work yourself 11100
such a passion. We must make in e best of
things. It is too late now to do otherwise. We
are spending our last dollar. There is no time
to waste in lookin for a better pv'rti. And
think of the sounds of itl—brcaking off, after
the Wedding-cards are out! Come, come, don’t
be a fool, daughter! You need be no one’s
slave. You have tact and wit enough to twist
‘that woman’——as you call her—around your
finger. You can et all you Want out of her. if
you flatter hera ittle. Of course, now I wish
to goodness you were going to marry Senor Ro-
lando—a magnificent match that would be, in-
deed! However, there is no use or sense in
incurning over what might have been; it is too

ate. ’

“ Too late!” school Irene, coming to a
in her hurried walk about the room.
late! Mamma. it is not yet too late!"

Her mother stared at her in surprise. Irene
returned her look with one full of subtle ween-
lation. Her hands were locked before her,a
red spot began to burn in either cheek.

“I can marry the senor tomorrow. if I so
_will, mamma. It would make a sensation—
'yet. what do I care for that? I should not be

use
‘ Too

 

~—' ——-——

i

1-- -—-—

MORLEY BEECHES.

29

 

here to be annoyed by it; he would take me
away; Isliould be his queen—not a beggar ask-
ing aims of a step-mother! Why, t e Senor
counts his fortune by millions l—he adores the
ground my foot ressesl Itis true he reminds
me of an ape—t at he is repulsive to me many
times—that I adore my handsome, my bonny
Eugene—Oh, mamma, I am very fond of
En one, after all l” and she sunk into achair
an bowed her fair face in her hands.

“So am I,” murmured Mrs. St. Mark. “He
islike a son to me. Come, Irene, let us make
the best of things! Mrs. Morley will be good
to on.

‘ Do you know, mamma, I am to give up all
those superb diamonds!”

“ No! My poor child, is this pOSsible?”

“Yes. It roves whoisto be mistress now.
Do you thin , with my temper 811;} my ambl-
tion I can endure a second peeition?

“ This is trying, my poor dear! I know not
how to advise you.”

“If I were not such afool as to real! care

for hjmi” murmured the bride-elect. “ iit, I
do—more than I thought. I can’t bear the idea
that some other girl will win him, if I give him
u .1)
p“ Well, you cannot remain here deliberating.
Since on love him, lrene I advise you to go
on wit the rogramme. éome; they will won-
der what is etaining us." She drew ier daugh—
ter up by the hand and led her back to their
friends.

The Seflor’s servant knocked at the door and
left a lovely bouquet of pink roses, fringed with
fern, and a small package, with the compli-
ments of his master. Irene opened the package
with eager fingers. In a rich casket—which
was itself a Work of art—lay a necklace of dia-
monds and pearls, as ex iiisite as it must have
been costly—a glorious n‘dal present indeed!
She gave a cry of delight; but no one saw what
was written on the card which la , with the
gift, in the casket. Irene read that iastily and
thrust it in her pocket, saying, With assumed
carelessness:

“From Senor Rolando, as you might know.
None other of my acquaintances could afford
such a present.”

She seemed curiously restless and excited the
remainder of the evening' the usual faint pink
color in her fair cheekshad deepened todamask,
while her blue eyes glittered under their half~
closed lids. She chatted nervously, she laughed
frequently—was so unlike her cold, scornful self
that Mrs. Morley watched her with keen ob
servation.

The following morning Eugene desired her to
gowith him and his adopted mother to select
thediamonds which were to take the place of the
Gathorne gems. She surprised him by declining.

“I real! do not feel equal to such a pleasure,

this m g” she answered, sweetly. “ I re
is; to Ego  aggrel to Mrshbor‘
. you w' m t r no t t it
'11“ boaim th batik?“ “301$” ’
n v n e ; she was ntl
obstinate andy did not yield. go y

By this means she secured a couple of hours
to herself, which the improved by writing to
the Seflor a dainty note asking him if she might
thank himo‘personally for the superb gift she
had receiv —she would be at home that morn-
lnfito him—and him alone.

° “111°, eagerly. She was wearingth pink
roses, and looked beautiful as an an el, at very
sad;1,there were tears in her blue lue eyes, as
she ifted them falterineg to his ace.

“ 0h, senor,” she whispered, “I know now
to a certainltydlthat he does not love me—that

he is on] f lin his promise fro ' of
duty, .hat-shal I—what can I (1‘31: sense
“ Let him Marry the one who loves you

most devoted y—who is distract of hmtmuhle
almost to madness, to 1086 you. Ah! if it were
at the very steps of the holy altar, there is one
who would snatch you from him, if he might!
He is stupid—knows not a pearl when it is
offered him; he is ungrateful! Let him go—and
take him who flinga himself at your feet—be-
hold !” and the WestIndian went down on one
knee, dramatically, seizing her white hand.

Irene looked down at him, critically—he was
evidently in earnest.

“ I would do much—to be revenged,” she mur-
mured.

“You would marry me?" he urged, kissing
her band.

“ It might make me Very unhappy—but I am
almost tempted—to punish them, she answered,
slow x, but without hesitanc .

" A ! charming angel! es, they must be
punished. It is a burning wrong not to adore

on, Mt. St. Mark. What man could help it!
on will break with himI—you Will marry In“

 

You shall not be unhappy l—I will be too much
devote. You shall have everything you like—-
evenly thing I”

“ he intended wedding is so well known,
Senor.” >

f‘Pah! that is atriflel Let us scorn it! It
Will be what you call a good joke—excellent!”

“ If I were sure you would always be fond of
me—and good to me—”

“Fond of on, my angel l”—-he had risen to
his feet, and ad his arms about her, his black
eyes glowing with triumph.

“ T ere must be no scene—no fuss—no duel,
you know, Senor. We must be very discreet—
no one must su ect—we must arrange—”

“I understan It shall be best so—as you
wish. Ah, leave that all to me, my adorable!
I can arrange,” he answered her with a won-
derful smile, full of subtle promises of discre-
tion. “Ha! ha! Yes, he SIM!" be punish for
not sufficiently adore such a pearl—such a lily!
1 shall not be sorry for him; it will be excellent
—he deserves it. We will surprise him—make
him glreatly sorry; ha, ha!”

