Copynghzed, 1887, by Emma AND ADAMS. Entered M the Post. Office m. New York, N. Y., as Second Class Mail Mutler. June [8, [881.

 

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Vol-XIII. 3533. “ ‘“§o.ga€§m3w§§°§‘l$§ SEEE‘M" rxfi'ififfits- N0-166-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2 2 01d Jupe’a Clew.

 

“Old ’Jupe’s Clew ;

TEE DARKY DETECTIVE.
BY MRS. O—li—IU-N JAMES.

CHAPTER I.
THE BELLE on NEW BRISTOL.

IT was nearly sunset of a summer afternoon;
bars of crimson lioht lay along the river and
the low green blu s, and beautified the ugly,
straggling new village, which lay between bluffs

and river; but the prettiest thing they lighted

upon was the face of Mary Miller, as she sat in
the door of her father’s house and looked down
upon the shipping. For, although New Bristol
was but a town in its bubyhood, it had an ex—
tensive water-front, and wasa favorite stopping-
place of many boats which plied the Missouri,
as several stage—routes led away from it, and it
furnished a large quantity of lumber for that
wood-famished region.

The “miller’s house” was back from the vil<
lage proper, on a fine blulf which overlooked
the flats beneath it; still, it was not over a
quarter of a mile from the main street which
ran along the shore. It was a em :11, unpainted
affair but it had a cottonwood tree to shade it,
and Mary had plan'ted a hop-vine at the gable
end of. the dwelling, which grew quite to the
chimney-top.

There were but three inmates of the cabin,

,father, mother, and this daughter, now about

nineteen, and having the name of being the
’ hmdsomest girl in New Bristol. She was the
child of a second marriage, Mr. Miller having a

daughter four years older than Mary, who had
’ refused to accompany them when they emi—
grated to the West, dreading the hardships of a
new country, preferring to stay with an aunt
who offered her a home in their native State of
. New York.

As Mary sat there, idly, resting after the heat
of the day, it was evident that she was not so
closely watching the hustle and confusion inci-
dent upon the arrival of a large steamer simply
to pass away the time. She was expecting
somebody. Quite likely it was for this some-
body that she had braided her rich brown hair
.r so smoothly and placed a wild-rose in it, which
she’had ethered out of the grass near at hand.
And for in], that the pink calico was ironed so
nicely, and the little white apron tied on so
trimly.

Sitting there in the doorway, she made a love-
.157 picture, her red cheeks redder in the sunset,
3 ‘with the smile of expectation in her eyes.

' Handsome as fine features, complexion, and fig-
ure could make her, s e possessed a still greater
charm in a peculiar expression of innocence and
sweet tem er. This sweet temper it was which
made her t e comfort and delight of her parents,
who had scarcely grieved over Annotte’s deter-
mination to remain at the East. Annete ai-
. Ways was selfish, grumbling at every privation,

" but Mary was their sunshine, warming them

when cold, cheering them when clouded with
ease and toil.

 

Suddenly Mary shaded her eyes with her
hand, peering eagerly at a couple who had left
the boat, crossed the town, and were coming up
the road toward the house. She knew the lithe
figure and elastic step of the young man; it was
for him she had been looking: her heart bound—
ed and cheeks tingled as she saw him coming;
but the joy of certainty was now disturbed by

wonlcr at who the other visxtor could be.  _

Presently she 5pm? to her feet, calling out:

“Mother, here’s ettie, as sure’s you’re alive!”

“ Nettie! pshawl get out, child! you must be
crazy!”

“ i tell you ’tis, mother. And she’s coming up
from the boat with Luke Bryant. He must
have taken passage at St. Louis, and they’ve
got acquainted on the way.”

Mrs. Miller threw down her mending and
came to the door. Neither of the women
seemed so glad as might have been sup sed
at seeing so near a relative. Not that ary
did not love her ha1f~sister; she really had a
good deal of infection for her, in spite of
the other’s selfishness and coldness; but, some-
thing in the air of the young con la struck
a. chill of 'ealousy to her heart. uke was
carrying ellie’s sachel, and talking in a most
animated way, and she, in turn, seemed to be in
the highest spirits. She was gany dressed, too,
guite eclipsed simple Mar , With her dress of

ouuced berage, her blue silk mantle and
jauuty bonnet. So that, although Mary was
glad to see her, as we have said, a flog ran
through her breast. None knew than
herself the art and craft of her sister: now how
successful she could be in fileasing men when
she took the trouble to try; my know already
that Nettie admired Luke and was anxious to be
admired in turn. However, generous as the
sunshine, she put away the bad feeling, and
ran down the road to clasp her sister in her
arms. , .

“ I declare, Nettie, you have given us a. sur—
prise! So you have concluded to risk all the
horrors of ‘Out Westl’ Indians, bears, bug-
bears, and all?”

“ Yes, dear; your last letter painted things in
such bright colors, I 'ust took a sudden fancy
I’d come. You know was teaching school the
last six months, so I had money enough for the
,'0urncy, and I packed up and started at twenty-

our hours’ notice.”

“ I hope you’ll like us better than you think.
And how fortunate that you happened on the
same boat with Mr. Bryant, see ng he’s an ac-
quaintance of ours. and could tell you all about
us.” And then Mary turned to shake hands
with Luke.

Nettie darted a glance from her black eyes as
the two exchanged greetings, and a ang went
through her heart as she saw how Ina tors stood
between them: for Mary could not keep her
blushes out of sight, nor Luke his pleasure at
seeing them. ' ,

In the midst of the excitement, when the
parents came out to greet the new—comer, Luke
contrived to steal a kiss from the glowmg check
of his afflunced. Annette saw the act, for her
sharp eyes were incessantly upon them.

“Ah, ha,,that‘s the fashion out West, is it?"
she cried, .

 

 

 

 

 

 

;
i
,

/

01d 'Jupe’l cs... , s .

 

“ Yes, when people are as flood as married,”
answered Luke, sturdin “ ary and I are to
join hands in October.”

“ Sosonn?" There was disa pointmeut in her
voice, which she could not entirely hide. “ Why
didn’t1 you tell me, sis, that you had caught a

mac '

p “ I was not engage; when I wrote you last,
Nettie ” and then, , not yet accustomed to
have her sweet secret lazoned abroad, hid her
embarrassment by an extra display of diligence
in providing for the refreshment of the travel-
ers. The kettle was ah‘eady boiling in a little
summer-kitchen outside; she set the tea “ a.-
steeping,” arranged the table, and sent Nettie
into the bedroom to take 03 her bonnet and
wash her face. ~

Soon the little party was gathered about the
evening meal' the cooking was nice and neatly
served, like all that Mar did. Nettie looked
out the door at the broad andscape, brightened
b the glistening river, but oftener at the brown,
p easant face and manly ways of Luke Bryant.

“ It‘s not so had here after all. I wish I’d a
coige out last year, when the rest did,” she
sai .

I think it’s de ' htful here. I went to more
games last winter han I ever did in my life be-

ore.

Mary had been the belle of these pleasure-
parties, and it was not strange she found them
charming. In truth, if she had not written
such glowing letters to her half-sister about the
gayety of the new town and the eat plentiful-
ness of beaux, that edperson woul hardly have
been now establish bar near and dangerous
rival. Perhaps a paragraph in Mary‘s last let-
ter giving, among others, a description of Luke,
had as much influence as  in bringing
her to her hasty conclusion. At a1 events, here
she was, and there did seem to be a fate in it.

Luke Bryant was mate of a steamboat, which
ran between St. Louis and the “up—country."
The Missouri boats do not venture to run in the
night, especial] when the water is low, owing
to the impossi ilt of keepin in the tortuous
channel; and as aw Bristo was a favorite
stopping-place, the mate had not infrequent
evenings to spend in the town. A perfect won-
der for the mate of a river-boat. never drinkin ,
gamblin or keeping bad company, be natural y
sought t e society of ladies during his unem-
ployed hours. He had been introduced to Mary
Miller at the house of a mutual friend, had
danced with her often at balls, from the first ad—
miring her more than any woman he ever had
met. This summer—during a cessation of navi-
fiation for six weeks, owin to the low water—

e employed his leisure to ring the acquaint-
ance to a closer intimacy; and when he finally
proposed for Mary's hand, neither she nor her
parents were inclined to refuse.

Luke’s reputation stood high; he was consid-
ered a young man of unimpeachable honor; his
business prospects were excellent, as, besides his
liberal salary as mate. he had many opportuni-
ties for “ speculating,” which he had the sagacity
tn turn to advantage. Added to these sterlin
virtues, was a good share of manly beauty, and
a certain grace of manner, caught from seeing
so much or the world as came constantly under

I

 

his observation. No wonder that simple. unso-
phisticated Mary Miller thought that she had
won the prince of men; nor that she should be
an object of envy to many whose fathers had
more of worldly goods than hers. The lovers
were well matched; both handsome, good, and
vegy much attached to each other.
ettie, burning with silent jealousy of her
younger sister, watched their happiness with
smilin eyes, while resolved, if art could do it,
to wor mischief between them. 
She had, as if by some untoward fate, taken
ssage in the boat of which Luke was mate.
eeing her to be lonely and without a male pro-
tector, he had, during the ten days’ trip, been
kind and attentive to the stranger. It was some
time before he chanced to learn her name and
destination; when he found that she was not only
a Miller, but the half—sister of his Mary his
heart warmed'toward her; and, without te ing
her of his engagement, he proclaimed himself a
friend of the family, and was so impressive in
his attentions as to awaken a deeper interest in
Annette than he intended. "
Restless, unsettled, unhappy, tired of the past,
and not knowing what the future promised, she
was ui e in the mood to give way to the impulse
whic seized u on her. Before the boat reached
New Bristol, 5 e was more desperately in love ’
than she had ever before been; and quite as des-
perately determined that this handsome and
well—to-do mate should return her liking. She
scarcely thought of Mary as a possible rival.
When the family started for Missouri, two years
previously, Mary was just giving the first prom- ‘
use of that beauty which had since bloomed into '
such perfection. Accustomed to rule her
younger relative, to have everything her own
way, Annette did not realize that Mary had out-
grown her bondage, and had rights and powers
of her own. 1'
It was, therefore, a severe shock to her when
she saw how matters really stood—her sister ex—

celling her in every charm, and loved by the man

whom she had allowed herself to consider her
own property.

Annette was a dashing-looking younr lady,
with black hair and eyes, and a gracefu form.
As she sat in the little house, after tea, chatting
in the easiest style, saying pretty things and
wearing her flounces and ribbons with suc an
airl poor Mary thought herself uite outshone. '
Not so thought Luke. He regar ed her as all
the more lovely in contrast with her showy sis~
ter. If Annette was ever to creep into Mary’s
E13130, she had not yet gained the slightest foot» ‘

o .

At eleven o’clook Luke had to return to his“
duties. He would not see New Bristol 3 in for
several days, and he and his betroth hada '
hundred little things they wished to whisper to‘
each other. But Annette continued tousurp the
first place in every one’s attention, and he went
away without one stolen word to his darlin .

Thus it continued all the remainder o the I

summer.

The month of the wedding was close at hand;
Luke had bought the wedding-dress, and Mary’s
pretty fingers were busy with making up her

tfl

on t.
At this time the very spirit of evil took pos-

I

i

a ' 01d Jupe’s (new;

session of Annette. Finding herself powerless
to fascinate Luke, who continued true as steel to

his first preference, she went to him, asking a,

rut te interview, and told him an artful, seem-
ng‘l true, but most atrocious falsehood about
Mary, stating that the reason her parents had
em' rated to the West, was to hide the disgrace

. * ’ she ad brought on the family, she having been

detected in fifching goods from a store, and only
escaping arrest and imprisonment because of
her youth, and the sympathy felt for her father.

, :The‘ goods had been restored, a sum of money

paid, and then Mary had been taken away from

' I the scene of her guilt. The reason Annette gave

1
J
i

for betra ing the disgraceful ‘secret to Luke,
was to place him on his guard, when Mary
should become his wife, and enable him to keep
wall a. watch over her as should prevent her ex-
ercising her mania (that was what Annette
called it) for taking things which were not her
own. In conclusion, she begged him not to let
'her parents know that she had forewarned him,
as it would almost kill them.

All this was done so artfully, with such ape

 ‘ pearance of distress at the necessity for making

5

the revelation, that Luke Bryant might almost
have been pardoned had the poison had its in-
tended effect. He listened in silence until the
girl was through; then he turned upon her with
a rebuke so withering, a dislike so positive, that

 she uailed’before it, and shrunk into the guilty
, ores re she was.

'Although he did not allude to it, Annette knew

i, that Luke read the secret of her love for 11in,

r.

V and that she had laid a snare to catch him,

"through the ruin of her sister’s happiness; she

 s, knew that she had lost his respect, had inspired
3_ "his distrust and dislike, and had not injured
l A Mary in the least.

From that hour, all the strength of her pus-

” Sionate ill-regulated mind was turned into hate

3

  

a

_ energy

or both. This young couple, so admired and
hired by others, was hated by her with a fierce
in of unrequited love, humbled priilc,
anger, mortiflcation and despair. But this feel-
ing was concealed with a duplicity which de—

 

/ ceived even Luke, who knew, by experience, so
‘ well of what she was capable. She took his re-
"buke gently, confessed her wrong, prayed his

‘ , pardon, and thenceforth‘ seemed to enter, heart
. 'and soul, into the reparations for the wedding

ix

trying to prove or repentance by good deeds.

So kindly was her aid furnished, so busy did
she keep herself, with Mary’s affairs, that the

latter’s ove and gratitude flowed forth to her

7 abundantly. Even Luke, as We have said, for-
eve her pitied her, and felt anxious to prove
is rowing cod-will toward her.

‘ “ 0 you now, I was almost afraid Nettie

7‘; was in love with you, at one time.” Mary whis-

l4

   
  

. unhappy.”

peredlthe night before the wedding. “I am
glad I was mistaken; it would have made me so

CHAPTER II.

\ ~ JUBE’S HOLE IN THE HILL.

» Tum wedding took place, and made talk all
,ver that part of the country. 'Everyborly

'_ rrr‘ invited; the little house could not be in to

  
  

hold. theyguests.,;so it was made an on door

“ =_‘ \,

 

party, with a great circular table under the
noble 01d cottonwood tree, and music and danc-
ing afterward by moonlight. ,
The bride was so sweet and beautiful that
white-headed old men longed to be young and
begin life again with} such a partner. Only one
cloud lightly dimmed the happy time. This was
that Annette, who was bridemaid, insisted
upon choosing for her assistant 8. man whom
circumstances had rather compelled Luke to in—
vite, but whom he, by no means, wished to

honor as his groomsman. This was a young

fellow who traveled a great deal up and down
the river, professing to be a land-agent, but
whom Luke sus ected to be a regular Missis~
sippi River gain ler, if nothing worse.

Being on the boat on its trip, the day be-
fore the weddin , and stopping over at New
Bristol, he had aughin 1y demanded an invita-
tion in such a way that uke could not withhold
it. lit seems that Nettie had met him twice or
thrice at balls, and when told that he Was to be
a guest at the wedding, she immediately declar—
ed that she liked Mr. Parnell immensely and
was going to have him for “ best man." Luke

objected to this, as there was more than one

friend of his own to Whom he would have given
the preference; but Nettie was obstinate; andas
she had been so good and gentle of late, the
young cou 1e did not like to arouse her temper:
so she ha her own way, and Purcell stoodas
groomsman. 7

This, as we have said, was the onl cloud
upon the heaven of their happiness; a .ter the
weddin they went east on a brief journey
and re urning to St. Louis were pained and
astonished beyond words, to meet another couple
on their bridal-tour—that couple Annette and
Mr. Purcell. They were stopping at the best
hotel; he wore a diamond ring, and gave her
money to buy expensive clothes.

“ I told you,” she said, with a. stran e smile
in her black eyes, “ that I would not ong re—
main behind you, Mary. Why don‘t on con—
gratulate us? I think (you very impoli .”

“ Give us time," sai Luke, making an eifort
to hide his chagrin: “ we are taken by surprise
you see." ,

“I don’t doubt it.” she answered, with an
unpleasant laugh. “You’d better spend the
winter at home, Molly; father and mother will
be so lone] . Good-by, my dears; we are bound
for New rleans, and shall not be back until
next spring.”

“Mr. Parnell was very courteous; he said
“ how do you do,” and “ good-by,” as if he was
a brother indeed; the two couples parted, and
met no more for a length of time. Excepta
brief note twice during the winter, her relatives
heard nothing from Annette.

Luke Bryant and his happy wife nt a few
weeks in St. Louis; then, as Mary hit to be‘left
alone when he was on the river, the concluded
to gratify both her wish and that of or parents,
by making it their home with them for the
winter. Navigation closed earl that season, a
sudden term of bitter cold was her freezing up
the streams just before Christmas. so that Luke
had the holidays to spend with his bride. Bright
days were those! Life appeared one-long promise

of bliss“to the young,ceuple-—sleigh—rides, mp4». 5 i

x.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
  
  
 
  
 
 
  

 

 

 

 

Old upe’l Glow. « 5

 

ers, dances, visits. with eosey, quiet evenings at
ome, made more delightful by the contrast!

In the mean time New Bristol, in common
with several of its sister towns, was getting up a
gloat excitement. The whole country along the

'ssouri was in a state of anger and uneusmess
at the immense amount of counterfeit money
which had been imposed upon the community.
All silver and gold seemed to be filled; all the.
bank-notes spurious. The loss grew to be a seri-
ous matter, and coupled, as it chanced to be,
with the failure of two or three banks in which
great confidence had been placed, excited the
community into a general uprising for mutual
protection. For some reasons, not important to
give, it was finally decided that the head— uar-
tors of the counterfeiters were not far from Tew
,Bristol; so that this town came in for an extra

ortion of the common agitation. A Vigilance
gommittee was formed, at the instance and ap—
proval of the best citizens. Luke Bryant was
solicited to join it, and did so, considering it his
duty to aid in the protection of the community.
He felt that every honest man should do 1115 best
to aid in driving out, or exterminating, the
horde of criminals—men of the blackest charac-
ter, gamblers, counterfeiters and hi hwaymen,
who Seemed tohave been chased outo Kentucky
and Ohio only to take refuge in Missouri.

Perhaps he felt more keenly from the fact that
he, expert as he was in judging of money, had
lost quite a sum. Added to this was a loss of a
thousand dollars by the failure of a St. Louis
bank in which he had deposited the surplus of
his summer’s earnin ', with the intention of
$.0ng into business tor himself in the spring.

or neither he nor Mary liked the calling he was
following, since it must necessarily keep him so
much from home.

This loss, though a serious one to them, could
not affect the happiness of such young and hope—
ful persons. Luke had a knowledge of business
which stood in lieu of capital and he kissed the
tears elf Mary’s cheek on the day upon which
they heard of this misfortune. and managed to
laugh quite cheerfully, when he had broken the
news to her. '

“ Oh if you can afford to laugh, I’m sure I
can,” 3 c said, and was bright again in a mo-
ment.

“ No use crying over spilt milk, as I allers tell
J upe when he comes whinin’ round," said Auntie
Clare, who had been in the room When Bryant
came in with his story, “but if dat bank am
broke, I take my asservation dat dem as broke
it hab saved the pieces—so !"

Auntie had never been inra court—room to give
testimony, for she was a black, and had not that

rivilege, but she, had a favorite habit of
‘taking her asservation,” whatever that was,
upon every occasion which demanded energy
of inion. “Then we were first introduced to
the illers they ke t no helpg-but when Luke
came into the fami y he would no longer per-
mit this state of affairs. So, a faithful colored
man and wife being obtained fora reasonalle
com nsation, a shanty was built for them be-
hin the main house; and it was the woman
who now e ressed her shrewd belief that the
officers of t 9 broken bank had saved the
pieces. Where she obtained her knowledge of

‘ r \

 

the mysteries of financial cries, We can not
say; but no doubt her surmise was not a ridicu~
lous one. a

“ You’ve hit the nail on the head, auntie,” re«‘
marked Luke. ,

“Laws, t‘ank you, Masszi Bryant," she an-
swered, dropping a doligLix-d courtesy. “ I only
wish you could hit (lem as straight on (:18 head.
VV’at will Wild—rat banks and count/erfighting'
don’no w’at dis country’s mmin' to. Fe glad
I’s only a nigger, and got all my money wrap— ,
pod up in a rag and put away in that broken
pitcher.” '

“Then you have some money, have you?”
asked Mary, niiscliievously. '

“ Got some? who said so?” cried auntie, dis-
mayed at finding she had betrayed the one sweet
hope and comfort of her life. “ Got a few cop—
pers, and six dimes, tied up in rag. to buy um
new apron When I goes to town. Laws, don’t
t’ink poor nigger slave hab money, Chile?” and'
she shot a sharp twinkle out of her black eyes at
her young mistress.

“Oh, you need not be afraid to tell 143,",
laughed lary, “we don’t own you, and sha’n’t ,
take it away from you. We are glad you\.
have it. Come, now, auntie, how much have
you got, tied up in that mi in that broken ‘

itcher? Isn’t a broken pitc or as bad as a' ~

roken bank?” , ’

“Laws, Chile, how funny you be,” said
auntie, who liked Mary immensely already,
and would have served her with the blind de-
votion peculiar to her people, had any need
arisen. “1f 1 was to abuse, I’d take de pitch-
er~sol Dat’s what Ju e‘s allers askin’ when
he comes whinin’ roun —“how much money
you got, Clare? and, wh‘ar is it’ll—fer, you' see‘ i

don’t let him guess Whar I keeps it, else he'd 
spend his hullevenin’s countinv of it over. W’e’n
he’s armed a little by extra jabs, he allers ives
it to me to put away; he’s a good nigger. bout.
some t’ings, J upe is, dough he bodders me awful, :
whiniu’ round w’en I’m so busy I don’no w’ich 
end I stand on.” ‘ r

Her listeners laughed again; for if auntie had,
a crying sin it was that of laziness, while her’ .'
poor husband, of whom she always spoke as if
he were a do , was a most cheerful, active, in~
dustrious fel ow. r . '.

“What are you saving u money furl”,
Mary went on; she beingr an stern girl, was .
not 91: so familiar with the colored people, 
but that she was amused with and curious aboug- '
them. ,

Again Clare darted upon her that flashing .

glance.
“’Spect tolib in bondage all our days, purty
much, but don’t ‘spect to die init. No, Miss

Bryant, ’spects to buy ourselves in our ole a e, f i

and go up to de land ob Canaan. oher de rl
Jordan, Jes‘ as free to take our ch’ice ob de‘ bes' .
seats as anbe . W’eu we knocks at de door j’ l
and de Lord cal s out ‘ Who’s dar?’ we ’tends to 7‘
show him our free papers, so’s he’ll say, ‘ Walk} .
right up to de front pew, and don’t sit dar under if;
de gallerm 3;].
At Wh ch her audience could but be amused, ;-’
although impressed with the earnest,/eolemn V
manner of the negress. ‘ ‘ j ,
“Oh, that is it? I hope, With all unheafi,

.5

   
 

     
   
  
   
   
 
    
  
    
 
  
  
   
  
 
   
  
   
  
   
   
    
   
   
  
 
 
    
  
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
   
  
  
  
 

  

»

    

01d Jupe’s Glow;

 

Egg’ll have your papers, Clara. Don’t let any-
y know about the pitcher, and then no one
4 will be wanting to rob you.”

“I wouldn’t min’ a—lendin’ of it to Massa
Bryant, if he’s put to any unconvenience by de
loss ob de ban ,” said auntie, after a moment’s
embarrassed hesitation. “1’s sure he‘d pay it
back w’en he got ready, and we don’t need it
yit.

“ Bless your dear old soul i” cried Luke, quite
touched, ‘ that I would, with compound interest!

"/ But, I don’t need it, auntie, not at all: and I
’ thank you ‘ust as much for the generous offer.”
‘ “Well, is you ever does want it you jes’ gib
me do hint. Don’t say nothin’ to .Iupc, fer he’d
jes’ come Whinin’ round, dough I’m sartain sure
he’d be more dun willin‘ to len’ de money to you.
Massa Bryant,” she added, suddenly, changing
the subject: “ does yer honor know what J upe’s
trotted off for dis arternoon, into de woods, arter
chipmunks?"

“ You just said, after chipmunks.”

“Well, it's distensably arter chipmunks; but
it’s de antipodes of what’s he ra’ly about. He’s
got on de scent, and I guess he’ll run ’em down.”

“ Run what down? Has he found bears? I
suspected they’d be coming down this cold
Weather.” '

“ B’ars! no! Wuss varmints dan b’ars. I tells
you, dough, J upe’ll bark at me for not keeping
clue. Howsomever, his burk’s wuss’n his bite.
He got on de scent,” sinking her voice to a
whisper, “ of a, den of dam counterflghters. He’s
tracked ’em to a cave, an' seen um to work
makin’silber uarters and halts, by the k-
nieasure full. e was a-spyin’ of ’em hal last
night. To-uight he wants to take you, and all
do Vigilance Committee out, and surround
dem.”

“ You don’t say say so, auntie!” cried Luke,
fairly turning white with the excitement of the
discovery.

' “ Yis, I do say so. I don’ like to tell it,

but Jupe he’s a—growliu’ like any thing, ’cause

i he says he almost sartain sure one dem willains

is dat flashy-lookin’ youn man as come here
last full and married Miss nnette!”

/“ Impossible!" almost screamed Mary.

“He must have been mistaken,” said Luke,
more calml . “ Nettie’s husband is in New

, Orleans. e had a letter from them last week.
He could not very well be in two places at
a time.”

“ Dut's so, and Jupe’s such a fool. He’s allers
burkin' at de moon. Here he comes hisself. Now
doin’ your breaf I tol’ yer; ’cause he wants all

y do glorry hisself.”

I Truly enough, J upe slowly o ened the door,

, thrusting his woolly head in, an rolling his eyes
all about in a mysterious manner. The family
would have paid little attention to His mystiflca-
tions, had they not possessed the key to his

1 movaments. As it was, Luke was burning with
impatience, and soon had the secret out of him,
despite J upe’s reluctance to give it up so easily.

Jupe was a man of unusual Sagacity; could
follow a trail, or keep a secret to the end. When
out hunting, severe days previous, by permis-
sion of his master, to supply himself ,With meat,
he had chanced u n a slfight discovery which
had not him tothin ing. ehad found a single,

' r i

 

» s

 

new, bright, quarter dollar, there, in the deepest,
darkest part of the forest. He lay down, cover-
ed himself over with leaves, and watched for
hours. When he was about giving up, two men
came along, dr as hunters, With game-bags
on their backs and rifles in their hands. Jupe
did not believe them to be hunters, nor that they
had game in their bags. He allowed them to
pass on, presently arisingI to his knees and creep—
1ng after them as stealt ily as an Indian, until
he saw them enter a cave, and disc. or within.
J upe was now highly elated. e carefully
marked the bearings of the spo ,
away. That night, by the dim light of
the moon he retraced his steps, and with
more courage than any one had ever iven him
credit for, e crept into the mouth the cave,
and found a band of eleven persons in the act of
manufacturing spurious meney, and discuxing
their plans for its circulation.

One of these persons as he confessed to Bryant,
“ he was afraid was his brother-in—law.”

“Nonsense,” said Luke; “but even it it was
I would not connive at his escape. He should
suffer with the rest.”

J upe was certain of catching him that night,
as he had heard them distinctly appoint the
rendezvous for that time.

“ Good for you, boy,” cried Luke, striking him
on the back' “ on have earned the reward of
three hundred do lars by that discovery. That’s
a long stride towards freedom, isn’t it?"

“ Oh, glory hallelujah!” shouted Clare, “we‘se
never t’ink of de reward, sure 'no h. Well,
J upe, you’ve brought um down as we as if you
was trained reg’lar. You shall hab some supper
to pay for it—-hoe-cake wid ra’al syru and
hominy, and white sugar—dat you she I, you
enfonsciopa'glie nigga P; h 1

u e rei quite a ero appier,a parent ,
in View or the cook’s prdmise of mglasses agd
white sugar, than in the prospective reward of
three hundred dollars

CHAPTER III.
A“ wounn’s ART.

As the short winter twilight crept over New
Bristol, an intense but secret excitement pre-
vailed through the town. The Vigilance Com-
mittee having been warned, were quietly pre-
paring to besiege the retreat of the enemy at
that hour of the night, when, according to J upe,
the were certain to find the band together.
On y old and well~kuown citizens formed the
party, which, to the number of fifty, were soon
ready, thoroughly armed, and creeping out of
town by various routes, so as not to attract
attention to their movements, organizing only ‘
after they had reached the depths of the forest.
Ju occupied the post of onor as leader,
fol owed closely by Luke Br ant, w 0 had been
compelled to say good-by rice to his weeping
wife, who would not be convinced that there was
no danger.

“We intend to take them by surprise,” he
assured her “ when they are busy at work, with
their weapons out of hand."

And so they did- but not quite so sucmfull y
as they had he ; for a sentinel had given
warning in time to enable the counterfeiters to
catch up their rifles and make a brief defense.

 

\

 

        
        
     

       

 

 

 

i rate ch . and man

011! ane’s Clew. '9

 

Fifty resolute men against a dozen soon decided
the matter; but not until Luke had a flesh-
wound in his arm which gave him some pain.
Another fine young man was shot in the shoulder.
All the inmates of the cave were secured, with
the proofs of their guilt about them. Bryant
was more relieved than he would like to allow
to find that Purcell was not in the gang, for he
had “dreaded, while aflecting to dishelicve, that
such“might be the case. J upe solemnly assured
him that he had been there on the previous
night, and that some acuident must have kept
him away. Luke did not think any too well of
his brother-in-law to believe this; but when he
found that he was not there, he again persuaded
himself that there had been some mistake.

“ New Orleans is a long distance from here,”
he mused, “ and the journey is not easy at this
season of the year. Of courSe, Jupe was mis—
taken.”

It was after midnight when the Vigilance
Committee marched into town, with the prison—
ers in their midst. Every one not in the secret
had retired to slumber; but there were those
who watched and waited; in less than half an
hour New Bristol w s as wide awake as if it
were noon; the only ell of the town rung a.
joyful peal; the citizens gathered in the little
square at a signal of an immense bonfire, which
was soon kindled, and b the light of which the
prisoners were tried. efore daybreak, eight
of those wretched men had received fifty lashes
from the hands of self-constituted authorities,
and were then placed in the jail, which was
double-guarded; the other three had received
more summary punishment. Taken down the
river, a hole was broken in the ice, and the
condemned men were plunged in and held under
until life was extinct! Such was the greedy
vengeance of the hour from peo le naturally
kin and generous, but Whose sa ety had been
so often periled and sense of right outraged by
these desperadoes and outlaws, that patience no
longer became a virtue; to act promptly and re—
lentlessly was but an act of safety.*

Rendered sad and thoughtful by the terrible
scenes of the night, Bryant sought his home in
the gray dawn, almost unconscious of the pain
his arm was giving him. Mary sprung forth
to meet him, for, uneasy and fearful, she had
sat up all ni ht. The sight of his bandaged arm

ave her a t will of distress, which could hardly
overcome by the assurance that the wound
was slight

“Aunt Clare has some hot coffee for you,
Luke; and then you must lie down and rest a
few hours. I Wll] send for the doctor to take
charge of your wounded arm. How lucky it is
not the right onel Oh, Luke, is it not horrible?”
and she shuddered.

“Yes, darling, it is. I did not mean to tell
you about it at present. But they deserved

heir fate—richly. / We have acted only in self-
defense.”

 

* This incident will be recognized by old settlers
in Northwestern Missouri, as one of the episodes of
their early-day history. All the Western border,
fifty years ago. literally swarmed with these despe-
an unwritten act of sum-
mary vengeance was ormed by citizens in self-
defense.

/

 

“ I know it. Still; it was dreadful. Why
not give them a few hours to prepare for'etere
nityi I trust God will he more merciful than '
man.”

“ Would you release tigers to prey on chil—
dren? Your heart is too soft, Mary. Bring me
the Cgfl'ec, little wife, for really I stand in need
of it.

“ Jupe’s as frisky as a young pup,” said
Auntie Clare, as she brought in the welcome
beverage. “ ’Clar’ to gracious I’ll hub to tie
him up, of he don’t sober down lfore long. He’s
knocked ofl“ my best blue platter, now, wid his
frantics. It does set niggers up so when dey do ‘
anyt’ing smart, like w‘ite folks! Dey’s as vain
as flitters, niggers isl And Jupe, he’s one do
wu’st kind. He t’inks hisself quite a lion, ‘canse
he trapped (lem counterfighters; but I tell him
dat’s a hound’s work—sure ’nough, sol I don’t
t’ink J upe’s so drefiie smart. I’m willin’ to take
my asscrvation dat if he hadn’t fonn’ dat
quarter-dollar in de woods, he never would ’a’
knowed noflin’ ’bout dose rascals. Anybody
could ’a’ found dem, arter pickin’ up dat quarter-
dollar.”

“ I don’t think so, auntie; I think J upe acted
with both courage and discretion. He deserves
the three hundred dollars reward, and it’s going
to be given to him today, with a vote of thanks
from the citizens,” said Luke.

“ Law me! how you docs flutter a bod l Jupe
allers was a right smart nigger, else nehber
would ’a’ had him. But he’s made me a sight 0?
trouble, learnin’ him to fotch an’ carry as he
oughter. He‘s full of tricks. Law me! avote
o’ t’auksl He’ll be so sot up arter that, I can’t
manage him. I s’pose he’ll want to curl up in a.
corner an’ ncbber do no more, w‘en he gets dat

file 0’ money. But I’ll chase him out wid de

u'oomstick. He’s got to work till we’a got our ~
free papers. Law, Miss Mar . you needn’t send
fer no doctor fer dut hurt. ’ll steep some bark
and do it up in less ’11 no time, so massa will fall
right to sleep an’ forgit all ’bout it.” ‘

She was as good as her word. She managed
the wound so that in a few days it was quite,
well, for Luke had young and healthy blood. ,

It was shortly after these events, which had ~
so startled them in the midst of their quiet bliss,
that an offer was made to Luke Bryant.

Spring was now about to open, and he must

either return to his old calling or choose an— 7‘ ‘

other. The loss of the principal part of his
capital had disappointed him in his first roject
of opening a warehouse in New Bristol. t was
a favorable time for proposing a project to him .4

which promised as well as the one now spoken { ,

of.

n
x

x

a

A merchant in St. Louis, who knew him well, I '

and had confidence in his bpsiness talents, was
quite an extensive shipper o
to Luke that if he would go own to New Qt.-
leans and attend, for a few weeks, to the ship-4
ment of cargoes from there to L1verpool,and

ain. He wrote 5

then go over in one of the vessels to look  '
matters in the latter city. he might have half ‘

the profits of the voyage of the vessel in which
he should sail. He would assure him five thou-
sand dollars clear gain, in less than five months;
besides which, he would have an opportunity to
see the world, etc—79.1101 which was pleasing to '

‘y,

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

.2. .v‘ygsr'Mn:_ ..,,. t.» have». ,

'3 01a Jupe’l Claw.

 

Luke, except the necessity for parting from his
young wife.

This was an objection so great that he allowed
one mail to go b without answering the mer-
chant’s letter. 11 the mean time, the brave,
loyal wife, anxious for Luke’s advancement, de-
termined not to be a weight upon his prospects,
wrought up her heart to the re uisite firmness
to insmt upon his accepting the 0 er.

“ If you make so much in five months, per—
haps you can go into business for yourself, and
that, you know, will never take you away from
me again. It is worth something to )urchase
the owerfof always being together. will not
hol on back.”

“ I is true, Mary, that with that sum I could
build us a charming home. Perhapsl ought not
to refuse it."

So the offer was accepted the arrangements

made; and early in April, May found herself
once more alone with her parents, trying to be
cheerful. but ah, so lonely, so sad—dreaming of
storms and shipwrecks, counting the days and
weeks.
“If I had known how drear it would be
without Luke, I do not believe should have
had the courage to part from him," she said
continually to erself.

About the middle of May the little family.
was a in surprised by an unannounced visit
from . nnette. She brought with her two large
trunks of beautiful clothin , had plenty of
money in her purse, quite ta ng New Bristol
by storm, with her little splendors and graces,
and her patterns of the latest fashions. She
was in the hi hest spirits, professin to have

t by far he happiest winter 0 her life.

1'. Parnell could not leave his agencies to ac—
compan her but he was a most devoted, liberal
husbaan and she liked him better every day.

“He’s of! in Mississip i now, attending to

' the sale of some large p antations there. He

started the day [left to come here. I suppose
you're sur rised to see me; and I certainly

should not e here if Luke hadn’t urged me to

come up and visit you. He found us out as soon
as he came tothe city. It was quite by his r—
suasions that I was induced to come. As ar-
cell would be away some time, and I was alone,
I’didn‘t object much, and here I am, ready to
cheer your pining soul, Mary! Luke said he
know on would be terribly melancholy-he de—
pend on me to do my best to take up your
mind."
.It was thus Annette announced herself on the
do. of her arrival.
was glad to see her, for she had been
“of pning and melancholy mood;" then, too,
Nettie brotufiht the latest news of Luke; she had
seen him, ked with him, brought his last lov-
ing message on the day when he finally sailed
for Liverpool.
asked so many eager questions about

her husband as to call down her sister’s ever-
read sarcasm.

“ t’s a wonder you let your big baby out of
{our sight, sis. Ain’t you afraid he’ll fall and

art himself, or that somebody will not fix his

B281 just right, or run away with him; or that
~ t 10s

and not know his way back 7”
g“ ‘t you fret any in your husband’s ab—

3%.,

 

sence?” asked Ma , blushing with the idea of
having made herse f ridiculous.

“ Not a bit, my dear. Parcel] and I are very
much attached; but I should not expect he’d
like me long, if I kegt him tied to my aprOn-
string. Men don’tlj e to be kept too close_
Luke no more than the rest. He enjoyed him-
self hugely when he was in New Orleans. We
went together, every evening, to some place of
gmusyement. I did not know he could beso gal—
ant. v

“ It was I who urged him to go to Liverpool,”
said poor Mary, secretl almost crying with a
new jealousy to think t at Luke had been so
gay, while she had been so lonel ; yet ready,
with a woman’s instinct, to shield im from cen-
sure. “I don’t wish to tie him to my apron-
string. I’m glad he‘s going to do so well. But
it was hard to art with him. It was very
good of you, too, ettie, to come so far to see

me. We’ll have a nice time, I’m sure, and I’ll '

not try to be foolish.”

“ That’s more like it, sis. You’re not an old
woman yet. You ought to dash out, as I do,
and be gayer than ever. I’d buy pretty things
and wear them, if I were you; and go out as
I leased. Luke’ll like you all the better for it.

hen women settle down into drudges after
they are married, then husbands pay them for
it by looking after new (aces.

“ ’m not much of a drudge, Nettie; Luke has
not let me do a band’s turn since I was his wife.”

“ Oh, I didn’t mean that. Only I’m bound to
have a good time, and I want you to share it.
I’ve money to spend, and I mean to end it for
my own enjoyment. I so pose Lu e left you
comfortably supplied with t e needful?” and the
black e es shone out brightly beneath the
drooped ashes.

“ All I shall want to use, certainly.”

“ I’m glad you’ve got a nigger to do the work.
I confess to no taste for broiling my face and
baking my hands!” continued Annette, as
Auntie Clare came into the room, curious to see
the new relative, and ready to welcome her
with genuine African sunshine.

That was all the greeting she gave auntie.

Old Clare had not lived so long without beingr
able to perceive the difference between a real
lady and the false article; Mrs. Parcell’s' fine
clothes and finer airs did not deceive her; she
took a strong dislike to the visitor, which she
could not at all times conceal from the family.

“ Don’ you be led away by her,” she said,
after Annette had been there for several weeks,
and had over-persuaded Mary into buying a
new silk dress and a handsome shawl: “ our
clo’es is good enough now, Miss Bryant. on'
car’ w’at she says; young ladies whose husbands
is away on ht to e keerful, and not show off
too much. ime ’nough to buy such trash when
Massa Bryant is back, safe and soun’. 8’ sin’
ye’d have to go into mournin‘, them t ings
would be jist throwed away I” I

“ Oh, don’t, auntie i” cried Mary, burstin into
tears. “ I knew I ought not to have got 1: em,
and I did not want them. Nettie teased me into
it.

“ Don’ you be teased by.her, I tells ye. I’ll
take my asservation she ain’t round here, as
sweet as honey, fer nobody’s good. ' She’s got

_,/« . ,.~

 

 

 

i
l
E
l
; .

 

 

 

 

 

 

If,
a.

01:1 Jupe’s Glow. V f , r  ' 9

 

suthin’ on her mind, and it’s suthin’ bad. She’s
asperliteas a cat that‘s after cream.”

‘Oh, auntie, for shame! Nettie’s good enough,
only a little selfish. Besides, we have no cream
for her to be after.”

' “ Don’no ’bout dat. She ain't here for nuflin’,
now I tells yer. Nor she didn’t come to please
you, she ain’t so obligin’ as all dat. Course, 1’s
a nigger, an’ hain’t no se; ne’der do I knows
w’at your sister hates y u fer; but I’ve see’d it,
and dat’s so} I says to Jupe las‘ night, arter
he'd got done gnawin’ his bone, ‘ Idon’t like Miss
Purcell; I‘ve seen mischief in hereye. If she
could make trouble, she would!’ Jupe, he
grumbled, an’ growled, an’ rubbed his shins, an’
says he, ‘ Clar’, I declar‘ dat idea am jes’ gittin’
tru’ my wool,’ and I’m shuah you would a-
thought he had fleas, de way he scratched his
head tryin’ fur to make it out." '

“ I‘m afraid you’re prejudiced against Mrs.
Parcel], auntie.’

“ I know I desarbe a. whi in’ for to be talk-
ing so ’bout your people, iss Bryant; but I‘s
got it in my head, and

dan {on can git out a cork dat‘s once got down

in a ottla~so l”

The young wife, warm~hearted and innocent,
was not at all affected b the admonitions of
Auntie Clare. She thong t Nettie very much
improved, taking more trouble to please, and
being less sarcastic than ever before. She en-
joye her society, in Luke's absence; altogether,
as time wore on into midsummer, it sped faster
for the waiting wife couId be in to see the en

, of the long absence, distant, ut not intermin-
able. About this time, also, she made an ex-
cellent sale of a piece of land, which Luke had
desired her to dispose of, if opportunity should
occur. An eastern gentleman coming to New
Bristol to settle, selected it as a fine site for a
dwelling, and id her five hundred dollars in
cash for it. e payment was made partly in
specie, partly in bank-notes of various descrip-
t1ons.

“ If you are going to lay that money aside,"
said Nettie, “ would get it changed into gold,
ghich will be safer, in case of banks failing, or

re.’

“ I believe 1 will, Nettie; I don’t like to de-
posit it in these unsafe times. I've enough,
without touching this, to last me until Luke re-
turns. I ought to be very careful about the

old, though, so much of that is counterfeit,

ately. Mr. Brown told me yesterday he’d taken

a five-dollar gold-piece which was filled; and
that two or three merchants had been imposed
on by the same coin. Some one has been
through the village ain, scattering these
things. I should think t e counterfeiters would
be careful how they came around New Bristol
after the lesson they were taught last winter.”

“ To be sure, you . can’t 'be too careful. I
would have it tried before I took it."

Father Miller’s advice agreeing with Annette’s,
Mrs. Bryant exchan her notes for gold.
There being no banks 1n the village, she went to
the merchants. Mr. Brewn did not happen to
have so much on hand, and she had to 9. 1y to
three diaerent rsons before she got it all, each
one letting her ave what he had y him.

*‘ There,” said Annette, when Mary had locked

 

can’t no more git it out

 

the cash up in a little sewing-box, and that again
in a bureau-drawer, “ you’ve so much laid up in
case of accidents. That will furnish your new,
house when you get it built."

Scarcely more than a week after this Mrs.
Parcell received a letter from her husband ask-
ing herto 'oin him in sc. Louis, as he had finish-
ed 11 his ississippi business.

‘j ell, Molly, suppose I shall have to go.
But as you are at the top of the mountain now,
it won’t take so long to go down the other side,"
referrin to the fact that half the time of Luke’s
expecte absence had assed.