“ hat shall we do, Senor? There must be
no scene, as 1 said.”

“ It is very sim do; we will go out, sometime,
to the priest and o married. We will be mar-
ried, and then go away, vci‘y quit-t. They may
make a sccno when the discover we are gone—-
what matter?—we will, be far away. laughing
in our sleeves—ah, what rapture!” and again
the tropical enthusiast half-devoured the lily
hand she allowed to remain in his Own.

"They are coming,” cried Irene. hastily as-
suming a seat. “We can talk no more, now,
Senor. I will think over what you have said,
and give you a. positive answer to-morrow.”

“'lovmorrowl—a year!”

“ Well,” with a fascinating smile, “tonight,
then Sei'ior.”

“ shall be devour—mad—with jealousy all
day," he had just time to say in a burning
whisper, when the door opened, and the shop-
pers came in.

The Senor bowed himself out ina mood about
equally rapturous and miserable. The suspense
of that day was difficult for one of his ardent
temperament to endure. He walked the halls,
he paced the streets. he smoked many cigars,
he looked at his watch, incessantly.

“If she coquette with me,” he said to him-
self, fiercely, more than once, “if she play with
me, to amuse herself, I will kill her.”

Irene St. Mark hardly realized the terrible
earnestness of this new lover as she deliberated
with herself, cool , and at her leisure—“ Will
I, or will I not! ow shall I decide?"

CHAPTER XXIX.
awn, wrrn nan nssram.

First love will with the heart remain
When its hopes have all gone by.——Cual.

And I shall be alone until I die. -'l‘nnaox.

" IT is his weddin -day.”

Oriole Darien h tossed on her feverish il-
low nearly all ni ht; toward morning, with he
cheerful chantic eers calling to each other
through the frosty darkness, she had at last
fallen into uneasy alumbers. Out of this she
suddenly aroused and lay very quiet, looking
at the large silvery morning star which shone
into her window through the rosy flush of the
advancing sunlight.

“ It is his wedding-day.”

She sprun out on the floor as she remembered

!

earth creaked under her light feet: the glisten-

ing frost lay over all. Past the statue of

Psyche, into the summer-house she went; but

I she dared not linger there—it was too madden—

; ineg full of haunting memories. 80 on and on

, she fled, through the fields and woods for hours.

i
l

 

it crept to t e casement and stood there, in her 1

white night-dress, with the growing light on her ‘

pale sad see.

“My heart is broken—my heart is broken,”
she murmured, piteously. “ I cannot bear it—I
cannot! I did not thin it would be so hard to
bear! Oh, God help me!"

She sunk on her knees, with her eyes lifted to ‘

the dark-blue heaven, and her hands clasped
and raiscd.

‘ It seemed to her that she had been rovin
‘ a whole endless day when she found ierself

about

back in the mansion: yet it was hardly half~

past eight, and Dap le was just comin from'
tapping at her cham r door to tell her reek-vi
fast was ready. ' _ ‘

She went into the dinin -room and took a cup‘
of coffee, for she was fain and thirsty; a burn- .
ing fever ran in her throbbin veins.

After that she found hersef in the libr ,
sitting before the fire, gazing at the face of t a
black marble clock on the mantle.

I “It is his weddin -day. Half-past nine—at
twelve she will be h wife. How swiftly the
minutes fly! How intolerany long they are! '
How terrible it is to be all alone on such a day,
yet I wopld fly from the sight of a human coun-

)

noe.

“Ten o’clock! It will soon be twelve. She
will be his wife then!”

“ Half- ast ten! Will this day never come to
an end! must find something to do. I will
go n stairs and et my embroidery.”

“ Ieven o’cloc l hat is the use of trying
to work! My eyes burn; I cannot see to act a

. stitch; my fingers tremble, the silk is all in a

tangle, 1 am blind with tears. What am I cry-
ing for? I know this is his wedding-day; butI
ought to have been better prepared. In an hour
she will be his wife. His wife! And she hard-
1 cares for him! She does not half see or feel
that she is the one happiest woman in the
world. Why did I go and coax her to marry
him? What a fool I was! I wanted her to
spare his feelings. Who is there to spare mine!
Uh, how my head aches, and my heart! How
ill I feel! What shall I do with myself? I
shall go wild if I sit here staring at that
clock !’

She flung down the brilliant tangle of silks,
the velvet she was embroidering, and arose,
wandering restlvssly from one magnificent room
to another. Poor child! all alone with her
trouble! The little brown hands were clenched
and burnin -, the sweet dark eyes were dim
with unspea able grief ; the beautiful blooming
face was no longer a child’s vivid face. lovely
only with innocence and charming coloring:—
it was pale with a Woman’s passion and sorrow
-1—pale; but perfect as ever in its sweet, strange
g o .

“ is wedding-dayl—and I love him so,” she
moaned to herself, over and over, as she wan-
dered about the darkened drawing-room.

Suddenly an ex ' to clock somewhere in the
room began a soft: silvery chime-stroke after
stroke, until twelve were told.

She stood still to listen. ,When the delicate
echoes died away, she gave a little strangling
cry, clutched at er bosom, and sunk down on
the thick . She lay there a long time, un-
conscious. rs. Rice was about her duties;
there was no one to look after the poor, suflen-

ing child. Nature gradwa reasserted her
forces; youthtand health at led with killin
, the ion dar

Eief; her pulse strengthen
shes were wearily lifted; the sad eyes ooked
about in listless wonder; presently Oriole sat
lp and remembered where she was and what
tad happened.

“She is his wife now,” she whispered to 'her-
Hf. “ I must be brave. Oh,how wicked I am
to feel as I do! But, my heart is broken. I
wonder if he thinks of me—if he pities me! Of
course he does not. This is his weddhigday;
he is happy—and proud of her! She is so very
fair an! ovely and ladylise; while I am a poor
dark little creature of whom he Would always ‘
have been ashamed. Ah! if I could be proud,
and not care instead of loving him so!”

She raised herself wearily and the old restle
roving began again. Up and down-stairs, ,in

, every room, the sad, white face showing a mo-

‘ ment at ever

“Oh Christ, help me to bear it! I feel that 7

my heart is breaking. Help me to suffer, and
bless him and make him happy, whatever he-
comes of me.

It was along hour before she arose, shivering "

unconsciously with cold, and slowly and pain-
ful! dressed herself, moaning often:

“Iiow shall I ever endure the long, long,
lonesome, dreadful da 1”

Cold as she was the ones seemedto stifle her.
Winding a scarf about her head and shoulders
she stole down-stairs in the dim morning and
went out into the leafless, deserted garden.
The fountain was frown; the flowers had van-

mumtheirblachenedstalks:thecrlan

doors, alo

he

window, she wandered; out of
t e chilly piazzas; then in again,
unquiet as t e wind that began to rise and moan
about the mansion.
“ I can’t than to see her a-goinfi about like a
fliost ”. remarked Da ple, confl entially, to
rs. knee, as he ate 0013 beef and drank beer in
the kitchen. “ It’s dre’dful lonesome for her,
pretty! I wish she had somebody with
er as was a friend. There’s a sort of desprit
look in her face, like she was thinking of some-
think rash.”
“ Not sooicidel” ejaculated the housekeeper.
He nodded his

head.
“"I,'hatislt,”heaa1d;“batl’llkeepaneyeoa

 

 

30

 BEECHES..'V

 

 

And so he did—from a distance—quite unsus-
pected by the wretched child. \.

“ I must not think about him-it is wicked!
This is his wedding-day she is his wife now; I
have on] to remember that.”

So sai Oriole to herself over and over again
that interminable afternoon.

What an afternoon it was! The sunrising
had been clear, but, as the morning advanced,
thick clouds had drifted up from the horizon; a.
wild, wintry wind had begun to blow. At four
o’clock it was quite dark. Snow was falling
fast and being whirled into drifts. Shutters
rattled; the branches of trees creaked against
the house; Oriole grew more feverish and more
restless.

“ They will not mind the storm," she whis-
pered to herself. “They have started on their _
wedding journey. They are travelin South as
fast as steam will carr them. It Wll be warm
and sunny down in h orida; they will be very 3
happy there! This fierce wind makes me shiver
to hear it. They will be where it is summer; it
is winter here,’ and she shuddered. “Oh, fa- ‘
ther, father, I wish you were here to take me in
your lap and rock me while I laid my tired,
achin head on your shoulder! It is wicked of ,
me to 6 so wretched. I know that. Indeed, I 9
am trying all I can not to mind it. Who is 1
that! Oh is it vou. Dapple! Yes, please
make the tire burn as bright as possible: it will

seem less lonely. No, I do not care for dinner.
I never could eat all alone, and I am not hun-
gry to-day. Yes, Mrs. Rice may bring me a
cup of tea and a slice of toast by and by, but
not just yet.”

Da ple retired from the room and remained ,
close y the door in the hall, for he felt anxious
about the pale-faced girl.

“ I don’t tame the 00k of her; it is desprit,”
he repeated to hlznse f.

In a few minutes he made another excuse to
goin and 11 ht the lamps. It was hardly flve
o’clock, but ark outside as deepest night. The
wind was still rising, the snow coming down
more thickly. He found Miss Darien standin
before thecheerful fire he had latel re lenishei. ,
and which lighted the somber o d ibrnry so
bravely, warming the crimson velvot hangings
and playing over the gilded backs of the books,
that she hardly noticed he had added to the
light. He saw that her eyes were tired and
heavy, her young face very white.

“ I will bring her the tea direct! an’ hadvise
herto drink it,” he said to himse , as he slip
ped out of the room unnoticed. But, as he
reached the hall, he was surprised to hear the
door-bell ring.

“Who can it be comin ’ere in such a storm!
They wasn’t to return be ore to-morrow after—
noon. Mebbe it’s Darien him15elf come to visit
his daughter! I’ll soon see,” and e unfastened
the double door which he had bolted for the

trig-1‘5. '
'ole did not hear the hell, or the sound of
voices in the hall; she remained b the fire, her
slim figure, in its dark silk dress, tinctl out-
lined ‘nst the golden blaze. The r and
d o nasturtium blossoms would scarcely
ve accorded with her rich young beauty now,
as they did that first day on which Eugene Mor-
ley had gazed on her in admiring su rise. Her
vivid bloom had changed to a color ess pallor;
her attitude was listless: the long black lashes
almost touched her checks, as she gazed, With
heav eyes into the fire.
“ isw dingdsy—andlloved himeol” she .
murmured once more. l
And then an arm slipped about her soft i
waist' a tender kiss fell on her forehead; she 
was drawn close, close to some one’s warm ’

hr
Sign on come back to your poor birdie,
father! h, father, my heart is broken; let me
die ” she cried, with s. sob.
‘ Oriole, my love, 111 bird, my darling, look
u i It is not your fat er!”
pWho was this, speaking to her! That voice!
—was she in a dream, or was she going wild!
Bwiftly the weary lids flew Open; she raised
her suddenly-shim eyes and looked in the i
face of him who 1191 her. ‘
l
l

 

“ Eugene!”
“Yes, In Iov my little darling! Eugene,
come t i you ow he loves you—how noth-

ing shall ever again part him from his little :
!

ove!’

“But—this is your wedding-day! Where is i
-—your wife!”

‘I have no wife,” he cried, with a joyous .
laugh. “Thank Heaven, she chested me—a

i 1 delicious; but they lingered over it a long

i given up youth, beauty, and

' The more she was tempted to leave Eugene, the

; sion for money and display, which was her lead-
‘ ing motive, got the better of her romantic

roved more irresistible than my claims upon

er? She was false, dishonest, avaricious, and
she threw me overboard for a richer man.