“I shall miss you, ettie;

asks ’fPr you, I mustn’t set up my rights in the
case.
“Well, take my advice, and be as jolly as
possible. Get everything and go everywhere,
as I do. Take your comfort while you are
young. May he shall see Luke before you do,
if we return to New Orleans, though I don’t in-
tend to go there before frost. Purcell is accli-
mated; but I‘m not. I’ll bring Parcel] with me
next time I come, so that you can see he’s not so
bad as you think he is.”

“Who said we thought he was had?” asked,
Mary, blushing with consciousness of the truth
of the accusation. ,

“ Oh, it isn’t necessary to deny it. You need
not blush; I’m not sensitive about it. Of course
he’s not such a para 11 as Luke' I shouldn’t
fancy him if he was! arcell and I don’t set up
for erfoction, like some ople.”

“ ’m sure we don’t, ettie, so don’t
with your sarcasms. If you have man-i a
good man, who loves on, nobody in the world.
exce t yourself, can so glad of it 1131 am,”
and ary’s arms went about her sister’s neck.

Nettie’s eyes fell before the loving look that
met them; she shrunk a. very little from the kiss
ofi’ered; then rallied and returned it with seem—
ing ual Warmth.

Fat or Miller had never had an influence
over Annette, and her step-mother s 8 used to
treat with cool neglect, but she had been sedit-
ferent durin this last visit that the , too, were
sorry to see er go away.. She had’ ht sev— .
oral little luxuries, in the wa of china and fab '
niture, for their home, an had promised to *
share with the Bryants, in the duty of providing
for them in their old days, should their own
means prove insufficient. Altogether Annette
won go den opinions on eve si e, at home and
abroad, vanishing in uite a 'ttle blaze of glory,
leaging a trail of ligh behind her.

untie

being not the least bit concilia by the half—

dozen real bandana handkerchiefs which An— ' , . r

nette was gracious enough to present her on the
da of her departure. .

hen Mrs. Parcel] had been one nearly a
month two things occurred whic rather sur-

prised lldary. In the first place she received, by

but if Mr. man ’

inm‘

Clare alone never chan ed her mind, " x

a St. Louis boat, an immense box, which, upon? 'g

being opened, was found to contain a handsome
piano. Now, Mary could not play, and had an:
expectation of learning; neither could she oun-
ceive of any friend w 0 would make her so caf—
pensive a present: She concluded that there
must be some mistake: that the instrument.
must have been intended for some other  _

1

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘. 3.}, » h. ’4“ ..i-...u2....,-.~ . , .

"on a...“ w».wa .- .- _,u.u,.,,.v_.,,w.

10 . Old Jupe’l Clew.

 

No, there was the direction, full and lain. The
box had come from New York City. he thought
that perhaps Luke-who was very fond of music,
and had several times spoken of getting a piano
if she would learn to use it—had arrived, unex—
pectedly, by way of New York, and might be
now on his way home, set her heart beating

ragidly

he continued to fancy this to be the case for
a couple of days, when a letter from her hus-
band, post-marked Liverpool, and speakin ,
rather, of being compelled to stay a niont
longer than he had expected, proved the fallacy
of the hope, and keenly disappointed her. There
was nothing to do but to set up the piano, and
await the explanation of the mistake, if it should
prove to be a mistake. There were but two
other pianos in New Bristol, and the arrival of
this one was the subject of considerable talk.

' "All Mary’s friends came to see it, and t0 won-

der who sent it, along with its'recipient, who
wondered the most of any. Sometimes she
thought it might be Annette; still, her sister,
thou h h ving plenty of spending-money, could
hard 3' a 0rd 8. present like this. Besides, she
woul have written to her about it. A few days
after this came a small trunk containing an
infant’s wardrobe, very complete, and of expen—
sive material.

, Mary had a. secret ‘Which she had kept from
Luke in order to give him the sweeter surprise
when he should come home. She had found it

‘ out shortly after his departure but had never

referred to it in her letters. Whoever sent her
this box of tiny apparel must have been aware
of this precious secret.

‘No one but Annette ould have sent this little
gift! Mary wrote to er, at St. Louis, to in-
quire. and received an answer denying any
knowledge of either afl‘air. Mary, more puz-

, zled than ever, in vain tried to unravel the lit-

tle mystery.
She now received another letter from her hus-

‘ band directing her, if a certain village lot,

which he had so often spoken of as the spot on

i which he should like to build his store, was still

vacant, to purchase it and to my for it out of
the means she had on and, as e had prospered

’ well with his aflairs, and would like to begin

buildin as soon as he got home.
Mrs. ryant, finding the lot unsold, at once
urchased it, paying the purchase-money dawn,
hree hundred dollars in gold, out of the fund
laid away in the little saving—box. As she sat,
that evening, in the door, looking of]? at the
river and the sunset, as on the occasion when
we first saw her, she had seldom in her life felt
more peacefully happy. Their prospects were

. .ao flattering, everything conspiring to prosper
r them; the hope of Luke’s speedy return so full
1 of by, the thought of his amnznment and de»

lig t when she should betray to him her secret,
so sweet: that as she sat and mused, with lovely,
radiant face, thanking God in her heart, silent
ly, she was more beautiful than ever.

The only shadow on her thoughts was the fear

I that Luke might be detained another month, as

he had said was possible.
- “ What a lovely day this has been,” she said,
as her father came and sat on the steps in front

of her. A

 

 

“Yes, but it’s a weather-breeder, child. We’ll
have a storm soon.» These hot, bright days are
sure to bring thunder.” ~

CHAPTER IV.
THE THUNDERBOLT FROM A CLEAR SKY.

IN the morning the storm broke—sudden,
swift, overwhelming—a tempest, leaping out of
the very sunshine—not a cloud, not a note of
warning—all was peace, when the bolt struck,
and one happKIhonie was in ruins.

When Mr. iller arose, he saw no promise of
the rain he had predicted; the sky was clear, the
grass glittering with dew. Auntie Clara had
Ere ared a choice breakfast: for, as Mary's

ea th grew more delicate, no dainty could be
too much trouble to Brepare for her. Mary, in
a white wrapper, wit a pink ribbon in her hair,
came forth to the table, as fresh and neat as if
Luke’s admirin eye were upon her. The family
had nearly finis ed their meal when two men
appeared at the open door.

“ Good-mornin’, nei hbors, good-inornin’.
Had your breakfast? on’t you step in and
take a cup of coffee? Haven’t any writ to serve
on us, have you, sheriff?” said kind old Mr.
Miller, laughing at his own joke. He was the
last man in the world to be afraid of a sheriff,
for he owed no man a dollar, and his conscience
was as clear of stain as a spotless mirror.

The men looked embarrassed. They came in;

 

but refused the coffee, and an invitation to be

seated. , .
“Fine weather for the corn,” continued the

os .

“ ’Tis, ’tis—fine weather. G0 on with your
breakfast, Mrs. Bryant; don’t mind us."

“ Oh, I’ve finished,” said Mary, with one of
her childlike smiles, as she pushed back her
chair, remaing seated through a diflidence very
pretty in a young wife.

“Hum!” continued the sheriff, drawing a pa-
per from his ocket, and walking slowly over
toward her, w ere she sat. “ I’m sorry for you,
neighbor Miller-I am, indeed—and for your
wife; but, the fact is, dut requires me to
arrest your daughter, ary ryant, for pass-
in counterfeit money. ~

ary turned a shade paler, but smiled still,
thinking Mr. Purdy was growing rather coarse
in his jests.

“ ’Tain’t no joke ma’am, as you’ll find to your
cost I’m afraid. People are sick of this kind of
wor , and they’ve made up their minds to ut a
sto to it, no matter whose fin ers get pinched.”

e spoke rudely, betraying is own belief in
her guilt, to the young creature, who had arisen
to her feet, and stood looking at him with wide—
open incredulous eyes.

“ hat you talkin’ about, sheriff?" screamed
Mrs. Miller, darting in between him and Mary,
as if her mother’s love were stronger than the
strong arm of the law. “ Ain’t you ashamed of
yourself, when you see what her health is, com-
in’ here and givm‘ her such a fri ht?"

“I mean just what I say, rs. Miller. I’m
sorry for you, for I don’t supiose ou’re impli-
cated in it'I but Mrs. Bryant as een ageing
counterfeit money, and she's got to su er the
penalty—that is, if she’s convicted. We shall

give her a fair trial, certain, Nothing 8113,]! be ,

I,

 

 

.....,,...  .4, 

,,,

 

 

ww.

: Old Jupe’l Claw.

 

doneout o’ the course of the law, though some
of the citizens are greatly excited."

“ Who says I have passedcounterfelt money?”

Mary looked angry and resentful. rather than
fri htened; she by no means realized the danger
of or position.

“ Two hundred and fifty dollars of the three
hundred you paid Jordan yesterday was filled.
Very cleverly done, or it wouldn’t have taken
him in, even for an hour.”

“I took that gold of Mr. Brown and two other
merchants. as I can prove; I looked. ltlup the
day I received it, and never touched it Since un-
til yesterday.”

‘ The remember very well that you ex-
chang notes for gold; but, unfortunately for
your case, not that kind of gold that you paid
for your lot. There’s other cases known of your
passing counterfeit bills, in small sums; but I’m
not here to try you; the court ’11 do that. I’ve
a search-warrant to search the premises."

Mr. Miller lifted up his clinched hand as if to
strike down the sherifl, but his daughter inter-

“ Hold, father, dear father! on will only
make matters worse for me! by should we
object to his searching the house, since we are
innocent?” And taking the keys of her bureau
and boxes from her pocket, she handed them to
Mr. Purdy.

Mrs. Miller sat down, for she was too faint to
stand: but Mary remained proudly erect, watch-
infithe proceedings.

er little treasure-box was soon found and
opened. Upon applying the test to the remain-
ing portion of t 8 five hundred dollars, the
greater part of it was found to be “ filled,” the
same as that which she had yesterday paid out.
In her purse was a five-dollar counterfeit on a
Cincinnati bank. The oflioers were rigid in the
performance of their duty. They even ascended
into the loft which was only used as a place of
storage, and reached by a step-ladder. They
expected, perha . , to find some evidence that
counterfeit coin been manufactured on the
remises. At last, in the bottom of a keg full of
ops, which had been gathered the year before,
and stood there, dusty and dry, they discovered
some dies for stamping “quarters” and
“ halves."
, That was all—and enough. The glance they
gave Ma when they came down showed their
pitiless be let in her criminality. The finding of
the dies rendered it proper to have Mr. Miller
also placed under arrest, but as yet they had no
warrant for so doin .

Aunty Clare, by t is time aware of what was
gomg on, rushed into the room, shaking her fist
in the sheriff’s face, and daring him to lay a fin-
ger on her young mistress. This championship

id poor Mrs. Bryant no good. irritating the
oficers, and causing them to be less considerate
in their orders to her to get her shawl and bon-
net and go with them to the county jail.

“ Get a buggy! get a boss and buggy, I tells
ye! You can‘t be so mean as totake a lady
through the street: on foot, fer de boys to be
runnin’ arter. Sher-ii! Purdy. may do Lord drag
yer darter in de mud, if ye hain't teart enough
for dat."

“ I’ve no objections to getting a buggy, if



 

Clark ’11 wait and guard the prisoner,” said the
sheriif, a little moved by the old servant‘s fran-
tic vehemence.

Half an hour later, Mary Bryant, the pride of
the village, passed out of her mother’s door, a
prisoner in the hands of justice.

“ Don’t yer fret, honey; don’t yer fret one bi1 !
Old Clare ’11 take care 0’ yer till Massa Bryant
get back. W’en he gets home, folks as has had"
a hand in dis, better look out! Dey’ll be sorry
eber de pla ed wid fire. Don’t yer be cas‘
down, iss ary. De good Lord will reach
down his han’ to you."

The young wife had retained her self-posses—
sion remarkably; for the sake of her husband.
for the sake of her child, she resolved to control
herself, so as to let this cruel e isode do her as .
little injury as possible; but. w1en Clare spoke
of the protection which Massa Bryant would
afford her, the thought of the outrage she was
suffering, and he so far away, for a few mo-
ments overcame her. She burst into tears; but
not for long. Before the carriage reached the
jail she was as firm and quiet as before. ‘

Mr. Miller went' with his (laughter; but was
not allowed to return. Although few really
supposed him to be a party to the crime, it was
thought best to hold him for trial.

Thus it was that the storm broke on that
bri ht morning, shattering one hearth-stone, r
whi touching no other in that village.

It may appear almost incredible to many
readers that a person like Mrs. Bryant, so um-
versal a favorite, so oung and innocent'look—
ing, livin in their midst so uietly, could find
any to be ieve in her guilt. hey might fancy
that an indignant populace would storm the
walls of her prison, to set her free, and proclaim
her innocence. Instead of such being the case,
the opposite feeling prevailed. The very un—
likelihood of her guilt made people the more
ea er to believe it. Then, also, to do the in—
ha itants of New Bristol justice, it must be con—
fessed that they had been long and sorely tried.
Many things occurred, as days passed by, and]
the matter was discumed from every possible
point of view, to strengthen the growmg assur-
ance of her guilt.

Her extravagance in bu ing new clothes was
commented on. Where id the money come
from? Everybody knew that Luke Bryant had
lost a good deal, and that his ‘wife ought to be r
exercising econom . Then, there was the story
of the piano, and t e trunk of clothing! It was
now as plain as day that Mrs. Bryant had her-
self sent for these things; but to blind people tn
the fact of her spending money so freely, had
affected not to know where they came from. In
support of this supposition, some one wrote to
the firm from whose warehouse the instrument
had been sent, asking for the order which, had
been given them, it it was still in existence. as
it was desired to be used in a court of law. Un«
fortunately for her, the letter had been filed,
and was, when it was sent back in accordance
with the r nest, found to be in Mary’s hand-
writin , an to have been mailed, from New
Bristo . When this fact was noised through the
town. nearly every one of the few friends who
had remained true to the prisoner forsook their
allegiance.

11/

 

 

,.
it

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
   
  

. .12 ’ , I 0111 Jupe’s CIew.

 

When her counsel heard of it, he at once
visited his client to hear what her explanation
of the affair would be. He was a young man
from St. Louis who had been settled in New
Bristol but a short time, but who had uite a
reputation for talent in pleading. e had
undertaken the case with a full conviction that
Mrs. Bryant was the victim of seine combi-
nation of circumstances, erhaps ofa conspiracy
gotten up by other mem iers of the band who
were so severely dealt with, and whose quar—
ters had been discovered through the aid of her
servant and the energy of her husband. This
appeared to him the only theory upon which to
base a defense; he spent his ingenuity in efforts
to find matter in support of this line of argu-
ment. He had, thus far, obtained no clew.

When her lawyer went in, Mary was sitting
by the window, embroidering a little dress. She
lookedso pale and sad. and yet wore such a

:pure, elevated expression, that he was touched

to tears. Old Auntie Clare sat at her mistrese’s
feet, knitting. Nothing could keep her from
her duty at that post. In consideration of the
prisoner's health, she had been given the best

. room in the jail, an upper room with good

light and air, which the negress had furnished
With articles brought from home. Mary’s own
bed and chair were there, the floor was cur—
peted, and she was allowed her sewing imple—
ments. Auntie cooked all her food, waiting
upon her as if she were “ the lady of the land."

The lawyer told her about the piano affair;
how the order was found to be in her hand-
writing, and asked an explanation.

“ Mr. Harding, I have no explanation to

,give. I never ordered it, never paid for iti

and have no idea why it was sent to me.
would like to see the letter. It is impossible
that it should be in my handwriting, because I
never wrote it."

“ It would be best to have perfect confidence

in me,” he said with some embarrassment, for

it was not an easy thing to hint to the woman
before him that she was telling a falsehood.

,“Do you, too, doubt me, Mr. Harding!"
asked the risoner, looking him straight in the
9 es. “1 you do, it will be best for you to
a ndon the case. I ask no one to defend mo

Uwho cannot do it with a clear conscience. If

allmy friends fail me,I will be my own de-
fender.”

“I don’t doubt you, Mrs. Br ant; I can’t,
when I see and hear you—that’s t e truth of it;
but the court calls for something more than
faith—it wants facts. Either you are the most
artful woman on the face of the earth, or else
there is some plot against you, well laid, and, I
warn you, very dangerous. Have you any
enemies? any person or persons who would have
an object in injuring you?"

“Not, as I have said before, unless some mem-

: ~ bars of that band are seeking revenge in this
r manner.

Even then I cannot conceive how
they could have placed the dies in the garret,
nor how they could have gained access to my

I , sewing—box,"

“ Are you certain that your negro man is all
right? Sometimes these blacks have more wit
than we give them credit for.” ‘

‘fWit ’nough toJmow who de’r friends is,”

x
0

put in Auntie Clare before her mistress éould
reply. “Jupe would ‘es’ die fer his young
missus. Imake no don t if she were dead .an'
buried, he’d nebber gnaw anudder bone, but
jes’ stretch hisself on de groun’, side (16 grave,
and lie dar, and die, too.’

“ Who‘s J upe? I was not talkin about dogs,”
said the lawyer, who was usual y very good—
natured to auntie.

“ He‘s my husban’, I reckon, an’ de berry ni -
ger (lat discovered dem counterflghters. T51
ye w’at it is, Lawyer Harding, uiggers no busi—
ness putting in de’r noise; but I specks and be-
lieves I knows who’s Miss Bryant’s enemy. I
can’t prove it, fer I nebber scold nufl‘in’, but it‘s
my ’ ression.” »

“ ho?" was the eager response.

“ Mrs. Bryant’s own halfrsister, an’ I will say
so, if you do take my head off for it, Miss
Marly.’

“ s this so?” he asked, turnin to his client.

“ No, sir. No one could be inder or better
to me than she. She is as innocent as I am. I
don’t know what put such a wild notion into
Clare‘s head; but there it is, and I can’t move
 ” She gives me unnecessary pain by such
“I‘ll take my asservation of it,” muttered
auntie to herself.

Improbable as such uthin seemed, therebe—
ing no more reason to think rs. Purcell capa-
ble of such crime than Mrs. Bryant, the very
suggestion was enough to make Mr. Harding
ponder it. The next 0 portunity which he ob-
tained to talk alone wit auntie, he asked her a
hundred questions about Annette—her habits,
her sayings and doings when home. What rear
son she had for thinking she hated her sister,
etc., etc. Out of all Clare’s “asservations,” he
could get no facts, nothing but that she’d seen
Miss Nettie look at her sister with eyes like a
rattlesnake, an assertion not of much weight
before a jury. Yet, there was somethin of the
utmost importance, could it be prove , viz.,
that Ju had recognized Parcel! among the
men in t e cave who were manufacturing money.
But, how could he prove it? J upe was a slave,
and could not testify a ainst a white man. Be-
sides which, it was re able that Jupe was mis-
taken, as no Parce l was found the next night
when the gang was arrested. Again, even were
it Purcell, would not the fact tell; strongly
against the prisoner? It might implicate Par-
cell and his wife, but it would not free Mrs.
Bryant. On the contrary, it would only in-
crease the feeling a ainst the whole family. ,

Old Mr. Miller, w 0 was confined in a room
near his daughter’s, bore his circumstances
bravely, thinking that a very few weeks would
bring everything straight again.

Court sat the second week in September; but
as Luke was expected home by the 20th or 25th,
Mary was granted a brief delay. to await his
arrival. Some persons grumbled at even this
favor, so strong;r was the belief in her guilt. .

Alas! all things went wrong for poor Mary.
The day the court sat she reoeiVed a. letter from
her husband, saying that he was obliged tore-
main another month. as he had feared. This

 

cruel disappointment almost crushed out hope
. and life. To have to bear the ordeal alone, un-

 

a.

6......»

 

 

 

 

 

 

g
«I
J

a.»

 

 

 

01d Jupe’s ; Giant

hm

der such circumstances, too seemed to be im-
possible. Yet thus it was to be, and was.

Popular opinion now began to include Luke
in its condemnation. It was suggested that he
had gone off so as to have a plausible pretext
for gettin suddenly rich; and that now his
wife was etected, he had concluded to remain
where the hand of the law could not fall upon
him. Future events afterward supported this
theory until it became the settled conviction.

Mary, expectin Luke so soon, and thinking it
less cruel to brea the news to him personally,
than by letter, had not, at first, written of the
trouble which had befallen her. Now it was too
late ’

If Mr. or Mrs. Purcell had come to town, they
would have been held on suspicion; but no one
took a sufficiently active interest to ferret them
out and arrest them. Mary wrote to her sister
at St. Louis, but receiving no reply, concluded
thfg were not there.

r. Harding, unknown to her, had taken a
trip to that city, on purpose tomake the ac-
3uaintance of the pair, thinking that he could

ecide whether it was best to com ltheir ap-
pearance, after seeing them; but t ey had left
the place, and he obtained no trace of them.

CHAPTER V.
“AT rm: BAR or JUSTICE.”

THERE never was so good a week for the New
Bristol hotel-keepers, and the liquor-saloons, nor
even for the makers of gingerbread, as the week
of Mary Bryant‘s trial. People came from far
and near, on foot, on horseback, in wagons and
by boat. Women had it to tell to their children
for years afterward, who were so fortunate as
to catch a limpse of the young and beautiful
prisoner. hen she came into court, with her
white, calm face, there were many who won-
dered how she could bear the excitement in her
present state; who pitied her, even while, they
thought her guilty; and who were inclined to
let her go unpunished. Mr. Miller sat by his
daughter, also a prisoner under trial, but around
him comparatively little interest centered.

When the testimony came all to be summed
up, it was overwhelming. It seemed foolish to
suppose that Mary coul have had so large a
sum of spurious coin, not knowing it to be such.
Mr. Brown, the merchant, swore that twice dur-
ing the summer, bank—bills given him by Mrs.
Bryanthad proved to be counterfeit; but that,
511an she hadrbeen imposed on, like others,
an that she did not know them to be such, he
had laid them away until Bryant should return,
who, he had no doubt, would make them good
to him. The bad note found in her purse was
produced, and, more conclusive than all, the
dies found in the loft. The matter of the piano
was not allowed to sleep. The attorney for the
'State—wto, though he really pitied the prisoner
because she was young and a woman, could not
resist the opportunity for making a telling case
—-dwelt upon the lady's extrava once, the many
little luxuries she had sudden y indulged in
and the necessity for making an example 0
somebody.

Mr. Harding’s plea was as eloquent as talent
and feeling could render it. His heart was in
the cause, and he defended his client with all the

\

 

7».

,- J. 

 

13

skill of which he was capable, clinging to ,the ~
one statement, that she was the victim of a con-
spiracy. He could not prove it, but he hoped
and prayed that the Supreme Judge of all
Judges, the wise Ruler of the Universe, would
never permit so great a wrong to be done the «,
innocent; if his client were falsely condemned,
the time would come when the men in the jury-
box, the judge on the bench, and the people who
listened to him, would feel their hearts sink
with remorse at thought of their unjust persecu-
tion of one so young, so tender, so little able to
bear their harshness.

The result seemed certain from the first. No
one expected the jury to be out long, and they
were not. In half an hour after receiving their
charge, they returned with a verdict of
“ GUILTY.’ Yet in all that multiimde, many
of whom had labored to bring about this result,
and desired to see it—some of them were rough,
hardened men from barges and scows and vii—
lage taverns—not one was so brutal as to raise a.
shout of applause. Only one sound broke the
silence, and that was the groan which came from
the father’s lips, as he turned and looked upon
his daughter. He was acquitted, nothing hav- '
ing been proved against him, and it being the
general inference that Mary and Luke were'in'
league with a band, but that Miller had no
knowledge of their doings.

Four years7 imprisonment in the State Peni—
tentiary was the sentence passed upon Marfiaby
the judge. “Ten years," he said, “ would ve
been the doom of any man who had committed
a similar crime. But she was young, and he
could not find it in his heart to withold from
her the inducement to do better; she was young,
and a woman, and he made her sentence com-
paratively 1i ht.” :

She listene , like one in a dream, whispering
to herself: -

“ If Luke were only here! if Luke were only
here.”

Before any one had recovered from the tempo-
rary silence which had fallen, there was a tumult
at the door. Auntie Clare fought and scratched '
her way through the dense crowd until she found
herself by the side of her young mistress, when » _
she glared upon the crowd like an angry tigress, ’
bereft of its young. 7‘

“ Yer oughter be ’fraid to sleep in yer beds,”
she screamed, shaking her fist at the Judge and
jury " sendin’ a youn'r creeter like that off to
the State’s Prison. 1? any of yous is fadders, v.
yer blood oughter run cold in yer veins. Ye’r’
all \Sadducees and Pari hrase, as de Scrip'ter
says—sheep in wolf’s clotliin , gwine about seek-
in’ whom ye may devour. gar ain’t one in dis
house~not one—man, woman or chile, dat's got
a heart as pure as my young missis. An‘ here

er be, sendin’ her ’way] to prison‘ and her bus-

and, w’at would ‘b is life to ’keep ,de leaé’
trouble ’way from er, is done and gone‘ and
yer don’t even wait for her to see him. Tomas; r ,
w‘at, dar’ll be some men ‘round here dat'll ,r
derself shot and killed w’en massa does come ,
home! Let me ’lone,” she cried, as the sheriff
attempted to take her out, “let me ’lone, or I’ll
scratch yer eyes out. I’m gwineto stick to her,
and do hot pinchers ob Satan hisself can’t pull
me ’way.” / v

“M. Wu“ 4

M...‘ manna,» -a‘. 4......--.

/

«3.

.. :~+~w‘-«mvm~w~,—._m 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

, too great for him to bear.

 

‘to the State’s Prison.

comes."

 

 

   

14

And stick to her she did. Mr. Harding wished
to conduct his client to the carriage which was

r to take her back to 'ail; but Clare just lifted her

young mistress in er stout arms and bore her
out, as if she were a baby.

, Nobody booted or jeered. There was some-
thing in the devotion of the old negress too sub«
lime for ridicule, even to the coarsest of the
crowd, and something in the expression of
Mary’s face which restrained all rudeness, and
which made witnemes, jury and judge go to
their homes with an uneasy sense of havin
committed a wrong. Her persecutors had tri-
umphed, but they felt no exultution in their vic-
tory. On the contrary, as is often the case, a
revulsion’of feeling took place in the condemned
woman’s favor, and there were many who said
that she should have been pardoned, even if
guilty, as it was not likely she would do any-
thing of the kind again, and she was in no tit
state to be dealt with severely.

She would not be in a condition to be sent to
the penitentiary until the first of January, in
the mean time being permitted every comfort in
the an which her friends were able to provide.
As or Mr. Miller, he went home a broken-heart-
ed man. His daughter, his hope and solace, his
beautiful girl, of whom he was so fond, who had
ever been so gentle and dutiful, to have been
dragged through such excitements, with only
suffering and disgrace before her, was a misery
His health had been
failing for a year or two; now it received a fatal
shock; he took to his bed, and remained there,
slowly fading away with a cureless consumption.

, Mrs. Miller, never known as a person of much
energy, bore her trouble with a. sort of meek a-
tience which robbed it of half its keenness. bhe
would not give way, as her husband did, as long
as Mary’s health was such a source of anxiety;
and Mary’s child, too, would need all her care.
That thought alone made her bear up witha
loud parent’s heroism. These were days that
tried Auntie Clare’s strength, as well as her
fidelity. She had Mary to attend upon; or,
when her mother wished to sit with her, then
auntie went to the house and took charge of
Mr. Miller, and straightened out the housework,
which J upe got into a tangle.

“While there is life there is hope.” The
whole family still clung to a hope. They did
not believe that Mary would really be sent of!
hen Luke came home,
all would be made right. What es ial miracle
Luke could work they did not exp ain to them-
selves; they only felt that he loved his wife too
well not to move heaven and earth to obtain her
garden. He would ferret out the guilty parties;

8 would go to the governor; it might be he

' would overthrow the jail; nothing seemed im—

possible when tbe thought of Luke. That he
should live, and al ow Mary to suffer any injus~
tice. was not possible.

W hat to the rest of the family was so strong
an assurance, was to the young wife almost the v
breath of life.

“It will only be a month, and Luke will be
here,” was the answer she' gavetoClare's at-
tempts at comfort, the first evening of her re—

 

turn to prison. “We will wait till Luke

I, I r /.,

Old Jupe’s Clew.

Day by day she counted the hours and mo-
ments.

“ It’s two weeks still. auntie! Oh, how ion ,
how long!” Then, “ 1t's a week, a whole wee
yet! I feel certain he will be here by next
Saturday. I am sure 1 can be patient until then!
I am patient, am I not, Clare? You will tell my
husband how brave I have been."

The Saturday came, and Mary neither ate nor
drank. Her grated window commanded a View
of the river, and there, with her pale face rest-
ing against the iron bar, she sat and gazed,
scarcely breathing, until the steamer arrived
discharged its mail and passengers, and passed
on. Then gradually the light went out of the
eager eyes, the red spot out of either cheek; for
no lithe figure, whose every movement she knew
so well, came up from the wharf toward Miller’s
cottage. She sent Clare down to the house to
inquire; then to the office for a letter; but there
was no passenger nor message. She would have
to wait the arrival of another boat—three days!

J u was down on the river every moment he
coul spare. It seemed as if he, too, like his
young mistress, ima ined that Mr. Bryant
might be in every sai -boat, row~boat, or scow
which ap led on the river.

But Lu e Bryant did not come!

It gave the flood people of New Bristol a
great deal to tal about. They could surmise
to their hearts’ content, whether he had been
shi wrecked, or was a. party to his wife’s guilt
an never intended to return. All the 01
women clicked their knitting needles, and nod—
ded their heads faster as they wondered what
a baby born in jail would be like; and if its
father would not tryto be back in season to
welcome its advent. Many young matrons felt
a generous sympatb for one who was once their
friend and rival, t e admiration of all, now
about to bear a woman’s greatest trial under
circumstances so terrible. Many eyes-besides
J upe’s watched the steamers, and hoped to see
the tall form of Luke Bryant the first to appear
in the gangway.

But the days wore on, and there were no tid-

1n .

I: was a. bleak, gm. day without color or
warmth, the first of ecem r. As still as a.
statue, and nearly as cold and white, , as
ever, sat in the window, straining her r-
dimmed sight to make out any movement u n
the river. An occasional snow-flake set ed
down into the water, or lodged on the duller
earth. Far, far down the stream, alight cloud
went ugfnd mingled with the somber mist over-
head. ary knew it to be the smoke of an ap-
proaching steamer.

“ Come, chile, Ju
down a quail. and
I tell ye. Jupe‘s as good as of he’d been tr
to bring down birds. I tol’ him of he come back
widout any, I’d give him a good ha'npullin‘.
I’ve br’iled it on a bit ob toas’, andrI want youto
eat it while it’s hot.” r

“Please, auntie, set it down on the stove is

’3 been out and brought
ere ’tis, br’iled right mesa

little while. I can’t touch it untilehe boat gets
in. She’s coming now." ,
“ What?" '

“ Don’t you see the smoke down the river?”
“Your eyes is sharper dan mine, honey.

 

.3

 

 

 

 

Old Jupe’s Clew. 15

Specks you kin see dc l'wat w’en it firs’ leaves
St. Louis, if practice makes perfeck. Come,
now, you’ll jus’ hab nice time to eat yer dinner
’fore she gits in si ht. Den you’ll be strengfened
up to meet Massa ryant when he comes!"

Mary took the dish and made an attempt to
partake, more to humor auntie’s wishes than be—
cause she knew or cared what she was tasting;
it was evident to the cook that it might as well
have been a boiled chip, as a bird, as far as the
purtaker’s appetite was concerned.- After tast.
mg a few mouthfuls, the plate was pushed away
and the wife’s watch was resumed.

“ I can see the boat guite plaian now, auntie.
But Luke is not on it, know. I ave a strange
feeling about my heart. 1 feel as if I were dy-
ing, in a lonely place, with no one near me. Can’t
you ive me adrink of water?"

“ on’t talk so, au’ don’t look so. Massa
Bryant will feel dreflie to see you lookin’ so

. white. I’m mos’ sai‘t’in sure he’ll been dis boat.

You oughter hab on your pink delaine wrapper,
an’ suthin’ purty in your hair.”

“ I’ve suffered, auntie, and I’m willing he
should see it. But he isnot on the boat, tell
you. Auntie, auntie! oh, what a long month
this has been! I wonder if it’s ossible that all
the restof my life will be like t is past month?
e—every moment a dayl—waiting, waiting, in
solitude, in prison!

“ Then said she. 'I am ve dr ,

He will not come,’ she";de

She we t, ‘ 1 am sweary, aweary,
Oh, 0d, that I were deadl’ "

“What makes yer talk so, dis time, honey?
See! dar’s de steamer turnin‘ in, and dar’s Jupe
on de shore.” '

Old auntie herself became now so absorbed
that she ceased even to chatter; the steamer
slowly gained her dock; Clare kept her eyes on
Jupe, who, she knew, would give the si a1 if
the snxiousl expected passenger was on card.

But Jupe id not give the signal; on the con-
trary, he walked up toward the 'ail' with a lag-
gng gait which plainly told of isappointment.

-esently he was saying throu h the keyhole:

“ Massa Bryant no come ay, missus.”

“ Ask him to go to the post-office, auntie."

“ Jupe, you trot off to de pos’-ofiice, right
smart now! Don’t yer dar’ come a-Whinin’
roun’ ack, widout no letter.” ‘

Mary leaned back against the casement, with
her eyes closed, and a pallor and weariness upon
her worn you face which Clare had never seen
there before, he did not speak or stir until the
key rattled in the lock, and the jailer came in
With a. letter.

“ I think it’s Bryant’s handwriting and it’s
postmarked New Orleans,” he said, as 9‘ hand-
ed 11': to Mrs. Bryant, and then had the delicacy
to immediately retire.

A low or of joy broke from Mary’s lips, as
she grasps the letter, and scanned its direction.
It was Luke’s handwriting, and it was sent from
New Orleans. In that moment, all the trouble
which had crushed her seemed but a feather’s
weight. Breaking the seal, and drawing forth
the note, she read: ;

“Minn—I have heard of your criminal conduct
and arrest. I feel that I cannot return to the nviuhv

borhood of my old friends to live under the shadow >

 

of the disgrace which you have brought upon me.
My passage is taken for California, a wild coun .
said to be ablaze with gold; but it cannot be w
enough to Suit me. lam a ruined man—ruined by
the woman I loved and trusted. I was warned before
my marriage, but I did not heed the warning. ‘

‘1 sh 11 not. at present, seek a divorce, though I
might (1 so, under the law; but you must never ex-
pect to hear from me nor see me again. May fate be

inder to you than you have been to
“ Luna BRYANT."

 

CHAPTER VI.
THE PRISON FLOWER.

ern a flower blooming in the midst of Alpine
snows, Mary’s child first saw the li ht through
prison—bars—a boy, healthy, perfect, utiful,ss
though no terrible surprise, no lin ering suspense,
no final agony of a broken heart, adtortured his
mother for months, to end in long unconscious-
ness and a fearful after—struggle for life. Under
such miserable circumstances as waited on the
child, it might seem as if it had been better that
he had never been born; but, he was the savior
of his mother from utter despair—perhaps in:
sanity. The love which her husband had thrown
back to her, found an object in their babe.

But, as one young,r life came in, the feeble
flame of an older hght went out. Mr. Miller
was unable to rally after hearing of the cruel
letter which his daughter had received and of
the critical condition in which she lay. ,He died
when the baby was a few days old, having never
seen his little grandchild.

The first of January was drawing near, and
it became necessary for Mrs. Miller to decide
upon some course of action. If able, Mary

would then have to set forth on her journegbtfi .
Mrs. ‘ -

the State’s Prison in Jefferson City.

ler resolved to sell her little place, and. take up ‘

her residence in the capital, where she not only

could visit her daughter, but also take charge...

of the infant. »

It seemed as if every trial which could wrhrg
a woman’s heart must be meted outto Mary.
She was not even to be permitted to nourishand
care for that child she so passionate] loved.
Even if she‘could have cared properly or it, in
prison. she would not injure it y confinement to
the close and damp air.

Feeble as she was, and obliged to perform the ‘
journey by stage, yet the change was beneficial ’ 1
to the prisoner. What one so sensitive and v

modest suffered, only her own peer heart knew;
but when the time came, she found herself on-
rolled in the band of inmates in the Penitentiary,
doing her daily tasks with brutal women. Here,

as everywhere, her beautiful, sad face won her 

many indulgences; she was allowed shed and

cell to herself, some little comforts of furniture, 4’

and to receive, once a day, a visit «from her
child, carried in Clare’s faithful arms. ‘

If Clara’s loving cnerg'es had been put to the
test hitherto, they were ow doubly taxed. Mrs.

Bryant had little means, as of course. shebad  4
dollars which was :
counterfeit, and much of what remained .hmd '

lost all of the five hundr
been already spent. The sale of Mrs. Miller‘s

homestead broughta little war but this Clare " ‘ I;

insisted should be placed in hank to draw inter

est, and to be taken from only in case of  «

“aw _ v~4M1Wrum~H~ <

M
H. mm _.

.. 4c.»ng

L:
l

 

 

 
 

 In

, pmww- q-I... .._.,.V....—.~........., may...” ..

Old Jupe's Claw.

 

;: sity. As soon'as the little famil was settled in
the humble place which they ha rented, she set
herself to earning a living for it, by taking in
washing and ironing. She did this work beau-
tifully, and soon had a run of customers; but
she never was so busy but that she had time to
cook some delicate article of food, to dress little
Luke “ Within an inch of his life," and take him
in mi an hour at the “ nooning ” With his
mot er.

The boy waxed in beauty and grace, so that
wardens, matrons, prisoners, every one about
the gloomy building, watched for a glimpse of

l the cherub child.

Although Mary never referred to her story, a
belief grew in the prison that she was innocent.
Every one, from the hi hest emcer down to the

,basest convict, treated er with reverence. The

' labor to which she was put was that of binding
shoes. The lightest was always selected for her.
She worked as a machine might, rapidly and

, well, ’without any interest in what she was
doing. With the long lashes drooping almost

, to her cheeks seldom glancing up, never speak-

; ‘ing unless spoken to, she sat at her humble toil.

I ’The ros bloom for which she once was so
famous ad vanished with her he. piness. That

l glorious Wealth of hair, which ha been Luke’s

pride, was cut 03, most humiliating sign of her

position!

, But what was such degradation now? There

was nothing which she could suffer since she re-

ceived that letter. In her whiteness and silent

nose she shone within those dreary walls like a

, lllyflgrowing in the gloom of a cellar. The peni-

': ten ry scissors could\ not preVent her hair

‘ from curlin into a thousand soft brown rings,

which gave er a childlike beauty.

 , When her boy came, her countenance 1i hted

' , up into a melancholy rapture. Little laug ing,
; 'lea lug, crowing child. He felt not the shadow
of ace! The women all knew when he cut

, a toot and once, when he was sick with some
‘_ , baby-ailment, and not able to be taken out for
' three days, the whole prison was in mournin .

Ah! what a picture for some painter, wv en

. ‘old Clare brought in her ebon arms the lovely

child to his imprisoned mother!

’ Luke! that was the magic name by which all
hearts Were stirred. For his mother had called
him after his father.

“The childis his. He has a right to his fa-
ther’s name. He has disowned me, but he can

a not diSOWn his child,” was what she said, when,

/ at his humble christening in the Bristol jail, she
.was asked what the infant’s name should be.

r In the mean time, what had become of J upe?
Jupe was a slave, and not free to follow the dic-
tates of his heart. Many and anxious had been

the consultations between him and his wife be-
fore the family left its Bristol home. The

V broken pitcher was produced from its hiding—

3, place beneath a stone in the cellar, and its con-

“: - ' (tents counted again and again, as if the counting

. ‘ would increase the sum. Including the three

hundred dollars reward which J upe had received

for diecoverin the counterfeiters, there Were
ilvehundred ollars in that bank. The couple
had already calculated, that, as the grew older.
their value would lessen so that w on they got
u quite broken down and rheumatic,,they coutl

_ .g‘. s®nj2p~ an... moan”... - 

v.51 a; I.

4.1;.“

   
 

p.

v I

 

 

buy the privilege of taking care of themselves
for a small sum. That time, however, had not
yet come. Jupe, though not over fifty, was
prized on account of the unusual share of sava—
city and invention which he possessed. Don t-
less, five hundred dollars would be the least his
owner would take for him.

Touched by compassion for Mrs. Bryant, and
trusting implicitly in auntie's promise that she
would remit her hire to him every month, their
master had consented to her accompanying the
little family to J clferson City. But, asto Jupe’s

oing, he was not inclined to consent to it.

upe might run away, and anyhow he was shért
of hands, and wanted him at home early in the
sprin . Jupe would not prevent Clare’s going;
inde he highly a proved of it.

As to the consu tation over the money in the
broken pitcher, there was a secret in it which
was not breathed to Mary or Mrs. Miller.

“Yah, J upe, dat’s jes’ it. You keep it hid till
de time come, den you buys yer freedom, an’ sets
out on de scent. An’ min' I tell you, Jupe, dou’
ye nebbe‘r gib up, nebber no mor’n a bloodhoun’
w'at is runnin’ down poor niggerl Do ye keep
de track till ye fetch um, and w’en ye gits um,
do ye i’es’ hol ’em and worry 'em till you gits
(le hul story. Min’ if ye come back widout,‘
I’ll nebber hab nulfin’ to do wid you ag’in. You
needn’t fret ’bout us. We’ fist along fus’ rate.
I’ll take car’ Miss Miller, iss Mary, and do
baby, so long as (is Lord kee 5 my j’ints ’iled,
so’s my legs and arms wull Wor widout creakin’.
Now, J upe, can I trus’lyou wid dat pitcher?”

“You kin, Clar’. ll dig a hole under dat
big stump in de ed 6 o’ master’s medder, and
I’ll bury it dar on a ark night, w’en nobody’s
a—looking. Ef I should die sudding you’ll know
whar ’tis. ’Arly in March I’ll buy 011?, and set
out on dat journey. It’s like I’ll come tru J et—
ferson and gib you a call.”

“ I shall be right glad to see you dar, husban’.
ef yer on yer way tow’d dc conflagration ob
your plan. But don’ ye come whinin’ and sneak-
in’ round, ea in’ ye can’t do it. I reckon, Jupe,
I‘d better he p you bury dat pitcher ’fore I 0.
An’ min’l don’t yebe sech a fool as to go or
ebery little while to look at it. Kass if yer
does, somebody’ll be sartain to git on er track,
and dat ar’ pitcher will be resurrec w'en you
ain’t expectm’ it.”

“ Lors Clar’, t’ink I’s a fool?”

“ W01, not more’n two—thirds, p‘ra , or I
wouldn’t trus’ yeout wid de pitcher at a L But

on jis’ be keerful. Dar’s no harm in beinl
lZeerful." ‘

“ Dcn’ ye fret, Clar’, I’ll do jis’ as I said. Oh,
wife, don’ I wish I could write] I mean to
learn right away, and send a letter to Californy.
I dou’ want to git nobody to write it for me,
kase they’d know what was in it.”

“ You write!” exclaimed auntie with wither-
ing contempt. “ W’at you t’ink your paws is

ood fer? “ ’Sides, de letter would get 105’.

on mus’ find him, and tell him by word 0"
mouf. Sol Oh, dear! W011, husban’, remem-
ber ebery day los’ makes her so much longer to
suffer. Now do you be ‘wise as a. sarpint and
harmless as a d ,' Jupe, ’causo you’ve got a
great trus’ depen m' on you. ‘ To whom much
 rrib‘n more ,will be spected,’ andil’s gib’n an

.1

/ «

 

 

 

 

 

A.

,.

é.

 

Old Jupe’s Claw}.

 

iv

 

my share in dat money. Now you keep a right
smart watch on de pitcher, will ye?”

For the hundredth time Jupe promised, and;

when auntie was really gone on her sad jour-
ney, when strangers were in the little cottage
and Jupe back on his master’s farm, he kept
his word with all the cunning discretion of his
race. In February he proposed to his master to
buy his freedom, who was not as much sur-
prised, since it was known that the man had
the three hundred dollars which he had received
of the Vigilance Committee. His master con—
! seated, and was even so liberal as not to take
the last of the hard—earned silver dollars which
came rolling out of the broken pitcher. making
his old and faithful servant a present of twenty-
flve of them. '
A few days later J upe disappeared from that
vicinity, and it was long before the haunts of
New Bristol again became familiar to his sight.

CHAPTER VII.
OLD ACQUAINTANCES IN A NEW PLACE.