They dreaded to tell me the evil news! They
gtied me! Oh, my bri rht bird, I could laugh

think of their pity! h , darling my heart
bounded at the thought 0 freedoml Nothing
could restrain me from flyin to you! They do
not know what has become 0 me; perhaps they
think I am roving about in the storm, distract-
ed; but, I am here, with you, my sweet one!
Tell me, are you as happyas I am? Oriole, I
did not know how I loVed you, until her act
freed me and I was at liberty to think of you!
M darling, speak!—are you as happy as 1 am!”

{lie dazzling eyes insisted on thrir answer.
The wind howled around the mansion, shriekin
derisively down the chimney; the snow whirled
down and sputtered on the golden fire; but,
what did these lovers know of the storm! The
girl’s glorious eyes drank in the passion and
adoration pourw into them from her lover’s.

“And she is not your wife, Eu enel”

“No one will ever be my wi'e, now, sweet
one, until you consent to wear that name.

Oriole, you will be my iiife, some day, not so
very far away! I am a poor man; I cannot of- I
for you an bribe but my love."

8 ie laug ed at the idea of a bribe.

“ You know how I love you; I never could
conceal it,” she said, simply. ‘With me, my
love is my very life.”

Dapple waited—with extraordinary discre-
tion—more than an hour before tapping at the
library door. They did not hear him and he i
knocked more loudly.

“I thought as how Miss Darien would be ‘
needing her tea, Mr. Morley; and you yourself,
sir, ’aving ’ad no supper: so Mrs. Rice an’ me
has got up a bit of a teadinner, if ou’d please
to come out and have some, Miss srien, and
you, sir.”

“You are very kind,” said Oriole; “ I'm not
ban rry, Dapple; but perhaps Mr. Morley is. I :
will ring him out.”

There was a neat little hot supper on the ta
bio for two. The lovers never could recall of
what it consisted, or tell why it was so strange-

t me, while the butler, deftly attending upon
them, said to himself he had never believed a

ntleman could be so 'andsome or a lady so
ovel as this pair were that evening.

“ oung master is no longer the heir,” he
thought, ‘ an’ehe is only Darien's dnu hter: but
I’d rather wait on them tnan hany 0t er con la
in the wide world! I must just get Mrs. R 00
to  throu h the pantry door an’ see how
’appy hey loo ,” but on goin to call her he
found Mrs. Rice had been looEing for herself,
some time, and uite a reed with him that no
beautifuller coup e ooul be found.

“But, I‘m dying of curiosity to know what
brought him 'ere tonight. Dagple.”

“Love it was." s the utler, wisely; he
had listened at the ibrary door after his man-
ter’s arrival. “Love it was! 'I"other one Jjilt—
ed him at the verv halter, an’ he come straight
’ere to theone he ' ed best."

——

CHAPTER XXX.
win: in: was nosns nnouon'r.

Oh, the little birds sung east and the little birds sung
west. —lllas. Baownnio.
She is coming, my own, my sweetl—Tmrson.

IT was not without a struggle that Irene had
( elight, for the me -

uificent trium h of being the bride of the dar

little West 1 'an, and the sharer of his millions.

more charming he seemed to her; but the pas-

 

dreams, and—the very night before the wedding
which was to have been—she went out with the !
Seller, and returned to the hotel. his wife.
Her maid was the only one admitted to her I
confidence. This girl had secretly packed Irenc’s l
valuables: and the trunks flllcd with her bridal ’
finery were to be sent on to Washiimton after
them; at nine o’clock that evening. the Wedded
pair took the train for that eitv, leaving the
maid to break the news to Mrs. St. Mark.
Whether the Sellers is happy with her fiery,
but alien husband, or not, no one can say; she

the l lives a life of extravagant splendor. a great por.

very church door, as one might say! My dar- tion of her time bein spent in Paris. where her
ling! my darling!
think the moment th
with her Southern ad

Of whom but you did I
told me she had fled
.whoso millionshad

and jewels val those of the bonanza
queens.

As Eugene told Oriole. he won immensely

, ever
. witched you with her strange, bright beauty

 

gitied and condoled with when the news of her
1g

ht came out; for five minutes he did feel
grieved and indignant; but, when he fled from
is sympathetic friends, and was heard no more
from for that day it was not to the river he had
rushed to drown'his sorrows, but to the train
which would take him to her he had tried in
vain to i ore.

His friends were alarmed about him, until
Felix who was the first to guess the truth. de-
clared his belief that Eugene had gone to Mor-
ley Beeches.

“ So, mother," said Felix, with a long sigh
“ you see how foolish it was of me to have had
any hope. Those two were made forea< h other;
having wet, it was inevitable that they should
love. It will take me. along time to forget her;
yet, I am glad she is to be he py. Poor Eu-,
gene! he is the I‘l( b one after afil He has won
a pearl that will make him the envied of men.
I suppose i must be content with the Gathorne

‘. foriuneL—nnd with y on, my sweet mother,” bend-
' ing to

kiss her hand, that she mi 'ht not see the
dew vhiih suddenly clouded melancholy
dark eyes.

“I am
answered
that it is not lifelong. Oriole he be-

rieved for your grief. my son,” she
lllll, very tenderly. “I know, how-

and with the fascination of her innocence and
artlessness; but there isa ure and noble wife,
somewhere in this broad ad of ours, waiting
for my Felix to claim her, and bring her to our
beautiful h<ms at Morley Beches,”—and she
smiled hopefully even jo fully. “ 1' nd now, if
you believe we shall find ugene at the Beeches,
we had better follow him thither.”

Which they did.

Eugene bad walked—in the face of the
bowling storm—the three miles from the
station; these two, arriving by a later train,
were so fortunate as to secure t s only convey-
ance the place afforded; and, while the lovers
yet lingered over their supper—looking across
the table into each other’s eyes, in such a fashion
that they forgot the more serious dutv of eating
—mother and son arrived, and Mrs. Rice had to
brew more coffee, and set forth more cold tur-
key and hot oysters; while Oriole, flying into
Mrs Morley’s arms, and hiding her lowing face
in that kind besom, begged to be orgiven for
not being able to help loving Eugene, and being
so happy.

The -following day Zophiel Darien appeared
on the scene.

It was with “fear and trembling” young
Morley approached him on the subject of his
daughter—

“ You shot me once for just touching her hand
to say good-by; dare [ask you now that I am
free, to give her to me entirely?”

“She is a willful. obstinate piece—just like
her father,” answered Darien, something like a
smile glimmering in his deep-set eves. ‘If she
is determined on having you, Mr. Morley there
is no use of my setting up an op 'tion.”

“- You know I am poor,” add Eugene, hum-

bl .

X I don’t think Madame Morley will allow you
to suffer,” was the dr "Ely. “And now, let
me say to you, my an te_r ‘must finish her
school-year. After that t wrll be tune to talk
of other plans.”

“Go away from Morley Beechesl—back to
to that stupid school i”

“ Certainly! My little girl is only seventeen.
If you care for her you will not forget her be-
fore next June.”

And so Oriole returned to her school; for
Zophlel Oarien was as wise as he was deter-
mined; and then, Eu one offered to be Mrs.
Marley's steward, an really became industri-
ous, by spasnm; though Felix had to go over his
work after him.

Poor Eugene! Itwasalonesomewinter! But
it pussmi in spite of its dullness, while h is spring
days were brightened by the surreptitious dis-
covery that his dear step-mother was quietly
preparing any number of exquisite dresses, and
other articles of feminine apparel, which looked
to him like a wedding trousseau.

And then—June came and brought the roses
—and Oriole! Oh, sweetest month of all the
year! If sweet even to us experienced ones—
sweetcr than words can describe, with its fresh
green lo-at’eries, and breath of honeysuckle and
Wlltl grape, clover and a world of red, red roses
—.hnw suect must it have been to those young
lovers, idling away in each other’s company,
the flying days which brought them to their
wcddin lr—day. !_d

Ste ere, poor, pr . n c not attem
to paint the magic gfy t e June weather, t 0
young loveliness of the bride. the glorious hau-

 

 

   
     

 

—: I

- places of him who had 'won heri- Sflenee" 
‘ most eloquent, in arch presence! I ‘

Eugene reall believed he should be perfectly
content, all h. days. _to live in the'ivy-clad
Lod o with 011018. His friends had other views
for im, howevor. Among Oriole's wedding-
presents were a few of the Gathorne jewels and
all her trousseau from Mrs. Morley;and, from
her father-one hundred thousand dollars in
bonds and money! .

H You find your bride is not portionless, after
all,” said Zophiel Darien to Eugene, with an air
of indescribable pride.

“I did not dream of this,” murmured the
proud oung aristocrat.

“ are sav not. When I left here I had
saved a few thousand dollars. I was resolved
that my child should be the equal, in fortune,
ofthe young ladies who scorned her. Porhups
I hoped to purchase happiness for her, since

old appeared to be the talisman to secure it!
fspeculatcd, very cautiously; it must be that
love for Oriole inspired me with extraordinary
prudence for, where Others lOSfi.‘ Won. Igno-
rant of Wall street, I became quite famous there,
for lucky ventures. In six months my ten thou-
sand had broadened into more than ten times
that sum. And now, Mr. Morley, it is an in-
tense pleasure to me to dower my daughter,
knowing that she is loved for herself alone.”

They are all quite happy at Morley Beeches.
Mrs. Morley is devoted to her son, who remains
a book-worm and dreamer;—not discontented—-
on the contrary quietly content—while his
gentle mother looks out for him, among the
young ladies of their acquaintance, a suitable
wife.

 

mm.

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tion of Dialogues, ramas and
The Dime Speakers embrace twenty-flour volumes,
viz.: ,

     
    
   
      
  
 
   
  
  
    
    
     
  
  
   
 
  
   
   
    
  
    
  
   
  
   
    
 
 
 
  
  
   
  
 
  
  
    

1. American Speaker. 13. School Speaker.

2. National Speaker. 1L ludicrous .

3. Patriotic Speaker. 15. lgoniikal Speaker. I
4. Comic Speaker. 16. ‘1 outh s S -a-.

5. Elocutionist. 17. E10. uent oak . r

6. Humorous Speaker. 18. Hui Colum 8m. -
7. Standard Speaker. 9?.

8. Stump Speaker. 19. Sena-Comic S

9. Juvenile Speaker. ‘20. Select 8 ker. ' t
10. Spmmi-Eagle Speaker 21. Funny: peakor.

ll. Dime Delmler. 22. Jolly Sneaker.

12. Exhibition Speaker. 25 Dialect S or.

24. Dime Book of Recitation and mg].

These books are re lots with choice pieces for tho
School-room, the iibition. for Homes, etc. 7. to
100 Declamations and Recrtations in each book.

Dialogues. .

The Dime Dialogues, each volume 1m pun. .
brace thirty books, vim:

 

Dialogues No. One. Bialogues No. Sixteen. ‘
Dialogues No. 'hvo. ialogues No. Seventeen.
Dialogues No. Three. Dialogues No. Eighteen.

Dialogues No. Four. Dialogues No. Nineteen. I
Dialogues No. Five. Dialogues No. Twenty. '
Dialogues No. Six. Dialogues No. Twenty-on. ,
Dialogues No. Seven. Dialogues No. Twenty-two. _, ~; '
Dialogues No. Eight. ialogues No.Twenty-thno. ~ “ ~
Dialogues N0. Nine. ialog'ues No. 40“ :
Dialogues No. Ten. Dialogues No. Twenty-Owe. _
Dialogues No. Eleven.

Dialogues No.

Dialogues No. Twenty-fix. ‘ "
Dialogues No. 1

Twelve. Dialoguesh‘oflwentg
Thirteen. Dialogues No. Twen
Dialogues No. Fourteen Dialogues No. Twenty

Dialogues No. Fifteen. Dialogues No. Thirty.
ibto25Dialogues and Dramaeineachbooz

DramaaandRoadlnga.

164 12310 Pages. so Conic.
For Schools, Parlm Entertainment: and the Alb,

.J'

ateur St 0, comp Original Minor Dream.-
Comedy. arce, D can eces, Humorous I"
and Burlesque, by noted writers; and

and Readi , new :nd standard. of the
celebrith interest. Edited bmeLLI.

DIME HAND-BOOKS. 