IN the winter of eighteen forty-nine—fifty, on
a. wretched, rainy evening, a man walked down
the center of Washington street, San Francisco,
(for it was not safe in those days to approach
too closely the shadows of buildings, or the
alleyways from which assassins might at any
moment sprin u n on) until he cameopposrte
Washington a w en he wheeled and came

_ into that favorite haunt of pleasure and dissipa-

' tion. He seemed to have no acquaintance, and
to have nothinizparticular in view. He did not
approach the r to drink, nor go up—stairs to
the dancing ball, but lingered near a group of
Citizens, who were talking over the contents of

_the last mail and the news from the States.
When they had finished their conversation and
scattered to different parts of the room, he ad-
vanced to a monte—tab e, and watched the gam-
bling, but did not join in the plug. He wore the
dress of a miner, and was arme , as was every—
body in that dangerous haunt, there being the
hilt of a knife visible in his belt, and, no doubt,
a revolver concealed in his bosom.

Presentlya man came down from the ball-
room, jauntily dressed, and with a graceful non-
chalance watched the game for a few moments
before he concluded to join with others in
“ sizing their piles ” for the next deal.

“ Hallo, Parcel], you ain’t out o’ sorts to—
night?” said the dealer, condescending to address
this last person, with whom he appeared to have
a familiar ac uaintance. “ Come,
down and don’t ng fire that way.
dead-broke again, are you?”

“ Not exactly,” replied the other, drawin
from his pocket a small “pile of dust,” marke
three ounces.

‘\ “ Come, iontlemen, don’t be back’ard—size
your piles— ing, seven, nine, horse ;” laying out
the cards on the green baize.

“Look here Parcel], if you have really got
money there, fbeg of you not to throw it away
in that manner,” spoke the first stranger in a
low voice, laying his band on the arm of the
other. “I saw Annette this evening. She is
sick in bed, and could not finish her day’s work.
.‘~‘.he says she will have to move out of the
shanty tmnurrow, if the rent is not paid.”

 

ungalee
ou ain’t

 

“Let her move, then,” was the reply, in a
tone equally low, but sharp and angry, “ or you
pay the rent for her if you prefer.”

“ For shame, Parcel]! Do you wish to drive

our wife to desperation by your neglect of her?
emember the temptation of this place. She,
too, may be led astray, as well as yourself.”

“I don’t think she’ll do worse than yours
has,” was the rejoinder, with a laugh that was
full of malice. “ Come, now, don’t preach,
Bryant," he added. in a modified tone, seeing
the manner in which the hand of his companion
went involuntarily toward his belt. “ I’m bound
to take care of Annette. That’s what I’m here
at this table for. I sha’n’t leave it until I’ve
doubled my money, at least; then, to-morrow, I
can pay the rent, and get Nettie some little lux-
uries besides.”

Parcell kept his word. He was in luck that '

night. He not only doubled but quadrupled his
three ounces. ,

“ Come away now, Parcel], and I will see you
safe home. Some of these hungry eyes may
kee track of you, with all that dust in your
poc ets.”

All this While Luke Bryant had stood by,‘
watching the throng, and waiting for Parcel] to
finish his night’s work. Now, wearied with
standing and thinking of the sick woman alone
in her wretched shanty, he touched the gambler
on the sleeve as he spoke. .

“ There’s some truth in that, old fellow, and I
sha’n’t refuse your company.
you say? Wait a moment, till I see if John’s got
a few of those oysters left. If he has, I'll take
her some,” and he went off to the bar, presently
returning with a can of oysters, for which,
doubtless, he paid an extraordinary price.

“ Dollar apiece, these bivalves were,” he eon-
tinned, as they started forth into the rain and
darkness, their hands on their wea ns, and
keeping, as usual, to the middle of t 6 street,
walking perhaps half a mile before they came to
the lace of shelter which was called home.

“ {ere we are,” said Purcell; “come in and
spend the night. It’s not far from morning
now, I dare say. It will be dangerous for you to
return alone to the Parker House at this hour.”

“ I’m not afraid. Good—night, Parcel]. Take r

better care of your wife.”

“ Oh, you needn’t talk,” muttered Parcell, as ’

he pushed away the board which formed the

door of his shanty, and went in, while Luke I,

strode back to his hotel.

“ Is that you?” inquired a sharp voice at the
noise he made in entering.

"Yes, it’s me? Got any matches, or any fire!
Bryant says you’re sick." i

“ Well ’m afraid I am down at last. 1 got
up though, after he was here, and tried to finish
my ironm . 1 guess there are still a few coals
in the kett e.”

Parcel] obtained a match out of his vest fiket,
and 1i hted a. candle which stood by the .

“I t ought if there was fire enough, I would
cook you a dish of ovsters, Nettie, my love.” ‘

Mrs. Parcel] sick '

“ Oh, dear,” said the sick woman, risin e - '

ly in bed, “I wish you would Parcell, hain’t
eaten a morsel to-day and
more’n any thing else, that ails me.”

“ Why didn’t you eat, my dear?"
\

 

guess it’s that, ' r

r .Iv‘~.:»v’l.‘r’~i‘ui‘rv-‘ new. mm.¢.n=w.4~ -4,- a‘... was,» a». A

<.' yam-ms: 2:,

w um‘ -

 

g 13‘,

' “ You know you carried off all the money I

l; , took in last wee , Parcel]. I hadn’t enough left

I ' to last until I receive more. You know pro-
visions are fearfully high."

“ Gracious! girl, I had no intention of starving

, ‘ you. I thought ten dollars a dozen for washing
a .' would keep you and me too,” and be stirred tho
‘ oysters around violentlyin the old tin cup, which
 r ‘ he had set over the few coals remaining in the
; kettle, which kettle had been improvised for a
1 furnace to iron by.
1 He cooked the dish to perfection, and as he set
“ i “it before his wife, gave her a kiss, which she did
not return, but rather seemed to shrink from.

, , Purcell loved his wife. It was the one saving
I r ' v trait inacharacterotherwisethorou hlydebased.
; _ A gambler b profession, and uity of crimes

s which would ave placed him In the hands of

‘ the law, had he been detected in them, he was

yet deeply infatuated with the girl he had
' married.
It was at her instigation that they had come
to California, the precedin spring. As she
w said, he would be out of t e reach of any un—
; , pleasant consequences arisin from certain acts
,; of his not yét made public; esides which, San
31': ' Francisco would be the very place. better even
than New Orleans, for a person or his profession
to do well in.

Certainly, a professional ambler would not
find himself astray in that curious city. Annette,
with her peculiar temperament, enjoyed the
novelty of this’ strange life very greatly for a

‘ few months. But the life of a gambler is sub—
, ject to ups and downs. There came arun of

ill-luck, when they had to leave the Parker

House, and take up with a shelter, half canvas,
"half boards; and where Annette, with all her
dislike for exertion, had occasionally totake in
, Awnshing to purchase the wherewithal to keep
,2 ‘ herself from suffering.
 But, she lived in hope. The man who was
i, , ponniless one night, might count his hundreds
s ‘ the next. At this time, when we have intro-
duced them to the reader, they were at the low-
est ebb of fortune. Parcel] had been off to
, other places, and out amon the diggers. He
’ may have made a great den of mono ; if so,
he had lost it all, and came back as e went.
, Then the rainy season had set in, and Annette
 ggew exceedingly homesick and lonely. It may
g »' ’ , that in these hours she thought of the happy
little home of her father on the Missouri bluffs,
, and would have given all she had, or hoped to
 have, for the privilege of seeing it once again,
, as it was before misfortune entered it; Or, it

’ » may be, that such fancies never troubled her,

for when the conscience is once put to sleep, it
" sometimes slumbers long without awakening.

r _“ Why didn't Bryan come in and stay all
night?” she asked, after she had tasted the stew.
‘ “ It’s dan erous for him to be running about

‘ aloha at this our."

v ‘° I asked him, but he wouldn’t. What was he

, yhere to-day for? I should think he could find

, - something else to do besides visiting other men’s
houses in their absence!”

" _ “_ Why. Parcell, he has just returned from the
‘ mines. ‘ It’s strange if he can’t call u on his own
relatives? Nellie said, uickly, 'Whi e her heart
.10th a little faster. ith the cowardice of

‘ ' r ,r L Iii-"v.
“ . _ \ _ \

 

 

 

 

 

 
  
  
   
   
   
 

 

Old Jupe’a Clefir

guilt, she trembled lost her secret should be dis-
covered. She did not love Parcell, and never
had loved him; but, above all things, would she
avoid having him suspect that she married him
out of pique, while madly in love with another.

“ ‘Relativcl’” rejoined Parcell, with a sneer;
“ don’t draw it quite so fine as that Nettie.”

“ Well, friend—if you like that better. I
should think, in this wild country, you would be
glad to see any face you had ever met before.”

“I’m sick of his, any how, my lady," said the
husband, with a decision unusual with him.
“He’s too good to suit my taste. He’s one of
your perfect people, always holding themselves
up as a mirror to show off other men’s defects
in. He won’t do for California, I tell you.”

“He seems to be getting along better than
some who make their money easier. I was
asking him about his affairs today. You know
he brought out five thousand dollars with him.
He invested it; in a lot and in building a brick
store upon it; and the property, this minute, is
worth five times What it cost. He has twenty
other city lots, and is part owner of a boat that
runs between here and Sacramento. In‘a few
days, he is going to buy shares in avaluable

lacer.”

“:Oh l” said Parcel] with a shrug, “ that comes
of being of a business turn of genius. He
makes a good deal, and sticks to it when he gets
it. He’ll be a millionaire, if he keeps on.
Better
induce im to will
Don’t look an if he’d live long, if
moping about that affair in Missouri.”

Annette gave her husband a curious look; but
he did not notice it, as, just then, the candle
flared in its socket and went out. , ‘

When the Parcells first came on to San Fran-
cisco they were not positive that Bryant was a
resident of that city. All they knew of his
whereabouts was, that he had told Annette he
thought of going to California, and had sailed
in a Panama steamer; After they reached their
destination she kept up a constant lookout for
him; and one day, when they had been at the
hotel about three months, she saw him come in
to dinner.

He was so hollow—ckeeked and dull-eyed, with
so wild a growth of hair and heard, and was so
roughly habited in a miner’s dress, that she had
to look twice before being certain it was Luke.
She found it out in time to school her face to
perfect calmness, so that when he, glancin
about, recognized them and came over to gree
them, she could successfully hide from her hus-
band and from him, the tumult in her heart.
Since that day they had kept up a dcsultory ac-
quaintance; Bryant was often out of the city
weeks ata time, and when in it, did not care
too much for the society of the Parcells; the
man he had never liked, and Annette recalled
to him too vividly scenes and sufferings which
were unbearable ,even in memory.

The day following the evening which we have
described, Annette put aside herwork early in
the afternoon, and dressed herself with all her

is little proplzrgymtg 
1

old coquetry. Her finery was a little out of ,

fashion, but no one in that country was a judge
of that; silken robes and shining eyes received
their full mood of admiration in a land where

at into his good graces, Nettie, and v

 

 

 

 

. . was?

' quire after her health. In truth heri

01a Jupe’a Clew. ' l 19

 

women were as scarce as roses in a desert. She
braided her 8 lendid black hair, and wound it
about her hea like a coronet, twisting a scarlet
velvet ribbon in the folds. A black silk dress,
with a knot of scarlet velvet at her throat, was
so becoming as to make her very nearly beauti-
ful. The lady and her attire formed a strange
contrast to the place in which she sat, with the
bare floor and dripping walls, the furniture
made of rough pine boxes, the strip of canvas
which alone divided the bed from t ie one other
apartment. Annette had made up her mind
that Bryant would call again that day, to in-

lness of
the revious day was more that half affected, to
exci his compassion and cause him to do some-
thing to improve her fortunes. She resolved to
complain to Luke of her husband, in the hope
that he would reinstate her in the hotel where
she would have company and receive that ad-
miration and attention Without which she could
not exist.

She was not mistaken in her ex ectation of
receiving another call; Luke was re ly too kind
to no lect a woman who had any claim, how-
ever 5 ight, upon him, in that wi d, lawless so-
ciety. And Annette was Mary’s sister! He
should have hated her for that, have avoided her
as the one who brought back to him most keenly
the memory of that sweet, mocking episode in
his life—that year of exquisite happiness includ-
ing his engagement and marriage—when he
loved and trusted ; oh, he could not yet bear the
thought of it! but set his teeth and clinched his
haiidsasa flood of passion swelled and broke
over heart and brain.

Yet he would not turn his footste s away
from Annette’s door; she was probab y alone,
sick and friendless; for Parcell, although so
fond of his wife, could not be depended upon to
care for her properly—his dissipated habits pre-
vented that.

Annette welcomed her visitor with a faint
smile, suggestive of languor and loneliness, min—
gled with pleasure at seeing him.

Since a woman is not made to earn money,
she is made to charm it out of men’s pockets by
a thousand graceful arts, as fathers and hus—
bands can testify; and a. woman as unprincipled
as this one would not suffer for the want of it
when she had a brother-in-law to whom she
could appeal. ,

“Inm glad to see you better today, Mrs.
ParcelL” ,

Luke had felt a reluctance to enterin ; he
would rather, in his then mood, have stai out
in the miserable six-weeks’ rain, walking off, by
sheer force of bodily fatigue, his hauntin
thoughts: but, once Within the shanty, he coul
but feel the effect of Annette's handsome looks
and tasteful attire, as if he had come suddenly
upon warmth and sunshine.

“ I am better, Luke. Indeed, I should be
quite well if it would only quit raining. I am
so tired of it—so tired! Oh! Luke! it will drive
me mad, if it does not com before long.”

“ Does it affect you so unpleasantly as that?”

“Why, only think of it! Shut up here like—
like ”——she was going to say a “prisoner,” but
the word faltered on her lips—“ a dog in a ken-

nel. In this horrible hole as good as a kennel,

l

I

 

Luke?—sometimes not seeing a human fate for
two or three days, the rain dripping, dropping
all the time, until it seems to be dropping on my
brain. Is this the life for a woman like me to
lead?”

“I am sorry you came out with Parcel],
Nettie. This is not the place to induce him to
do well; and surely not the place for you to
struggle on alone, in case accident should de-
prive you of even his poor protection.”

“ Ali, Luke Bryant,” she murmured, dropping
her forehead on her hand, and heaving a sigh,
“I had more than one motive in coming to
California. I thought that Parcell might settle
down into some steady employment, where
there were so many chances of getting rich; but
I also thought of you. I could not bear to
think of you, alone, and suffering, in this new
country. I thought, ‘ should he be sick, we can
take care of him—we can prove to him that he
has friends, and perhaps keep him from utter
des ration.’ You were a brother to me, Luke,
an Icould not cast you off in your hour of
trouble.” ‘

“ Thank you, Nettie.”

She perceived, by his chilling tone, that she
ventured too far in referring to his sorrows; his
heart was still too sore to bear the slightest
touch, and she hastened to add:

“I’m sure you take an equal interest in m
affaiis; so I don’t mind telling you that Paroell
is making me very u py. He likes that
dreadful Washington Hall better than he does
his wife. Don’t you think he ought to take me
out of this? I want to go back to the Parker
House. It’sbad enough there; but I shall die
here ;” and she burst into tears.

“I don’t wonder you feel wretchedly here,
especially, this gloom season. I am perfectly
willing to help you, nnette, if I knew how to
do it. But, if I loan money to your husband it
will be lost at the monte~ta.ble, and do you no

“ I know it, Luke. I don’t wish you to lend
money to him. But, oh, please to take me out
of this shanty! If you will pay my board a few
weeks at the hotel, I will get hold of money
whenever Parcel] has it, and will pay you back.

“Ido not wish to be repaid. I have more. '

than I shall ever need, Annette, and am willin
you should use it as your own. But, Paroe
must understand it and agree to it.”

“0b, as to that," she said, bri htening up
likearainbow through showers, “file will not
refuse you the privilege of supporting his wife.
He has not sensibility enough for that."

“ I am sorry you came out with him,” Luke
added, again. “I will tell you what I will
do, Annette. I will pay your passage back
to the States in the first ship that goes, and see
that you are provided for after you et there.
Go back to our parents, Nettie. ey must
need you s

to keep you in comfort.
women, yet awhile.”
An expression of scorn quivered about her
mouth, as he mentioned home—as if she was go-
ing back to a burnde life to be spent in wait-

This is_no country for

ing upon her father and mother! and that he '
should be so blind to her feeling for hiir, so ut- , ‘

 

«me. i i.  .. .,,.,.

. we.
tr» av,

 

 

y,” his voipe trembled, “and I ,
will remit, every three months, a sum suficient ,

 

 

n

f/

" arm sayin coaxingly:
Iie’

 

2‘0 . Old Jupe’s Clew.

terly indifferentto her, as to wish to get her
out of his way, whom she had followed from
afar, because she could not live a art from him!
She was uite pale with anger, or a moment;
she longed to stamp her foot, and fling his offer
in his face; but, discretion came to her aid in
time to prevent any such outbreak.

“ You are very kind, Luke; but I have no
ambition to live a grass—widow, even if my sense
of duty as a wife would permit it. It is true
that Purcell does not do right; but I mean to
‘sti k by him’ until he reforms. He is always
go tome, when he is himself: perhaps I may

at power over him to induce him to settle
down intsome steady work,” she said, when she
had mastered herself. “Besides, brother Luke,
I would like to stay near you "—this latter sen-
tence with such softness, such humility—as if,
being the relative of one who had wronged him
so deeply, she would like to atone, by her own
attentions, as far as possible, for the wrong that

\other had done him.

“ Well, Annette, I have given you my ad-
vice, but if you decide differently, it may be for
the best. Only remember, if you are in straits,
let me know and 1 will befriend you.”

“ If I could get a decent house,” continued
Mrs. Parcel], “I would keep house, and board
you. That would give me something to live
upon, and might be the means of keeping Par—
cell more regular.”

“ I’m changing about so much you could
hardly depend upon me. But I may build you
a house in the springr and get other boarders for
you' you could get rich at it, if you chose.”

“ n the mean time," said Annette, with a
smile, “ you don’t intend to have me quite catch
my death in this damp shanty.”

“ If your husband will take you to the hotel,
you can go there any hour. 1 will speak to the
proprietor about the pay. ”

“ What’s up?" inquired Parcel], who entered
at the moment. eying the pair With suspicious
eyes. “You don’t fix up that way nowadays
for me, my love. If you’ve put on all that finery
to please Bryant I must say you ain’t acting the

t of a devoted wife, my love. I don't like it,
lamed if I do!”

Luke turned from him in disgust, seeing that
he was considerably excited by drink, and not
in a fit state to be reasoned with.

Annette laid her hand upon her husband’s

“ s o ered to he] us a little, until you
get started again, my ear. He says he will

' 3:}? my board, if you will take me out of this

mp, dismal hole, where I am ruining my
health.”

“I guess you'll have to get out of it,” said
Parwl], With a boisterous laugh. “The owner
will be here in less than an hour; so pack up
your duds, wife. You see," turning to Luke,
“ I went out this morning to pay the rent, but I
stepped in on the way to take a little bet at
meats, and I ot cleaned out. Fact; haven't
gotapinch of ust left.” ‘

“I hope you will stay and see your wife
safely to the Parker House, for I must he go-
ln . I will make it all right with the land-

y,”‘and bowing to Mrs. Purcell, Luke hasten-

l" ed away.

 

4-»r

An hour afterward, Annette arrived at the
hotel, Parcel] wheeling the two trunks which
contained their sole possessions 11131 in o. barrow
to the door. The miserable shanty they had
vacated was tenanted before night by a party
of miners, glad to pay a roun sum for this
sheltei from the weather, and who felt rich
and comfortable over the kettle that was left
behind. __

CHAPTER VIII.
THE MOUNTAIN REVELATION.

A MAN inclined to be bad would find plenty of
encouragement iii the California of early days;
and Purcell was not an exce tion to the rule.
He became known as one of t e most inveterate
gamblers of San Francisco. Seine weeks he
would he so flush of money that he could afford
to scatter it everywhere, and his wife would
have every luxury which the cit afforded.
Again, he would )8 so hard up t at Bryant
would have to come to the‘rescue by paying
Annette’s hotel bill.

As soon as the rainy season should be over, so
that it was possible to attempt such an enter-
prise, Luke intended to start off on an exploring
expedition in company with a. band of miners.
It was not the desire to find incredible amounts
of gold which animated him; it was the sad
hope of getting away from himself. The wilder
the excitement, the greater the peril and hard-
ships, the more absorbing1 the fatigue, the 19%
would he be conscious of t at sharp, steady ain
in his heart which was wearing him to a s ele-
ton—which was growing so intolerable that
some days he resolved to end it by endin his
life. This very carelessness of life it was w ich
won him the reputation for extraordinary cour-
age and coolness; dreading no danger, he there-
by esca Jed much; for, not only did the reckless
fellows y whom he was surrounded stand too
much in awe of him to quarrel with or combine
against him, but the verv perils of a rough life
seemed to lose their harshness when attacked by
one who cared nothing for them.

The mining-expedition which he headed felt
itself fortunate in possessin such a leader, and
was anxious for the day of eparture. Annette
looked upon it with secret chagrin. She had the
pain of feeling that all her delicate flatteries
and attentions never won from Luke a second
thought, and of seeing the hollows deepen in his
cheeks and about his eyes, without the power to
alleviate one pang of the melancholy which de-
voured him. She saw all this, yet never for a
day did she give up her fixed urpose which was
yet to bring this man to her eet.

Fate seemed to favor her unholy purpose. On
the night preceding the day on which Bryant
was to leave San Francisco for the mountains,
Parcel] got into a uarrel with a Spaniard, in
the saloon where t ey were, playing, and was
stabbed to the heart by his fiery enem . He
was carried out lifeless from the scene of is last
and fatal stake. Annette was aroused from her
slumbers, and threw on a dressing-gown, only
to confront the corpse of her husband as it was
carried over the threshold into_her room, and
laid out upon the bed, from which she had just

sprung.
A shock like this would be felt by the most

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hardened. For a few days, Annette was quite
stunned and bewildered, an object of interest
and sympathy to all who knew of the young
wife, left thus suddenly withouta rotector, in
that city of sin. Luke delayed his departure
until after the funeral; he then again advised
her to return to the States making the same
offer as before. But, no! Annette refused to
go, with a resolution which surprised him. “I

,can make my living here easier than there. If

you will do as you once proposed, Luke—give
me a chance to open a boarding-house.”