Young People’s son-loo.

r Bnnu‘s Dun: Hum-Boon son Your
cover a wide range of mbjoctaandalo
adapted to their end. .

 

 

Ladies‘ Letter-Writer. Book of Game.
Gents' Letter-Writer. “mane-Teller. /
Book of Etiquette. Imers' m '
Book of Verses. Ball-room
Book of Dreams. Book of . E
Hand-Books of (la-ea,  ' 
a... .. mm?” °' Sues-raw“: ““
DO ' > 7‘
Chess Instructor Riding and m . V
8.2%”...‘Em" ’ 00mins 3"“ °‘ "
e . ' 
Handbookot mmspm—meaW-f

Manuals for Housewives."

 

 

1. Cook Book. 4. Family
2. Recipe Book. II.
8. Housekeeper“: Guide. lacy. A
Lives of Great m :_
I. W ..
 mm.~
Ill. —-Mad AnthonyWayuo X.—
trimmers: a.
.— air ‘
ette. m—U sees Grant.
VL—Daniel Boone. b ‘

Song Books. , 

Burma‘s Din Sosa Boon. Nos. 1 to cm “
the only popular collection of copyright...” .2

JokaBookI.  

Pocket Joke Book. Jim  
Paddy Whack Jobs Book. ‘  t‘ 

The above pnblicatiowforfllelfiafl I .
orwill be sent. post-phase  a!"

      
    

 

 
 

    

Raisins melee-8m;qu can.
I-‘ a  i .5.“ 341;;-

" 20 Orphan Nell, the Orange Glrl

livj

‘ ' . ., ‘QB fie Bride of an Aetor.

..
7‘!

.

I. \

. i
I
1

ii

' a

not in...“

l

'Ameridah Copyright Novels and theCream of Foreign Novelists, Unabridged, FOR FIVE CENTS!

I The Masked B ide; or. Will
Him By Mrs. Mary Reed ('rowell.
.‘ Was It Love? or, Collegians and Sweet-
hearts. y Wm. Mason Turner M. I).
a- The dirt wire. By Bartley i. (jam men.
4 A Brave Heart; or, Startlineg .
By Arabella Southworth.
5 Bessie Raynor, the \Vork Girl.
William Mason Tumor, M. I).
C The Secret Marriage. B Sara ("lnxton.
7 A Daughter of Eve; or,
8

 

lliuded by Love.
By Mm. Ma Reed (.‘rowell.

Heart to cart. B ' Arabella Southwm'th.
9 Alone in the “(arid)

W . By the author o “ Clifton,“ etc.
10 A Pair of Gray Eyes. By Rose Kennedy.
1 l Entangled ;
Henriei tn. Thackeray.

Adoption. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.
13 Madealn, the Little (fiunkeresw or, The.
Naval (.ndet's Wooing. 5y (‘orinno (lushman.
14 Why I Married Him.
15 A Fair Face. By Bartli-v‘l‘. (Junipboll,
16 Trust Her Not; or, A True Knight. By
Margaret Leim-ster.
'37 A Lo al Lover. B‘v ArnlielliiSoutlm'orth.
18 “I! dol. By Mrs. Jury Reed Crowell.

‘ 19 The Broken Betrothul; or. Love versus

Hate. By Mary Grace Ilulpiue.

' I ; or, The.
’ Lost H“il‘. By Agile Penile.

21 Now and Forever; or, Why Did She Mar-

Him? By Henrietta Thmrkemy.
I By the author
of “ Alone m the World," “ ( ‘|ifion,“ etc.

28 Leaprenr; or. Why She. Proposed. By Sara

n.
2‘ Her Face Was IIer Fortune. By Elea-
nor Blaine.
.25 Only a Sehoolmistress; or. Her Untold
,, Secret. By Arabella. Southworth.
26' Without a lien rt. By i‘ol. 1’. lngmhnm.
27 Was She :- (‘oquettet or, A Strange
Courtship. By Henrietta. Thackeray.
“BB 8 bilAChase; or. The (lmubler‘n Wife.
For Her Dear Sake.

S. Stephens.
The Bouquet Girl. lly Agile Penile.
A M iii lVlurri ge. Bylnry A. lieuison
Mariana, the Prllnu Donna; or. Roses
and lies. By Arabella Southworth.
he Three S

Merrie
w. Count Bv Sara Cinxton.
1 Against “or. By (‘lara Augusta.
8 Sir Archer’s Bride; or, The Queen of His
= v Heart. yAmbolla Soutbworth.
 The Country Cousin. Rose Kennedy.
, in Own A «in

By Sara Claxton.

lste rs. By Alice Fleming.

I Bout wort

Aberbane It Roz/«Ly
ed to Marry. By Sam (.‘laxton.
Devotion. By Alice Fleming.
tries, the autiml ' or, His Second
By Arabe It. Southwo l.
I The alto-32’s secret. B Starla Claxtxm.
or or ro er ainst
 3y anagfiminé. ' “8
dden Foe. By A. Southworth.
tile Heiress; or, Under a Cloud.
J _ Ma. A. Denison.
.9 e Loved Him; or, How Will
4" ” End'LByfAllii‘e Flelming. J Re
0 one i' or eannctte‘s a-
ragga. By S. R. Sherwhod.‘ p ,
49 He rt’s Mistress; or Love at First
2. if
80

y Arabella, Southworth.