“ Well, wait until my return, then. You are
not fit for it yet. Sta quietly in your room at
the hotel; and when get back I will see you
started in a house of your own.”

He went 01?, leaving her to foster wild hopes.
She was free now—free to marry again; and if
Luke were not, he could at any time render
himself so. Luke was goin to be rich, too—one
of the richest men in alifornia. Dazzling
visions of the future opened before her—a life of
ease and splendor passed in his society, for
whom she had sold her soul to the Evil One.

She could have had suitors enough, ere she had
been a widow two months, in that land destitute
of the softer sex, for she was young, lady—like,
find handsome; but as long as there was another

ope of drawing Luke within her sphere, she
would not give it up. '

As Luke had advised, she kept herself very
retired; her fellow-boarders pitied her, in her
affliction; but, although there was mourning in
her garments, there was none in her heart.

In the mean time, Luke was off to the moun-
tains with his band. The spring torrents had
washed down the gold in such quantities as to
drive the men half wild. On a little plateau,
beside a stream which tore its way out of the
heart of a. rugged bill, they pitched their tents,
and set to work. All they had to do was to sift

‘ the sand which had accumulated through the

winter when they were rewarded, not only by
“ dust, ’ but by frequent bits as bi as tiny peb—
bles and with occasional “ nuggets ’ that would
have been unpleasant things to throw at each
other’s heads.

Bryant did not work very steadily at accumu-
lating gold; he undertook to supply the others
with game, to vary the salt pork, beans and
flour which were their food. With his ri e on
his shoulder, and otherwise well armed, hedid
not hesitate to start forth alone in search for
something for the night’s supper. He wished to
be alone. He shrunk from companionship, and

in order to be alone, courted the wild life he was

leading.

‘ For many weeks the band remained in one
spot. Twice or thrice a detachment from it
went down to the city to exchange the “ dust ”
for town-lots, as Luke advised, and to bring a
fresh supply of provisions. Gradually the s )ring
streams windled away, and the summer
came on. The men were prosperous and content
—at times inclined to quarrel, but easily influ-
enced by Bryant into good behavior, who decid-
ed their disputes for them.

One day Luke got on the trail of a bear,
which he followed for a long distance, quite
down to a graa , valley which lay. like an eme-
rald, glistening tween two mountains. He did

 

not think of the distance, nor of the late hour,
nor, in .fact, of the bear itself. His thoughts
were with the past, which was fortunate for his
grizzly enemy, who quietly slipped away to
parts unknown, while the young man slackened

his long stride into a musing step, which finally ‘

ceased entirely.

He was standing alone in one of the loveliest r

valleys of that country of wild and beautiful
scenes. ‘

Luke thought himself far from mortal com-
panionship: but, as his eye fell from the sk tothe
ground, he saw, beneath a tree, a few r0 5 from
him, some one sitting. Quite certain that the
stranger was an Indian, he took his rifle in his
hand, advancing cautiously as others might be
near. The solitary tree and short grass, how-
ever, could hardly hide many enemies, and as
something in the man’s attitude told of fatigue
or sickness,he went forward to ascertain if he
was in need of assistance. He was quite close
upon him before he discovered that the man
was a negro, not an Indian. The two looked at
each other some time before speaking; the
negro’s countenance was of that yellow hue
which tells of sickness in one of his race, but it,
gradually brightened; he raised himself from1
the trunk of the tree against which he had been

leaning, and slowly clasped his hands together, ‘

while h s li s moved.

“Jupel is this on!”

“Glory be to 0d, if dat’s you, mussel” '

“ It is ‘ Massa Luke,’ Jupe.”

“ You’s changed, massa.”

“ And dyou, too, Jupe. You look as if you’d
seen her times. Him in the name of every
thing that is probable came you here, and alone?
Where’s your party?"

“- 1’s my own party, massa. I’s beentwo years
gettin’ here, but 1’s got here at las’, bless do
Lord l" ,

“So you too, have the gold fever?” said
Bryant, looking down with almost scorn on the,
old, wrinkled, wasted negro, whose hair had
bleached, and whose bones had ained romi~
nence since he saw him last. “ ill gofd ease
your rheumatism, or be as good to Wu as Auntie
Clara’s company of an evening? hat possess-
ed ou, J upe?”

\

‘ De spirit ob (16 Lord, Massa Br ant... He’s ‘ V

led me and kep‘ me tru‘drefful hards ips. ' Oh,
Lord,’ I prayed, ‘don’ nebber let me die till I
come to massa,’ und hereI is, jes’ as I was about
to glilb up in good ’arnest;” the sweat broke out
on 's forehead as he sfioke, he was so weak.

“ You’re sick,” said uke. ‘

“ Hungry, massa, and sick, too, but I don’t

feel it now. All my aches and pains is over,

now I see massa right afore my eyes.”

Luke gave him some brand from, the flask in
his pocket, also a cracker, t e remains of his
noon lunch. \

“ Do not try to talk just yet, Jupe. I’ll help
you to my shanty, and when you have had some
su per and rested, I’ll hear about your journey.”

‘ It’s been a terrible journe ,” groaned J upe.

And it was not yet over. uke was furthe3'
from cam
clung to his arm, limpin slow] along. How-
ever, they arrived there ong a her dark, when

the men were about to, set forth” in search 0!;

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their captain. The negro was made welcome to
a share of the su per, after which all gathered
about a flre—b ' t more for cheerfulness than
because it was needed—to listen to an account
of the stranger’s trip to California. J upe said
not a word about his past acquaintance with
Bryant, but told the story without referring to
the object of his wanderings. He had “ taken
a notion to see Californy,” and. as he had not
money to pay for a passage by sea, he had hired
out to a large party of men who started by the
Overland route. When they had been out about
three months, and were nearl across the plains

the emigrants had been attac ed and massacred
by a band of Indians; only J upe escaped, and
he by reason of his color. The Indians, like
“ the rest of mankind." were not averse to hav—

. ing a slave, and the poor negro was carried off

into captivity, and made to work for his living
as he had never worked before. It was pitiahle,
and Ian able too, to hear him relate the hard-
hips of is winter with the Indians, compelled
tohunt game in the snow, to bring firewood,
and himself lei t to shiver after it was brought.
The next summer he had made his escape,
by following his captors when they set
forth on another marnuding expedilion. In
this way he had been enabled to warn a party
of emigrants, in time to save their lives,
who in return had taken him into their ranks;
but this party was also unfortunate; losing their
cattle by starvation, and getting out of food, its
members were kept in the mountains through
the winter, suffering terribly, dependent on their
rifles for all the food they had, and lodged in a
cave, with seldom any fire. In the spring they
made their miserable way along, until over-
taken b other emigrants who sharod with them,

i and he pod them on, but “ole J upe was allers

anunlucky nigger,” and got lost again, abouta
week before, by going aside from the main part
to chase a deer. Since then he had had no foo ,
but roots and berries. and had slept, with no
blanket, on the ground; he was about to perish
from utter weakness, and had sat down to
“ giv" up do ghos’,” when found and rescued by
Mr. Bryant. V

Such was a brief synopsis of his story; but
who can icture all its details of weariness
fri ht, an ill-treatment, hunger, thirst, col
an Sickness, alternate hope and despair, its

v thousand little miseries and larger sufferings, as

the slow months lagged away, bringing poor
J upe no nearer the object of his sad pilgrimage?
Yet he struggled on, determined to be true to
his mission, only praying that he might live
long enough to accomplish it.

That night the moon shone brilliantly. Jupe
had been given a blanket in Bryant’s tent, and
was soon after sound asleep. But Luke could
not sleep. The sight of his old servant had
aroused memories which prevented rest. Jupe
had been with him, that happy, blessed winter;
had mingled in the family during that blissful
era of its existence, and the meeting with him
shook him as he had thought never again to be
touched. Stealing out upon the grass, Luke sat
there, starin up into the deeps of heaven. while
the mooan t made his unshorn face more hag—

still. He started violently when some one
spoke, close beside him. The negro had crept

I

;

 

out of the tent after him, and was looking anx-
iously into his worn countenance.

“ Massa Bryant. I didn’t come to Californy
fer gold. I came fer to find you out an’ tell you
sufiin’.”

“ Well l”——Luke spoke sha and short, “ take
care what you talk about. here are things no
man living must dare speak to me about."

“ I isn’t afraid, massa,” said the negro firmly.
ioII’s cgme to talk ’bout your wife—’bout Miss

ar . ’

” have no wife, J upe; go back to your bed."

“No, massn. 1’s been two year gittin’ here,
an’ I ain‘t gwine to keep my mouf shet, now.
W’at yer s’pose I care fer Injuns, or fever, or
hard work? De wu’st pain, all de time, was
dis; I keep thinkin’. ‘Oh, Jupe, you’s so long
gottin’ dur, an’ all dis time young missus in dat
prison, night an’ day.’ ”

uke got u and walked several times across
the plateau; is en he came back and sat down
by his visitor.

“ Who told you to come after me, J upel”

“ Clar’, she tol‘ me. We made it out togedder;
an’ we made it up dat I should hunt you up
an” tell you how cruel an’ unjus’ it Was fer
you to sen’ dat letter to your young wife."

“I sent no letter." .

“ Didn’t you?” asked Jupe, eagerly. “ Didn’t
you write, after you heard dat she was—took
upl—write, an’ tell her how bad she was, an’
(lot you was nebber comin’ home?”

“No. I sent no message. I couldn’t write,
Jupo. It was as if my heart and hand were
palsied.”

The silent man, who had never allowed his
wife‘s name to pass his lips, since that day when
he had landed in New Orleans from Liverpool to
hear the story which met him there, was open-
ing his heart to the or negro.

“ I’s glad of it! is glad of it! It’s jus’ what
Clar’ she tol’ me; ‘Dat bad sister done it all,’
says Clar’, ‘an’ on mus’ fln’ Massa Bryant an’
tell him so. Tel him it's Clar’s solum belief dat
dat wicked gal made all do mischief, an‘ Miss
Mary is jis’ as innocent as a new-born babe.m

“ How could she have had any hand in the .

matter? She was not there at the time."

“ She was dar’ not long afore; an’ Clar’, she
tells me, right away, as soon as Miss Annette
came, says she, ‘You jus‘ look out; dat gal is a
snake in de grass. She don’t lub Miss Mary one
bit.’ Now, Clar’. she says she will take her as-
servation dat Miss Annette put dat counterfeit
money in Miss Bryant’s box, an’ took out do
good gold, an’ she’s mighty sart‘in she put'dem
dies in de km: in de garret, ’cause Clar’ cotched
her comin’ down one day, an’ she looked kind 0'
flustered, un’ said she’d been up to get some
yerbs for a cold. Now, Miss Mary she wa’n’t in
no sitiwation for to be climbin‘ up in datloft;
2111’ see here! dis is what Clar’ foun’, arfer de
trile was all ober, w’en we came to move de fur-
niture out 0’ de bonse. 'Twas a bit 0’ blue paper
and Miss Mary hadn’t none like it; an’ Clar’,
she saw Miss Nettie scribblin’ on it, one day, an’
it mus’ hab blowed .awayan’ got 105‘ behin" de
bureau.” _

He handed Luke half a sheet of letterpaper,
worn through in places, and quite black on the
outside from long carriage.

 

_  _m



 

 

 

 

 

Old Jupe’s Clair. ‘

23

 

“I've stuck to dat through thick an’ thin,
massa, 'cause Clare she says, if massa could see
it he could make up his own min’.’ Wait till
daylight, massa; can’t make it out now.”

“ I can’t wait until da light,” muttered Luke,
going into his tent, w ere he struck a light
and closely examined the worn paper. It was
written over and over with the name of Mary
Bryant; and in two places with an order for a
piano to be sent to the writer—evidently an
attempt of some one to counterfeit his wife’s
hand. It was like—very like Mary‘s signature,
and yet it was not hers. He recognized it in
an instant as a for cry of Annette’s. And in
that same instant tie past Spread and yawned
before him, showing him the snare which had
been laid for him and into which he had fall-
en—the prison into which a loving and inno—
cent woman had been betrayed—the revenge
which had been too fully consummated. He
could read it all now, by t e light of that scrap
of paper.

‘ by was this not roduced in court?”

His hollow voice a one betrayed his excite-

ment.
“ e didn’t fln’ it till too late. ’Sides, Clar’s
a nigger, an’ she couldn’t swear she saw Miss
Annette a-writin’ it. No Clar’ she says ‘Miss
Mary don’t car’ for nuii'in’ in dis world but
fer her massa to see she’s innocent; so on mus’
take (16 paper to him, an’ tell him ’ ut our
’spicions, an’ how Clar’ she wouldn’t never
wear none de bandaners w’at Miss Purcell guv
her, ’kase she knew she didn’t like our missus.
Now, Massa Bryant, 1’s allers been sart’in sure I
saw Parcell makin’ dat counterflgbt money in
de cave. An’, Miss Parcel] she ain’t no better,
dat’s so 1”

“J upel Jupel be still, for heaven’s sake l”

“I ain’t a—gwine to speak anudder word to-
night, massa. You kin think it ober, an’ make
up yer min’. Says Clar’, says she, ‘Ef Massa
Bryant could a-seen his wife in dem fits. when
she done readin’ his letter, castin‘ her off, he’d
nebber furgib bisself in dis worl’—no nebberl’
Nobody thought she‘d lib, nur de baby, nudder.
’Twas a special dispensary, Clar’ says, dat Miss
Mary’s chile was saved, throuil: it all, to be de
purtiest an’ brightest babe de rd ever made. ”

“ Miss Mary’s chilel”

‘ “Lord, MaSsa Br ant, didn’t you know you
had the beautifulest oy in New Bristol?”

Agroan burst from Luke’s lips, as if it was
rent from the center of his heart. The tent
would not hold him; he fled out of it, away,
down the bed of the dried-u istream, out of sig t
of man, and flung himself own on the rock in
the resenee of God alone.

“ ow. ef he goes and permits suicide, arter
all, Clar’ll declar’ I’s a big fool not to do my or-
ran’ better.” moaned poor old Jupe, looking out
wistfully after the missing man. ‘

CHAPTER IX.
ran END or ART.

ANNETTE sat by the window of her little 9' ht-
by-ten in the second story of her hotel. he
day had been oppressive with heat; now, a cool
breese had set in from the Pacific. Pushing the
heavy braids back from her brow, she opened
the onrtains wide-to the delicious air. She was

 

.v

 

in one other restless moods. Why did Luke not
return from the mountains’l—it was midsum-
mer, and not once had he been into the city,
though she had heard, through other members
of his party, of his whereabouts, and had re-
ceived remittances with which to supply her
daily wants.

“ All this time, all this sin, all this waiting——
and yet, I have not gained a step," she murmur—
ed im atientl . “Only one comfort in it all";
and t at is, have had my revengeu nher.
Little self-righteous saint, so proud 0 herself
and her husband!
by this time!
summation before many months, she will be

out a aim—and then, if she once meets Bryant,

it wil be all u with my chances. Hark I”

The sound 0 a familiar voice on the pavement
below caused her to look down, and her heart
beat quickly upon perceiving Luke Bryant in
the midst of a band of just—returned miners.
The party was in high spirits boasting of its
good luck; some declared they ad “ made their
pile," and should go home b the next ship—
others, that they should “stic to the land of
Ophir as long as the dust was to be found ‘lyin
about loose.” But, who was that Luke h
with him, whom he had just lifted from a mule,
and to whom he was so attentive? Only a poor
“ darky,” and apparently a sick one. Probably
a servant whom he had taken out with him, and
who had come down with the fever. ‘

Yet it struck Annette that she had seen the V

man before. She watched them, furtively, be-
hind her curtaiu. Suddenly her brain whirled
as she recognized Jupel What had sent him to

California? Could it be possible that be had.

been sent after Master Bryant with any message
of importance! Was any thing unfortunate for
her to occur, just when she began to see some
result of her long endeavor? he grew quite
cold with a thrill of fear.

It was in vain that she tried to make herself
easy. A dozen possibilities made her tremble.
Then she steeled herself to meet the worst. re-
solved, if any accusations were made, to fight
it out with that “ woman’s weapon "her tongue.
Also, she would be pre red for th
tin ncy—to please an flatter Luke, if nothing
ha occurred to awaken his suspicions. She re-
arranged her hair, added a little artificial bloom
to her rather sallow cheeks, and put on a white

dress in place of the black lawn she had been _

wearin .

“ Tings black ribbon about my throat will be ‘

mourning enou h ” she thought, and lau bed, a
hard, heartless augh, shocking to come rom a
woman’s lips.

She did not go down to tea, ordering a cup in
her room. She was afraid to meet the man she
had been so impatient to have return. Very

soon after tea, before the long summer twilight ‘
knock at the door, .

began to fall there came a
and opening ‘it, she welcomed Luke. He came
in, dressed with more care than had been his
habit of late

trimmed, and seemed quite like the easy,

graceful. handsome man who had won her fancy ,. »

of old. Yet he was thin and pale. He grew

galerashe took her hand, and a strange fire,

urned in his eyes,

J

Her pride must be humbled ‘
If I don’t bring my plot to a cone

e other con— .

ears; his beard and hair were ,

 

 

 

 

 

   
 

   

I only ask a little thing to you.

24 Old Jupe’s Claw.

 

“ Annette,” said be, holding her hand tightly,
“ do you love me?”

“Love you?” she stamrnered. The question
had come at last, so unexpectedly, that she was
taken unawares. She looked up uickly, but
her eyes fell again before‘that stea y, burning

ze

“ I once had reason to think,” he continued, in
a low voice, “before I married the woman I did,
that Annette, not knowing of my engagement
to her sister, had allowed herself to become in—
terested in me. Say, was it so?”
“ Luke, why do you ask? I (11d love you."
“And do still? Will you be my Wife, if I
wish it?”
The passionate eyes now returned his fiery re—
a .
“ I would 0 through fire and water to be
your Wife, Lu e; I never loved my husband. I
married him in a fit of desperation and morti-
fled vanity because you had slightcd me. I was
miserable while he lived. Oh, Luke, if I thought
that I could make you happy) I scarcely hoped
that you would ever trust any woman with your
happiness again. But, if I could make up the
past to yon—J7
“ You can, Annette! you can make me the

_ most blessed man on the face of the earth.”

“ Dear Luke."

“ You can make me very hap y, Annette. I
t is but to give
me one sweet assurance—to tell me truly-if
this piece of paper belongs to you?”

He dragged her to the waning light, and
thrust the scrap of letter-paper before her elyes
which Jupe had brought from Missouri. or
an instant she was bewildered, azing at it
blankly. Then a sense of his all meaning
rushed over her, the passion of wrath, instead
of love, which moved him—the bitter sneer un—
der the assumed gentleness—tho relentless will
tohumiliate, crush and subdue her. She nailed
under the scorn of his look, and woul have
sunk under the revulsion of feeling had he not
upheld her.

“ Will you not make me happy, when I ask so
small a favor?” he continued. mockingly.

It was only for a moment the woman quailed;
for a moment she endured terrible pain at the
realization that she had 10st forever all hope of
the love she coveted; rage at having been led in«
to betraying her own feelings turned her face as
white as her dress.

“ It must give you great pleasure to seek that
kind of revenge on a woman,” she said, with a

,little, Kiteful laugh.

“It as give me a sort of pleasure,” ho slow-
ly replied. “ I know there is meanness in re—
venge, but I am not wholl above it. I find it
sweet—after all I have su cred. If it were my
angel-wife now, she would be toouoblo, I know.
She would rather pray God to forgivu her un-
natural sister. But I am a mam—with a man's
passions; I cannot do it.”

“ Luke Bryant,” said Annette, desperately re-
solved not yet to give up all, to deny all charges
however substantiated, “for what would you be
revenged? What new suspicion have you in

' '. {Sim brain? I think I recognize that paper as

in; like some in Mary’s 'rtfolio. If you have
got up any theory that th s scribbling is mine--

\

 

that I have been practicing forgery, and a thou-
sand other crimes—that the judge and jury and
the world at large, have made fools of t em-
selves, that everybody is wrong, and only your
saintly Mary is right—why speak out. I can
hear anything from a. man rave enough to fool
a woman into confessing her love, for the sake
of laughing at her.” ‘

“There is no laughter in my heart, girl. It‘s
been a long time since any one has heard me
laugh. Thou h I could laugh at myself, now, to
see what an ix iot I have been.”

“ Don’t nndcrrate yourself, Mr. Bryant. Some
very smart men have been duped by women I”

“ Annette, you have taken ample reven 9
against one who never harmed you, against t e
gentlest, most loving of sisters. I do not com-

)lain of the agony you have caused me. If you
ave done any of this through the hope of some
time Winning my favor, know that all such hope
is ended. The reparation I new demand of you
is that you shall tell me all, from beginning to
end. Mary is innocent and you are guilty.”

“ Then why do you ask for proofs? You’d
better take your wife on trust.”

“ 1 only wish to satisfy the world. I demand
a written statement.”

“At my expense? Really, sir, that is cool."

“Take your choice between that and being ar-’

rested, on suspicion of forgery and passing coun—
terfeit money. I have no doubt that, upon my
return to the States, I can obtain overwhelming
proof that your husband was connected with a
gang of counterfeiters, and that you assisted in
getting the spurious coin into circulation.”

“ You are welcome to try it. All that will not
clear your wife. I shall still continue to swear
that she was one of us. "

“ Then you refuse to confess?”

“ Mest decidedly.”

“ I shall place this matter in this hands of the
officers of the law."

She made him a mocking courtesy as he tum-
ed away.

“That ame is up,” she muttered, as the door
closed. ‘ I don’t believe he will say anythingto
the officers about me. He will go home and get
his wife pardoned out, if her time does not ex-

)ire too soon to make it worth While, and the ’11

live together again, as happy as two doves. or—

turtiately, I’m in California. I can do something
e .

She knew that, unless Bryant mined her repu-
tntion by telling of her ilt, she could yet make
a brilliant marriage. er passion for the man
who had twice humiliated her was turned into
hate. She had hated Mary, before; now she be-
stowed the same feeling on both. But to go back.