, .p , . Mrs. ary A. Denixon
f 0 Young lirls. By Alice Fleming.
i The Winged Messenger; or, Risking All
for a Heart. By Mra. Mary Reed L‘roweli.
’58 not Hope the Actress. By Wiumm
» n Turner, 1. D
.34 One Woman’s "cart; or. Saved from the
root. 8 George. S. Knime.
55— 0 Did ot Love Him; or. Stooping to
" nquer. By Arabella Southwerth.
58 Love-Mud ; or Betrothed Married. Divorced
. B m. Mason urner, M. D.
‘lrl. B Alice Fleming.
"as ;
Guardian. By Mrs. Mary Reed (‘roWs-ll.
A Widow’s Wiles.
Cecil’s Deceit. By Mrs. Jennie i). Burton.
1 A Wicked Ileart. By Sara Claxton.
2 The Maniac Bride. By Mnmnn‘t illount
3 The-Creole Sisters. By Anna E. Porter.
What Jealousy Did. By
5 The Wife’s Secret. B (0]. Juan Lewis.
0 A Brother’s Sin. By hel Bernhardt.
hidden Duns. By Arabella Southworth.
covers and Welt. By M. E. Broaden.
o Camille. gy Ailinndro 
0 Two ans. cry.
7 Young in. ByB‘iy Young Wife's
“1973. widows. hymns-as. \
Hilton.

  ii.  Michel. H laud

;‘_,‘

The Chen

1 , , , .
She Harry E 74 (Ieeii (‘astlemalne’s (team or, The Story

trunge. .
By |
5 79 A
: 80 Her Lord
1, or, The. Young Man‘s ‘
or, A Dangerous (lame. By  83 Playhlg for “lgh Stake“.

in "1' Lawn" WW; or, Myra, the Child of L 8'1 Th"

89 A Gilded Sin.
’ l
‘ 90 The

By ;
j 106
g 103
e of Convenience; or, Wm; ‘

9110 1'...
Re

tor. Trust. Her Not. By I

89 Flirt-"on; or, A Young Glrl‘sGood Name. ‘
3 “Oh "i (R p l 114 ’Twus In 'I’rnfnlgur’s Bay.

‘ l l 5 The Maid olelleenn.

of a. Bl'oidered Shield. B
75 The Black Lady of By J. S. Le
Fanu.
76 (‘harlotte 'I‘em Ie. B Mrs, Rownon.
77 (‘hristian oak ev’s istake. By the
author of “John Halifax, Gentleman,“ etc.
78 My Young;~ Husband; or, A (,‘ont’usion in
the Family. By Myself.
ueen A mongst \Vomen. By the
nut 101‘ of “ Dom Theme,“ etc, etc.
and Master. By Florence

Oui( a.
u ua.

Mnrryat.
8] Luey Temple, Sister of Charlotte.
82 A Long' ’I‘inle Ago. By Mom. Orred.
By Annie
'l‘homzw.
Lnurel Bush.
“John Halifax, Gentleman."
85 Led Astray. ByOetuve Fellillet.
86 Janet‘s Repentanee. By George Eliot.

i 87 The lhnnunee oi‘u Poor ii'oun"r Nl'ul.
By Sam (.‘lnxton. . H ‘
. 88 A

By Octave Fl'llllli'l.

Terrible Deed; or, All for (jold.
Emma (hu'rison Jones.
By the author of “Dom

By

T mm," eti'.

A uthor’s Daughter. By Mary
liowitt.

9| The Jill. By (‘hm'les Reade.

92 Eileen .ilnnnu. By Dennis O‘Sullivun.

93 Love’s Victory. By I}. L. Forth-on.

91 The Quiet Heart. By Mrs. Oliphunt.

95 Lettlee Arnold. By Mrs. Marsh.

96 llullllted lleurts.

97 Hugh Mellon. By Knihm‘ineKing.

98 Aliee Leurmont. By Miss Muloek.

99 Marjorie. Bruee’s Lovers. By Mary
l’ilil'li'k.

] 00 Through By Fred-
eriv-k Talbot.

10! Hannah.

102 Pea: \i'oiflnu‘ton.

[03 A Desperate Deed.

104

105

Fire. and “'uter.

By Miss lllllllfil‘lx'.

By (‘hnrles' Reade.
By Erskine. Bo
Shadows on the Snow. By B.
won.

W. M. Thackeray.

From Dreams to \Vnklng.
Lynn Linton.

Poor Zeph ! By F. W. Robinson.
The Sad Fortunes oi'thc Rev. Amos
Burton. By George Eliot.
Bread-aud-(Jheeee and Kisses.

B L. Far eon.
nudering Heir. By Charles

107

109

ade.
1 i l The Brother’s Bet; or, Within Six
Weeks By Emilie Fl gare Cnrlen.
l 12 A Hero. By Miss A ulock.
1 l 3 Paul and Virginia. From the French of
Bernardin De. St. Pierre.
By Wal-

ter Busent and James Rice.
By Wm. Black.

1 l 6 Netty. By Henry Kingsley.

‘ 117 The “'ayslde (‘ross° or, The Raid oi
Ahnman

Gomez. By Captain E. .
118 The Vicar of “'aketield. By Oliver
Goldsmith.
119 Maud Mohnn.
120 Thaddeus oi‘ IVurmuvI

Porter.

121 il‘he King of No-Land. ByB. L. Far-
PO".

122 Level, the \Vidower. By W. M.Thack-
eray. ,

[23 An Island Pearl. By B. L. Faneon.

By Annie Thomas.
By Miss Jane

Cuban lleiress' or, The Prisoner of 3 124 (km-I" PhIHI"

125 Leila; or. The Siege of Grenada. By Ed-
ward Bulwar (Lord Lytton).

126 \Vheu the Shi ) ('omes Home. By
Walter Bennnt and . amen Rice.

1 27 One 0 i‘ the Fe mily. By James Payn.

1‘28 'I‘he Birthright. By Mm. (lone.

129 Motherless; or. The Farmer‘s Sweetheart.
By (.‘olonel Prentiss Ingrnhnm.

130 Homeless; or, Two Orphan Girls in New
York. By Albert W. Aiken. .

13] Sister against Sister; or. The Rivalry of
Hearts. By Mrs. Mary Reed (‘rowr-ll.

 

‘ 133 Lord Roth‘s Slu.
134 Did He Love Her? By Hartley ’l‘.Camp— I

‘ 201
is Wll'el By Mrs. Mary Reed ‘

or. The Mysterious"
By Rachel Bernhardt. '

Alice Fleming. :

13‘! Sold for “old. By Mrs. M, V. Victor.
By Georgiana Dickens.