When Luke had announced, the mornlng after
June’s arrival, that he must return immediately
to San Francisco, his party concluded to break
up and go with him. Every mile of the rough
journey back to the city appeared to Luke equal
to a hundred ordinary miles. If he could have
annihilated space. and found himself once more
on the banks of the Missouri, by the sacrifice of
all his fortune, he would have done it. When
he reached San Francisco he learned that he
would have to wait three or four days for a
steamer. It was in vain that He Wished himself
on the way home!

 

 

g u.
, {4

w",

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

» but now he had a half-formed feelin , as if

l

701d. Jupe’; (31ng ” 9 5”

 

 

Great wrongs can not always be righted the
hour in which they are detected. Bitter suffer-
ing and anflsh had been, and was yet to be, on
account of ' too hasty acceptance of the state—
ment of another against her whom he never
should have deserted, even in her guilt. That
he was now convinced of it, and wished to do
all in his power to repair it—if, indeed, any re—
paration would be accepted or possible—would
not hasten, by a day, the wearisomo conclusion
of the drama.

The course he had pursued toward Annette
was prom ted by that first impulse of venge—
ance whie longed to inflict a little of the pain
which she had caused him. To crush her with
contempt, to laugh her to scorn, seemed to him
the only punishment he could mete out to one
of her sex. Had she been a man he should have
known with what weapons to attack.

That night, after leaving her, he hesitated
whether or not to put his threat into execution.
He finally ut aside the matter, and took his
business a airs into conSIderation. Since ,he
must remain several days in San Francisco, he
might as well help to pass the lagging time, by

utting these into shape. His investments in
fits and buildings were such as promised to
make him rich, Simply by the increase of value
they would have from the growth of the city.
Not certain that he should wish to return to
California, he thought to take with him all the
money possible, leaving his real estate to take
care of itself.
" It had been a sultry day. That night the
wind blew. Everything lay crackling in this
dewless wind, for no rain had fallen for many
weeks. After seeing J upe stowed away in
comfortable uarters, Luke wandered about till
a late hour. 3 went down along the docks, re-
turning by way of the b10ck of buildings which
he owned, and rented out at fabulous rents to
various merchants. As he strayed about, his
attention was attracted to a glimmering light,
which certainly was not the risin moon. Pres-
ent] he heard the cry of “ Fire! ’—fearful cry
in t t city of a day, unprotected by fire en—
gines, crowded with wooden shanties.

Hardly had the alarm been raised, before the
conflagration had assumed frightful - ropor-
tions. The wind arose, as the heat rare ed the
air, rushing and rearing along, bringing scat
tered flakes of flame to light the scourge in dif-
ferent places at once. The street on which
stood Luke’s property was soon red with the ad—
vancing fire; are an hour had passed, his stores
tumbl down upon their ’r‘uined contents.
There was no insurance for San Francisco prop—
erty in those days; Luke’s loss was heavy; the
month beere he would not have cared for it,

splendor of worldly gear could repay ary for
some of her wrongs, and he was sorry to see the
destruction of the best art of his income. His
loss he could well bear, owever, when he com—
pared it with many others, men who, when the
sun went down, were worth their hundreds of
thousands. when it arose were penniless.

Still the seaot flre rolled and spread, over-
flowing half the city. Many aspects of the
scene were grotesque as well as appalling. Luke
went hither and thither, cool and courageous

 

1::

lending a helping hand wherever he could. Ono
poor Chinanian he pulled out of his little she )
by the tail of his head, just as the shanty fell
about his ears. He aided in tearing down
buildings, in hopes of arresting the fire by de—
priving it of its food, but the high wind carried
it triumphantly over gaping spaces. He had
been out several hours, and had followed on be-
fore the monster, working until quite exhausted,
when he'found himself not far from his board—
ing~plaee. Half an hour before, that street had
been considered safe. Many of the inmates of
the hotel, tired with looking at, or working at
the flames, had retired to rest. Now, the hotel
was all ablaze! Luke thought of J u e, and was
rushing up to see if he were safe, w en a great
cry of horror ran through the multitude. It
was supposed that all the women and children
had been taken from the building, which was
burning downward from the upper story, when
a woman a peared at one of the windows. The
room in w ‘eh she a stood was already on fire;

they could see the flames behind her, as her ’

slender figure appeared in the easement. She
acted as if half-stifled and stupefied b the
smoke, evidently not understanding the irec-
tions shouted to her from below.

“Hold on! only one instant. For God’s sake,
only one moment! Here is the ladder new hur-
rah! we have itl My God, she has .”

As the fire began to scorch in its c ose ap—
proach, the bewildered woman, not conscious
of the orders given her, leaped madly to the
hard pavement. It was but a single story down,
but a shudder ran through the crowd, which

knew that she could not escape without injury, -

One moment more and she would have been
saved. Or her fall might have been broken,
had any one been prepared for it. As it was,
she came heavil to the ground and was taken
up insensible. ‘ Dead,” was the first cry, but
it was soon found that she breathed.

“ Oh, massa, dat Miss Annette I”

“Yes, Jupe, I know it.”

“Is she a friend of yours? Come, I will go
with you. I am a doctor.”

A young gentleman took Luke by the arm,
and hurried him forward, seeing that his dread
and agitation made him hesitate.

The slender form, still dressed in the white
robes which it had put on to insnare Luke, was
taken to a place of comparative quiet, and an
examination made into the nature of the injuries
received by the unconscious victim- Her head

and shoulders had endured the full force of the,

blow when she struck the pavement; it was the
opinion of the hysieian that she wouldneverr
revive, but gra ually sink and expire Without
coming out of her comatose state.

Shelter, in a quarter avoided by the flames,
was at length found for her, and while the fire
was gradually dwindling out in the gray dawn,
and the smoke fell like a pail over the devasta-
ted city, Luke sat by the couch watching the

last hours of the one who had committed so deep .

and deadly a wrong a inst him and his.

In that solemn time 6 could not say that he
forgave Annette; he was simply awe—stricken
at this sudden punishment which circumstances
had meted out to her. He could not think of
her great sin and its consequences, Without a.

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shudder of aversion. And yet, he pitied her——
he could not leave her to die, alone, amid stran-
gers. _

All at once the hitherto motionless eyelids
quivered and flew Wide open; the great, black
eyes, so lately kindling with every human pas-
s1on dim, and half-vacant, fixed themselves up.
on uke‘s face. After a time, a look, as if she
rec? plizeflmim, came into them.

a 1

He started, the voice was so firm and natural.

“ God has granted me a moment of conscious-
ness in which to beg your forgiveness. Ihave
had thoughts and seen visions, when those
around me thought me stunned. It was a
strange state. I cannot describe it. But 1 had
time to review the past. One thinks fast in the

’ moment of death.”

Here she paused, and it was only at intervals
that she could go on—a few words at a time——
but she said all she wished in the half-hour be-
fore the fluttering breath finally took flight
from her lips. In that confession, Luke learned
all the particulars of the subtle plot she had in—
vented to ruin his wife and tear her from his
too-loving arms.

“ Mary will forgive me when she hears that I:
am dead. But, Luke, you cannot,” was the last
sentence Annette spoke.

And truly, the groan which he uttered, as
her spirit passed, was not for the guilty dying,
so much as for the innocent living.

CHAPTER X:
THE FACE UPON THE PANE.

“ OH, J upeI oh, J upei you’s dead and gone, I
know. Elsexyou nebber would treat your poor
missus so. on nebber would treat your poor
missus so!”

Auntie Clare had no idea that she was utting
the grief of her heart into song. She he (1 a lit—
tle child in her arms as she rocked back and
forth in an old splint-bottomed rocking~chair,

 

‘ in the very room Where she was first introduced

to our acquaintance. As she crooned to the
sleeping child the words came to her lips, which

(1 become constant in her thoughts. Three
years! almost three whole years, and no word
yet from the humble messenger who had gone
on his long journey with so much hope and de—
termination; Surel , her husband was dead,
Master Bryant won (1 never know the story he
had been sent to tell, Miss Br ant would die in
that miserable prison, Miss iller would never
see Miss Mary again, “de face ob de Lord was
done sot ag’in’ de whole family.”

Ole Clare felt very lonesome and downcast
that bleak and snowy evening. With a high
heart and the come e of unsel sh love, she had
worked, and planne , and hoped for three long
years. At last she felt that she was breaking
down unnder her load of care and suspense.

“ Oh, Lord Jupe’s gone up to glory, I know,
an’ I can’t hol’ out much longer. All I asks is
to keep up strenf to min’ this babe till his mud-
der comes out o’ risen. like Peter in de Bible.

“ Maumy,” sai the little iellov ,nnclosing his
bright eyes and patting her black taco with his
dimpled hand, ‘ are you sure Santa Claus is
to put sulfin’ nice in my ’tocking to—

 

“ Bless yer little heart, honey, I’s sartain sure.
I's heard him Creakin’ around in de snow out-
side djs long time, but he won’t come down
chimney ’till he sees y’ur fas’ asleep.”

The great bright eyes, wide with wonder and
excitement, stared at the open—mouthed chimney,
and the little stocking hung near by, until slee
again got the better of them, and they winked 0
into innocent dreams of the blissof to-morrow.
The old nurse held him long after he was sound
asleep, quite forgetting to put him to bed beside
his grandmother, who was moaning and turning
in her slumber, in the bedroom ed the large
apartment.

How came these three persons back in the
little house which they had deserted to live in
the town which held their Mary a prisoner?
Alas! the small measure of prosperity which

was first meted out to the convict, 1n having her .

friends close at hand, was taken away before
the end of the first year. Upon Clare’s once
failing to remit her monthly wa es, her master
ordered her home. Being in Je erson City, he
enforced his mandate, by taking her with him.
When the weeping slave went to the pri-
son to announce the sad tidings, Mary,
sore as was the loss and grief to herself, at once
decided that her mother and child must return
also to their old home. Her mother was too
feeble and broken to be trusted, in that strange
place, to take care of herself, much less the in-
fant. By going back to New Bristol she would
be amid old neighbors, who surely would not
allow her to suffer want; and Clare could still
continue to exercise watchfulness over the little
one. She promised Marytowin her master’s
consent to living out,as she had done. She
would make it her home with Mrs. Miller, and
she had no fear but that New Bristol would
aflord her work enough to make up her hire to
her owner.

So Mary stilled the cry of her heart, harden-
ing it to part with her only joy and solacemher
beautiful babe. There was a sound of weeping
in the prison, when little Luke was taken away;
but his mother shed no tears. She had shed so
many that the fountain was dry.

She only repeated over and over—J‘ three
years!"

The money which had been placed at interest
after the sale of the homestead served to buy it
back again; for, Mary had said that when her
term expired, she intended to return to the place
of her condemnation, and live down the false
judgment pronounced against her. ’

Fer two years Clare had faithfully carried
out Mary’s suggestions, which accorded so well
with the promptings of her own affectionate
nature. Mrs. Miller. feeble and broken down,
was almost as much of a care to her as the
child; except that, when auntie was out at work,
she could watch and feed little Luke. It is
probable that, of the two, the colored woman
sufliered much the more; as Mrs. Miller had
sunk into a sort of complaining endurance,
finding comfort inlgently nursing her sense of
being an ill-used pe
not only the burden of their physical support,
but all the loneliness consequent upon upe’s
absence, and all the anxiety of constant, wearing
suspense and ever-defeated hope.‘ She never

rson; while poor Clare had

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Old Jupo’s Clew. ' 2"

 

’ complained of her solitary hours, when grand—

mother and babe were asleep, and she sat gazing
into the kitchen coals, surmising, fearing. She
would have given much, in these times, for the
privilege of delivering a curtain-lecture to
patient J upe. Poor Clare! she had no use for
the broomstick now! There was no one to come
“ within’ roun’," whom she could scold for
every thing which went amiss—even for rain on
washing'dayl—and to be deprived of somebody
to find fault with was no small loss of itself.
For, as to scolding little Luke, or giving a fret-
ful word to his grandmother, she would no more
have thought of it than of cutting off her hand.

And now it was Christmas Eve!

No wonder her grief came down 11 11 her soul
with a weight. too great to bear. eside other
hearths in other homes, what music and laugh-
ter and feasting! How happy was her own race
at pros cts of a week’s holiday! How blessed
other e ildren, who had fathers and mothers to
load them with Childhood’s treasuresl Poor
little fellow! deserted by his father, his mother
pining, that festival night, in a prison l—no one
to love him but old Aunt Clare! She smoothed
his tumbled, listenin curls with her ugly,
black hand. is chee s were rosy with slum-
ber, a smile hovered in the dimples of his month:
he knew nothing of his wrongs; maumy’s love
sufficed for him.

He was three ears and three weeks old. On
his birthda ha come a little red frock, which
his mother ad embroidered for him by the licht
Which came through her grated window. e
wore the frock now, a mass of light, as the fire
shone against it; and his lump, white legs, with
the stockin all slipped own, looked whiter by
the centres . He was a very beautiful child; fit
to gale delight and. awaken pride in parents’

hea .

Clare had resolved that his Christmas should
not ass unmarked. She had performed extra
toil secure a little spending money and now,
a store of candles, a toy drawer, an a pair of
pretty red shoes lay concealed in the cupboard,
awaiting the time to he slipped into or hung be-
side the expectant stocking.

Long after her accustomed hour Clare sat,
rocking and crooning, holding the boy, quite
unmiudful that she should have undressed him
and put him to bed hours before. The wind
moaned about the little house; the great old
cottonwood tree outside creaked ever and anon,
so as tomake athrill run through all Clare's
bones, for she had all the superstitions of her
race. She heard the horns blowing on distant
plantations, and knew that the colored people
were havinsr jolly times; she heard, too, the
winding of the stage-horn, and knew that the
mail—coach had come and gone through New
Bristol. She was dreaming the vista of her life
over. Once, when a little sleety gust shook the
window, she rolled her eyes toward it uneasily
and almost screamed; it seemed to her she saw

\Miss Mary’s face looking in at her child.

“Oh, Lord, don’t let no 8 ooks come rovin’
dis blessod Christmas Eve,” 5 e muttered. “De

- good Lord will tak’ car’ little Luke an’ his ole

maumy. But, oh 1’s, tired! I’s tired! I’s done
fur, sart’in sure, I, can’t hol’ out annudder year.
1’s sorry eber I sent Jupe ofl'. Dal. poor ole

 

 

critter’s give out on do way. He was faithful as
a day; I know he nebber would stop till he
dropped down in his tracks. He mns’ be killed

or died 0’ fever, or caught an’ 501’ down Souf. ,

He’s dead, an‘ dat bit 0’ paper los’, 30’s Miss
Mary can’t have it toshow fur herself. I’s sorry '
J upe went,” and she began to sing again.

“ Oh Jupel oh, Jupel you’s dead an’ gone, I
know,” and as she sung, big tears rolled down
her ebon face, s arkling in the firelight, and ,
dropping on the road, warm bosom which sup— “
ported the child’s head. Again the sleet rattled;
on the window, and auntie looking around,
thought she saw aface pressed against the pane;
but her eyes were too dim with tears to be cer—
tain of anything. “ I do begin to feel right
cur’us,” she muttered, ceasing to sing, and sit-
tin upright. ” t seems to me ebery minute as
if upe was g’wine to open dat door, jes’ as
common as ef he was on] out to do up do chores.
My soul’s as light asa eader, all to oncet. I
feel as if I was gwine right up t’rough de roof,
‘est as when I dream ’bout flyin’. Good graciousl

’d make a purty figger, flyin’, wid dis ole
caliker dress, an’ dem scuflE‘s on my feet. No,
no; I pines to go to glory, w’en I’s done used up
but I ain’t jes’ ready yit to be transcribed. l
wants to see dis babe safe in his mudder’s arms,
and 't my wits robes done read ——-deu I’s pre-
pare for do will 01) do Lord. ’at makes me
feel so cur’usi It mus’ be kase it’s Christmas
night—half—past 'leven now—’twill sonn be J esus’
birf—day, sure ’nough. ’Pears to me, do spirits
oh (la hull family has come back to keep Christ-
mas in dar ole home.”

One spirit had come back—aliving spirit inlits
human body, and was hovering, out in the dark
and cold, feeding its starved eyes upon the
brightness of the scene within. When Clare
thought she had seen a face pressed against the,
glass she was not mistaken. Little Luke’s
mother stood there, devOuring with eager eyes,
the sweet picture of her child asleep in maumy’s
arms. The stage, coming into the village at
eleven o’clock ad set her down at the cross-
street, and she had walked in the snowand dark-
ness with what strange feelingsl to the home
from which she had been torn on a summer
morning years ago.

As the bright light of the kitchen fire shone
out of the window, whose pa er shade Clare sel-
dom thought to draw down, ary approached it

first, pausing there to still the wild beating of“

her heart. She did not wish to startle the in—
mates—~above all things, she dreaded to frighten
her child, lest he should not come to her, fearng
that he would reject the caresses she was earn—
ing to bestow. Looking in, she beheld, an stood
entranced by the beautiful vision. Gone was all“
sense of weariness, hunger or cold; (here were
food, warmth and rest—there life and Joy! Her
boy! her beautiful babel for two years she had
been cruelly robbed of him. When she saw him
last, he could not walk. and now, how he had
grown! How sweet, how healthy, how happy he
looked! If. she could go in and waken him he
would cry, may be, he would be afraid of er.

No, she would wait until Clare had! laid him in "

his bed. I » K
That Mrs. Bryant should be in New Bristol

that Christmas Eve was as unexpected by her, '

1

:r c... 4...... 

 

 

28 V Old Jupe’. Claw.

 

one week before, as it would now prove to her
family. It seemed that the chaplain and officers
of the penitentiary, and many others, had been
working privately to obtain her release, before
the expiration of her term. Her good conduct,
and the need which her child had of her care and
protection, were the grounds upon which the
pardon was asked and obtained. It was intend-
ed to come into effect in time for her to reach
home by Christmas; and she had been provided
with means for the journey, and sent away, the
very day upon which she was so unexmctedly

' set free. Two days and nights she had been rid-

ing over the rough winter roads; but, as she
stood there, gazing in at that home from which
she had been so cruelly taken, she felt nothing,
ftér the time being, but the joy of beholding her
c ild.

Past suffering. future desolation, all were
swept down by this master assion. Her hus-
band had condemned, deser her, but this child
was life of her life, soul of her soul. She still
had something to love.

All the bells of New Bristol rung out a sudden
chime—~the horns on the plantation blew ear-
splitting blasts—the little fellow in Clare‘s arms
stirred at the sound, and she, arising, bore him
out of the firelight into the shadow, awa into
the adjoining bedroom to lay him down. V hen
she reappeared, a hand was on the latch, the
door slowly opened, and auntie, at the same
time, opened her mouth to scream, but the in—
truder eld up a. warning finger in time.

“ Don’t scream, auntie; it is onl Mary

“ Oh, good Lord I” whispered lare, sinking
down upon the floor in a flat “cheese,” like a
toad-stool which had been trodden upon. “ Is it
you, or your ghos’, Miss Mary 3"

“ Myself, auntie; not my ghost at all. Don‘t
make a noise, for you will frighten the baby and
my poor mother. It might kill mother, if the
shock should be too sudden. They have pardon-
ed me out, at last, auntie. I see my boy is well. ”

Mary came and put her arms about Clare,
kissing the cheek of her faithful servant.

“ I shall not disturb them to—night, auntie; 1
have seen him. and that is joy enough for once.
I was standing at the window a long time. You
must break the news gently, in the morning, to
mother, before I see her. If you will give me 8.
cu of tea I will drink it, and go immediately to
beg; for I wish to rise early. And mind you,
don’t bring Luke in until I am up and dressed.”

“ Laws, missus, how can. you wait?”

“Because I want him to love me, auntie. I
cannot hear it, if he turns away from me. And
now I am so prison-worn and travel-worn, I
wish to brighten up and put on another dress.”

“Dar’s suffiu’ in dat, honey; but I jes’ ’sure
you dat boy’d know his mudder."

“‘Have you something to put in the darling’s
stocking?”

“You  3’ bet I ’tended to dart, missusl”

“Here s something the convicts who were
there when he came away sent him,” and she
took from her little ha a pair of prison-made
shoes, cunning things, nished in the most elab-
orate manner, a basket woven by one of the
basketmakers, and several ingenious to s which
the prisoners had pleased their fancies y mak-

ing.

11’

. I

 

Auntie got up out of her “ all-of—a-hcap,” and
made the cup of tea.

“_ Oh, I do want to cry and holler awful,” she
whlspered, as she poured it out and brought it
to her young mistress. “My heart is 3' us’ swell-
in’ too b1 fer my body; but I knows ’twould
frighten iss Miller, an’ if I don’t dissolbe I
sha’n‘t gib way.”

“That’s a brave auntie,” said Mary; “you
see how braveI am. It is best to wait u'ntil
morning, and we must do what is best.”

“ You’s allers right, missus. And now, dar‘s
your bedroom. Wc fixed it u w’en we fus‘
come back, ’cause we liked to think of de time
w’on you would be home. I ut on clean sheets
las’ week, an” aired an’ duste it. You take 11
good, sweet Sleep, 2111’ plenty 0’ time to dress yer-
self in de mornin’.”

Mary crept softly to bed; she could hear her
child breathe thrbugh the thin partition; and to
that sweet music she fell asleep. When she

awoke it was quite light; little Luke was shout- ,

ing with delight over that stocking.

‘ Here’s warm water, Miss Mary, and de keys
to yer trunks. J 95’ you put on yer prettiest
dress. Lor’, chile, how yer do tremble] Now,
you take your time—yer mudder ain’t 11 et,
and breakfas’ won’t be ready dis hour. s ad
to kill chickens an’ set muffins. Hark, jes’ hear
dat darlin’ laugh!”

“ If I listen to that, auntie, I shall never get
dressed.”

“ Well, I’ll go out and leabe yer to yerself.
Take yer time, honey.”

The glass showed Mary a face thin and wan,
but so ighted up with love and expectation, so
exalted by an habitual expression of atience,
as to be hardly less lovely than the glooming
features which that little mirror had so often
reflected in days gone by. She carefully brushed
and curled her hair, which, knowing she might
soon be released, the matron had allowed to pass
untrimmed, and which now lay in wavy masses
about brow and throat. Then she took from the
long-unopened trunk a blue merino dress.

“ He will not be afraid of me," she whispered,
smiling at herself in the mirror, and the young
mother went forth to claim her child.