) .
135 Sluued A ninst. By Lillian Lovnjoy.
136 “’us She
(‘rowell
137 The Village on the (luff.
Thackeray.
lga goor Valeria.l By Mar are}. gleam]. neg
9 ar uret Granm. y . . “a! .
40 A‘Vitlfout Morey. By Bertie T.Campbell.
4! Honor Bound. By Lillian .OVCJOé.
42 walnut them Love. By Mrs. arrlet
43 Ahlfiictedé or. A Wicked Woman‘s Work.
4 By” 'wm fieri ByLillianLov y
"II If age. .
413:3“!!ng Lives. Bylraiiaryligd

By Miss

‘ 1
l
i
1

i i

pest Library Ever Published! '

By the author of 

.1 i—I—I-d — ~_——
:3
-

a
fi

By Rm-hel Bernhardt. ‘

i 171
yd.

.. Far. ;
The Great Iloggarty Diamond. By ‘
By E. 1

; 179
By

;182
183

 

-6“
——.

A Desperate Venture or, For Love's
Own Sake. By Arabella Sou hworth.

The “far of Hearts. By Corinne Cush-
mun.

\Vhleh \Vas the \Voman I or, Strangely
Misjudged. By Sara Clnxton.

An Ambitious (Airl' or, SheWouid Be
An Actress. By Francm (-len Dnven wort.
Love Lord oi'All. By Alice Ma ' eming.
A \I’ild Girl. By (‘orinne i us man.

A Blan’s Suerlllee. By Harriet Irvin .
Did She Sin. By Mrs. Mn Reed (.‘rowell.
He Loves Me Not. if! illian Lovejoy.
\Vluuiug “on. By argaret Bionnt.
\Vhat She (‘ost Him; or. Crooked Paths.
13y Arabella Southworth.

A Girl’s llenrt. By Reit Winwood.

A Bitter Mlstake' or, A Young Girl's
Folly. By Agllt'fl Mary Shelton.

Lady Helen‘s \'o\\' ' or. The Mother‘s
Secret. By the Late Mm.  I“. Ellet.
Buying: in Heart. By Lillinn Lovejoy.
Pearl oi‘l’enrls. B A l’.1\lorris.Jr.

.\ li‘at- i'ul (iilllli‘. By Sara Clayton.

The "reule (‘ouslus; or, False-us Fair.
B) i’hilipS Wurne.

A Seething Ordeal: or, May Lnnzley's
Mml Marriage. 14y Mrs. (ivorgiana Dickens.
A Strain-.11- Girl. By Albert. W. Aiken.

' .\ .Vlull‘s Sill. By liell Winwood.

The "and of Fate; or. The Wreck of
Two Lin-x. BV x‘l‘llllt’llil Snullm orth.

'l‘wo Ii‘nir \i’omen. By Wm. M. Turner.
Tempted 'l‘hrough Love; or. One
Woman's l‘Il‘l‘Ol‘. By Lillian Levejoy.

Blind Barbara’s Secret. By Mary
(ii'm-v- llnlpine.

.i “'omnn's “'itehery.
Iiluek Eyes and Blue.
(lushman.

'I‘he (‘ost of a Folly.
Dickens.

The Pretty Puritan.
Daughter.

Is Love a
Sweet. By Araiwlla Sou!
Adrlu, the Adopted.
Burton.

For the “’onmu IIe Loved; or,1“nte.
ful Links. By Agnes Mary Shelton:

The Locked "cart. By Corinne Cunhmnn.
Pu rted by 'l‘reuehery. By linl‘l‘li't Irving.
\Vus She u ‘Vilel By Rett Wiuwood.
Under a (loud. by Sara. Claxton.

An American Queen. By G. Mortimer.
A P int «flIonor. ByLillian Lovejoy.

Pu rsued to the Altar. By Corinne
()ushman.
Put to a Test. By Georgiana Dickens.
The Terrible Truth ; or, The Thomhurst
Mystery. by Jennie Davis Burton.
0ntw:tted by Herself; or.A Mother‘s
Scheme, 15y Arabella Southworth.
Fl-vrelte Child of the Street' or. A Poul
Beyond 1 cc. By Col. Prentiss inst-alum.
Her (lIIardi-n’s Sacrifice; tantrums
in the Balance. By Sara Clarion.
Pretty and Proud. ByCorlnneCushmnn.
A \Voman’s Maneuver; onhime, not
Heart. By Lillian Lovejoy.
The Bitter Feud. By Jennie D. Burton.
Breaking the Fetters- or, Theaypg ‘.
Secret. By Georgiana Dickehs. , y
The Mysterious Gllardinn; or. Little
Claire. the OPEra Singer. By Corinne Cuahman.
In the Balance; or, A Shadowed Love.
By Arabella Southworth. >
Jule, the Jetvess’ or. the Miser Million-
aire. By Dr. Noel Dun ar. A _
A Sister’s Crime. By Agnes Mary Shel-
ton.
“'ilma “'ilde; or The Inheritance of
Hate. By Jennie Davis urton. .
The Bealltlml Demon.
Helen Davenport.
.Viorle ' Beet-hes; or. Girlish Charms and
(loiden owers By "orinne Cushman.
A Vounn.r Girl, Ordeal; or, “i Love You
Still.“ By Sara L axton.
‘20? Lord Lille’l Daughter. C. M. Braeme.
203 Passiou's Reprise]; or, The Bargain
Between Them. By Lillian Lovejoy. ' i
204 Elegant Egbert; or. The Gloved Hand.
By Philip S. Warns.

A‘new issue “1! wet.

Tm: WAVIILI‘! Liana! is for Ids by oil xen-
deale five cents per copy, or sent by mail a re-
cent! each.

eeipt six , . .
wwwm here,

146
147
148
1-19

150
l.

153

-3
N:

V

r— t—I-i pun——
"I tutu can;
2 6 our ctr»-

(Q—

315:3:
a;

A-
..-.3
Alf»).

\

169
170

l7l
l72

l73

By S. (‘laxton
By Corinne

By erginnn
By A Parson‘s
l 75
l 76
1'77
1 7S

Moekeryi or, Revenge is
worth.
By Jennie Davis

l80
181

181

185
186

187
188
189

190
191

192
193

19.1
195
196
197
198
199 By Frances

200