 

CHAPTER XI.
THE PEACE THAT PASSETH ALL UNDERSTAND-
ING.
AUNfCLARE’s famous Christmas breakfast
was a thmg of the past. The dishes were washed;
and a huge turkey was now undergoing a pro-

cess of stuffing quite different from that by
1'. ’ '

which it had been accustomed to stuff itse
Mrs. Miller sat in her arm—chair, gently smiling
at the group upon the carpet. Mary, rosy with
the exercrse, was tossing a ball for Luke, stop-
ping every third moment to snatch him toher

950m and cover his face, neck and arms with
kisses. In the excitement of the hour, the
marks ogyears of anguish faded out for the time
being.
guessed at the years of agony which had bowed
that young head. She was a child again, with
her child.

“Who_am I?" she would ask him over and
over again. I

0 one, looking at her, could,have r

. “has

“(3“

 

 

    
 
 

 

l
a, .

 

 

 

Old Jupe’l Claw - l ‘29

 

And every time he said-"My mamma,” she
would catch him 11 and kiss him.
In the midst of heir frolic a knock came to

, the door. Mary started to retreat into her
‘ room; she did not so soon feel ready to meet the

prying eyes of curious neighbors; but, the door
was ned by the one who knocked, a boy
from t 6 hotel, who thrust a letter upon a chair
near by. .

“ It’s for Mrs. Ma Bryant,” he remarked,
rolling his eyes aroun to catch a glimpse of the
woman who had been in jail, and instantly dart-
ing out of the door as he met her gentle look.

‘ There must be some mistake, unless the
cha lain has writtento me, as he promised. But
thaFwould not have come so soon.”

She picked up the letter, and a cry escaped

her li .

“ Vfliat is it, Mary?”

“ It looks like Luke’s handwriting, mother. I
must go to my room.”

Mary closed her door. and sunk upon a chair
by the window. The sight of the letter recalled
too vividly that hour of anguish in which she

_ hadlastnread a message from him. For some

time, she would not open the envelope. Her face
was burning with indignation.

All these years he had abandoned her! Why
did he trouble her now? Had he heard so soon
that her punishment was over?-—and, if so, of
what interest could that possibly be to him? The
answer to all these questions lay folded in her
lap. After a time, she broke the seal and read:

“Mimi's—I was with you on your journey from
Jefferson City. You did not know it. for I kept an
outside place, and evaded recognition; for, to tell
the truth, 1 was not brave enough to expose myself
to your scorn. I went to Jefferson City to obtain an
interview with you. when I learned that you had
been that day released; and. although for five
months it seemed asif the leaden hours would never
move fast enough to bring me into your resence to
confess the wrong I did you. when I real y had it in
my power to meet you face in face, I shrnuk from

our just indignation. Mary, I followed you up the
hill last night. I was near you as ou stood at the
window, gazing at our child. Oh, w 1y did I not then
fall at your feet, in the snow, and ask you to spurn
me—to spurn mv worthless love? How hollow, how
mocking must that word sound from my lips! Yet,
Mary, I do love you, have always loved you, even
when I thought you guilty.

"' I never wrote that cruel letter, casting,r you oil,
which you received. It was written by the same
false hand which so successfully forged your later
to ms, for I, too. upon my arrival from Liverpool, at

' New Orleans, received a letter from you (as I be-

lieved), confessing your crime. and asking me to
keep away from on for the present. It said that
you preferred to ear the consequences alone; and
withal, was so c_ool and so seemingly little Concerned
at the misery mflicted upon me, that, in the rash-
ness of. my first sorrow and shame. I took assage
for California, and was far out to sea again fore I
had time to rationally consider matters. llut, Mary,
I loved you all the time. It was because I loved you
that I was so crushed by the news. And I had
hardly got out of Sight of land before I regretted
that I had not disobeyed you had not flown to you,
and fought for you, protected you. If possible, from
the conse uences of your folly.

“‘I nee not tell you who is the guilty one, who

A made us all this wretchedness. It could be. but one

— our sister, Annette. She is dead. so I will t not
toyname her too harshly. She had a selfish, pagion

.. ate nature; but her wild schemes are now at an end.

 

 

She told me all in her dying hour. I will give you
the slightest‘sketch of it, for I have not courage to
meet you, unless, by this confession, I win your per-
mission. ,

“She said, that from the hour that she first met
me, on the boat coming from St. Louis, she had
fancied me above other men; that she had been
{calous of my reference for you; that she made
ier hasty marriage in a fit of anger and unha pi-
ness, not knowing that Mr. Parcel] was really so had
a man as he was. Learning his‘true character by
degrees, she had been more and more unha py; bu ,
instead of leaving him, was tempted to fa in with
his practices, and had aided him in getting rid of
large quantities of counterfeit money.

“Then I asked her to visit you, and boasted of my
too great happiness. Oh, Mary, shall I ever dare to
hope for happiness again? The demon of jealousy
awoke, more furious than before. She went to you,
meaning to do you evil. Knowing that her own life
was one 0! sin which might any day result in dis-

race, she resolved to drag you down, to ruin your

appiness, to destroy my trust in you. She placed
the dies in the garrct, and counterfeit money in
your box. Several times during her visit, she
secretly took good bank bills from your purse. re-
placing them with counterfeils. She induced you
to buy flue things, and forged the order for the
piano, that, when you were accused; there would
ge gircumstnntial evidence to strengthen the main
ac .

“When I arrived in New Orleans I was met by
your letter ordering me not to come home. 1 went
to Annette. She said that she had heard the story,
and gave me all the particulars; asking me if she
had not warned me before my man-i e that you
were a natural thief, and adding that s e had sus-
pected you when she was there, mm the manner in
which you had ‘(lnshed out,’ etc. She did not tell
me that you would soon be a mother. Had I known
that, I never should have left you, even at your own
command.

“ As it is, I do not understand it. The blow was so
unexpected as to destroy the calmness of my reason.
ing faculties; and before I could calmly review the
case,i was far on my way to California. I have‘
been all the time like one walking in darkness. I
never felt you guilty. Ever in my dreams I saw you
mine, my Mary, pure and sweet; I loved on as
such, married you as such, and yet. when I t ought
to go back to you there was the letter, there the ap-
parent facts.

“ Purcell and his wife cameto California. He died,
and she tried to win my affections from you. I sor-
rowed for you as for one dead. I never thought of
any other woman. She never could have moved me
to think of her. But, in the midst of my sad life,
Jupe came. Faithful, devoted friend! He will some
time describe to you the extraordinary perils and
delays of his journey. He brought me a piece of
paper. It was not much. but I saw upon it Annette’s
attempt at forgery. and, as by a flash of lightning,
the whole truth was revealed to me.

” I hastened to her and accused her; she denied all.
That night, as if b ' the anger of Heaven at her
evilvdoing, the hote in which she boarded burned
down, and, in leaping from a window, she was fatal-
ly injured. She revived long enough to bear witness
to the truth and died, saying that Mary would for-
give hor. Can you, Mary? .

“ This was last July. I started. with Jupe. in the
next steamer for the Slater but m mental powers
had been long overtasked by grie , and I had wiu-
fully neglected my hysical health; the consequence
was the I was un tto bear the great revulswn of
feeling which came upon me. I was Ill when we
reached Panama, and having to \wait there several
days for a. vessel on the other side, in the hot
weather the fever took hold of my 3 stem (so well
prepare for it), and when the ship sa ed I was un-
able to go on. ‘ .

“ I was very ill—unconscious tor weeks—and it is

 

 

' drawing it.

30

to Jupe‘s skillful nursing thatI owe my life. It was
late in November before I came out of that long
stru gle with strength enough to dare the ocean. At
last left that hateful, wearisome place; we'flew
over the ocean~ at last my foot was ashore again at
New York. We hastened on. dupe, may faithful at-
tendant, reaching Jefferson [City the ay you were
liberated. I saw you, my Mary, your pale. sweet
face; your dignified, resigned bearing; and I loved
and honored you as we honor the saints and mart rs
of old. Every pang which you have suffered in es
you the dearer to me.

“Ah, believe that I, too, have known days and
nights of agony. You will see it in my face it you
say that I may come to you. I was so near you
when you were in the stage, yet restrained from
speakln 1' to you. At the last moment I was a cow-
ard; an there were always strangers present. I
wanted to steal into the coach at night, and hold
you in my arms, I knew you must be so tired. I made
J upe stay behind for the next stage, lest he should
betray us.

" Last night—ah, Mary, my wife. that is an angel-
child of oursl I must say ours! Can you kecép me
frgmyhimi—can you keep me from my chil , my
WI 11.

“ I have written this since I saw you go into the
house at midnight. I will send it, with all its faults.
and wait here until you return one some answer. I
will n it come to you until you bid me. LUKE."

It is not difficult to guess what the wife’s an-
swer was to be.

Arising, with the letter in her hand, she
stepped out into the family room, and said to
her mother:

“ Luke is in New Bristol. He wants to come
and see his boy.” ‘

“ And are you going to allow it?”

“ Yes, mother. ”

“Thank God for that, Mary!” said a voice be—
gind her, and turning, there stood Luke in the

002'.

His resolve to wait an answer to his letter had
\meltod like the snow in the sun. He had stood
outside for the last half hour, every moment
putting his hand on the latch, andas often with—
But he heard what Mary said, and
then the barrier was overthrown.

We will let down the curtain on our little
scene, only drawing it up again a brief while
later, for a glance at Auntie Clare. She stood
there, alone, forgotten, her apron over her head,
sobbing.

“Why, auntie, what is the matter?" asked
Luke; wife and child had quite driven old black
Clare out of his thoughts.

“Jupel” she moaned. “ You’s come hom) an’
not brou ht J upc. Oh, I knowed he was done
gone dea long a o. On, I’s sorry I cher druv
him off. I misgi I wasn’t tillers a good wife to
him. Many’s de time Is took de broomstick to
him, jis‘ ’cause I was cross an’ tired. I neber
do it again, if I could only see J upo once
more.”

“ Well auntie, dry your eyes and put on your
new calico, for J npe will be'here to-night, to live
With us and be happy all the remainder of his
days, I hepe, for he is one of my vory best
friends, auntie. There, there—don’t forget what
you promised about the broomstick.”

Clare dropped her apron and stood gazing at
hi_m, during this speech, with eyes which opened
wider and wider. Before it was finished, she
began to laugh, a hysterical chuckle which shook

 

Old Jupe‘s Clew. ‘

her broad form like the breeze running throng
a circus-tent. ‘

“ You's de same boy as eber, Massa Bryant,”
she giggled, as soon as she could speak, “allers
bringin good news! You neber used to come in
de house widout a message for somebody, dat
was calkilated to refreshen 'em. De only pity
is, eber you went away. It yer hadn't done gone
away dar nebbei‘ would have been bad luck.
My advice to Miss Mary is, nebber to let go yer
coat—tail again. If I was her, I’d hab a good
stout apron-string, an‘ I’d keep you tied to it all
your born days. ”

“ You’ll have to lend me one of your aprons
auntie—vone of those that you used to tie around
J upe when you made him wash the dishes for you
whi c you sat in the splint-bottode chair, with
tho hymn—book upside down, and sung hymns to
spur him up.” ‘

“ How you know do hymn-book was wrong
side up?” asked auntie, quickly; she was always
ambitions to appear to love learning. “‘ Wron
side up fer white folks, but colored folks wouldn t
liave,’de presumption to read de same way as
r em.

“ So you make do hymns stand on their heads,
do you, in token of humility?m burst in Luke,
with one of his old-fashioned merry laughs which
used to be so contagious. He had not laughed
in that care-free, happy way from what seemed
time immemorial.

“Dar now, I’s willin’ yer should poke yer fun
at me, if it sets ye to laughin’ that way. But
dar’s no jokin’ ’bout dem aprons, Miss Mary. I
did use to git a heap 0' work out 0’ poor J upe.
He’d grumble, sometimes, but I'd shot him up as
quick as a. door. I’s been oneasy about it since,
an’ I’s promised de Lord, often, on my knees, if
he’d bring J upo safe home, I’d deform my little
faults and be a fns‘rate wife. Whar did you
say he was, Massa Bryant? Au’ is it possible
J upe r’aly had de sense, arter all, to git cl’ar out
to Californy?” \

“ He did indeed, through perils that would
have killed or discouraged a less devoted man.
If it had not been for him, I should not now be
here. My friends have been too good to me: I
have not deserved such forbearance,” and Luke
grossed tightly the smaller hand which lay in

is own.

“ 7Deed, massa, I nebber should ’92 sent J upe
wid dat piece 0’ paper on your ’count, an’ dat’s
sol We was all powerful mad at you for leavin'
Miss Mary in her troubles. We sent it intirely
on her account. We know’d she was innocent,
an” we was boun’ you should know it.”

“ Oh, auntie,” mid Mary, her voice trembling,
“and you never told me any thing of what you
had done—never said what had become of J upel
You sent him off on that hard journey, whiiel
you worked, night. and day, to support my child
and mother. Luke, what do you think of love
like that? But, why, Clare, did you not tell me
where J upe had gone?"

“ ’Cause, Miss Mary, I know’d ’twas proble~
matical if he made out his arrand; an’ it he
failed, you‘d be wuss disappointed dan if he’d
nebber want! So I jes’ keep still.”

“ Dear auntie!” .

f “ But you hasn’t tol’ me whar my husban’ 15,
Mean Bryant”

.vnm..%mlw..+._w--

 

 

 

 

 

‘ over her, during her long stage—ride.

 

., . .\

1

Old Jupe’s Glow.

81

 

“Hewill arrive in the stage to—night. I left
him behind, at Jeiferson City, because I did not
wish my wife to know who was keeping guard
But J u
will be here this evening, and you must y
around, Clare, and prepare a suitable reception
for him. You must kill the fatted calf, auntie.”

“Laws, massa, Jupo ain’t de profligate son,
and I hain’t got no fatted calf at dis season oh
(la year. But I got a twenty-poun’ turkey,
which is killed and stuffed in honor 0’ Miss
Bryant’s comin’ home las‘ ni rht; and I reckon it’ll
answer fer all on us to rejgice wid. Ef I could
’a' foreseen de future, I’d a-put more raisins in
de mince pies, but, such as dey are, ou’s wel-
come. I mus’ fly roun’, sure ’nough. ou hain‘t
tol’ me ’bout J upe’s findin’ you out in dat wild
Californy, yit.”

“ Hadn’t you rather wait and hear the whole
story from his own lips, auntie? 1 don’t wish to
rob J upe of the glory of relating his own adven-
tures.”

“ Dar’s somefin’ in dat, sure ’nough. An’ I
mus’ make det poun'—cake in less’n no time.
Well, well! I reckon I kin‘ wait till night. I’s
Waited a good long time ’iore dis.”

The Christmas dinner which Auntie Clare
served to the family was worthy of the occasion,
which is saying much for the dinner. How the
good soul did so much, and so well, in the midst
of the joyful “flustration” of which she com-
plained, must remain a part of the wonder which
we feel, that for months and years she had borne
the toils and troubles of others to this triumph
ant termination.

The news of Miss Bryant's arrival home,
simultaneously with that of Luke Bryant, flew
through the settlement like light. With every
turkey which was carved that day, their story,
as known or guessed at, was also carved and
sent round an appetizing addition to the feast.
'But we Will give the people credit for a deli»
cacy of feelin which prevented them from in
ti’uding upon 13 e family on the da of its reunion;
it enjoyed its dinner unmoleste by curiosity.
Only one old woman toiled up the slippery road,
opened the door of the cottage, poked in‘her
head and stared at its inmates for a moment,
without iving them the greeting of the day.

“ I toll ’em I shouldn‘t believe it till I see’d it
with my own eyes," she said. in a loud.key,
shakin her head as she withdrew it, to retire as
she ha come.

Honor to whom honor is due. Not only did
Jupe receivea welcome which thawed all the
frost out of his bones, but never, thereafter, did
he or his wife want for rest and plenty. Pro—
vided with a home of their own, on the Bryant
farm, they had nothing to do bit wait upon
themselves and pet little Luke. At first Mr.
Bryant talked of makingr California his perma-
nent residence, thinking their home in New
Bristol could never be pleasant to them after
what had occurred. But, the truth having be-
come known. remorse seized upon those who had
condemned the innocent; the Bryants became as
popular as they had once been persecuted—which
good efl’ect was due, also, no doubt. to rumors of
wealth in California, which Luke had no reason
to deny.

THE END.

 

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80 Kentucky Ben, thn Long mm: of the (inscndun.
auger Slnrhllck.

81 The Kit. Curnon Club. By T. C. Ilurhnnuh.

89 Little. I‘m-k. the Buy Gnhlu. lh‘ Hurry Rillggnlll.

83 Pony Bub llm Rwkh-snlihh-rul lllu iiuukilrs. llv (1.1.
Printing 1.. mun"... '

34 owmm l‘lyJ) .ngm, lly Jnlvpll E. lSllduer,Jr.

85 (In min ltulp I, the Young Explorer. By C. Dunning

. ark.
86 Little Dun Book“. By Morris lewing.
87 The Menu orie Ilnntern. Hy .\luj. ll. Grenville.
83 The Boy ’ rnmpu; or, Lifu Among the Gipsics. 11v
. .‘i. lioll'lnml. '
8!) ’Lonlz'qllom- LUe. liy (l. T) (tlnrk
90 Having Rifle,(.lmlur's Lillie Sunni.
91 Oregon Josh, Hm Wiznrll liilh.
MB llnrrivluw Kit. 153' A. F. llnll.
93 Jllllllpilllfl.’ Jnkc, the Cnlurnlln Clrmm Buy. By Bryant
muum. . ..
94 Emu Sm: (-0, lill: lirllnlilml'n my. 1‘.)- lCll. \l‘lllull.
95 Mmuam' t 'llmrin; or, A Ynnkuu Buy to ill» "Hit-I10.
By alums Alarm.
08 Fight 1.: Fred: or, The (.‘llsinwllyu nl Grizzlv (‘luun
iy ' . . lilll'illth'll. '
97 Orulxo ui'llu- Flynn‘ny; or, Yunluzu Bug in Cm lun.
l:y1'.l)llllnillgl‘| l'k '
9K The [Buy Vlfl‘llfil
HV .‘lflj. ll. IL Slrni .
99 The \Vllii ' 'lzc-rn; nr, Fllw-r Riflv, the Girl 'l'rllL-kur
Ol'lmlu: Sun I‘. Iiv (Hull. ('llllrI-Is llml‘nrll.
The ‘ low-Bimi- 'i‘ruil; rn',’l‘hl: ll'rmml. licapcrmluen.
i. (ivorgr Rliilil)filll'.
“no, le (lulqu Girl; or, The Mylllerimu Cnlmu.
_ l~;.l..-..r.l s. lilliu.
102 The Flynwnv Allunl: "r. Ynnkuu Buys ‘Rnuml the
Worhl. My 0. tumulugvnuk.
108 PM Vluilunoy’n All“ tun-n; or, Sliver Tongue
.uuu Qumu. By . illwllrliu.
0y Pumper-to ; or, The Sewn-l. of the Sicrrn
Ravine. By Roger Shlrhurk.
105 )llnongo.}hu Wmu] Witch; M, The Squntter’u Farrel.

ll' [m w .n ml.
103 The “0v (‘rninernq or, Juo llllli an‘n Big Find. By-
Eiiwlll'll 'illvlt.
107 The Harder Iinvcrm; or, lu-at on 1):» Oval-hurl
'i'l‘nli. liyJ, Millml iinll'llllln.
108 Alnukn. the \\'oll—Qul-uu; w, Th.» (llrly
nillliileill’lilll'. [h- l‘upt. llmvlml Lilll-nlll.
109 ghhrllrtinn Jim, cllu While Nun'a Frlenll. 15y Elllwlrd
II.
110 Pin ,ky Joe, llu- Buy Avdllunr; or, hick nuluuull'.
Lani Ride. My .1. .‘l'lltun liofl‘llllul.
111 The “order Gnnmnker: or, The llllntml Mnhlun,
By Junwu L. Bowen,
112 Leti-llnnded Pete, “lo Dullhlvrlinil’c. lly .lmwyh
E. lllld'er, Jr.
113 The Itlvcr Rifle-g nr, Thu Fnlv nl’lhn Flulhuul. By
Cum. .1. F. (‘.J\lhnnu.
114 Alone on the Piulnn. “y l‘ wunl Wilhtl.
116 fillver Horn, and llhl Rllll' l-iu-llmlh. 12y Rugur
Slllrhlluk. «
116 Ex Initll ol’llozckiuh Smith, Um llnckwnmlnnun.
My .ulumnl Rmhnnll.
117 The Ynunfl Mnnhmuorn; or, Dirk linry'n Hung-
erw. By (J. Dunning: (tlnrk. \
11)! Old Tm m: .r, tl... linv llivuls. By Blll'ry Rillygnlll.
119 (Yonter hot. tho Wh‘lh- l‘rnw; nr, Roving kiln-’-
Hm ('nlnlulign. By ’l‘. C. linrinuugh.
’l‘rnlil or, Clurk (flovurlylhnonl.r the 'l‘urlnrs.
p Morris.
l’nrd Hon; or, '1']... \Vllhnsll‘n llliuu Lmul.
ll)‘ Rom Slllrhlll'k.
122 The l‘lnqulnmnx‘ Queen: or, The )lynlrry n! (he
lmlle Hui. My (1. \Vlllllu I‘ll‘nwllle.
12:: Thu, illu Rny Al'rnlml; or, Lift lu ll... win-us Ring,
"lnlrluq Murrlu.
131 Queen "('flillc. lhl- llnnh-rllirl. lVlleIII_\' .l,Tl...n...,‘_
12K: 'l'um 'l‘uhor. lhn Hwy ruginw; ..r,1'l..- Y0|ll|flLynch_
‘ulg “ W-llves.” ’.y Blurry liinggulvi.

'By T. C. Harbmlzh.
By Roger Sillrhlu'k.

kw; hr, King (‘ulu "ml "is lsmul.

Hrlllhlzrx‘

My

i-l
126 .“lnk null. nu. n...m...<l..u; or, The sun... of llm‘
Ti H.

iy Jug. E. limigur, Jr.
127 Tin- Dl-er lluntora. My Jnlln .1. Manila”.
1”! ‘Vfllf'J : or. Thu ngllL-ilnwksul‘ till: Fil’urlllllllifl.

By Cam: Lhna. limvurli. -

_' i 12!) Sllvornpur; or, The Mnlnllllin Harolnc. nyEdwnrd
\\'il|vu.

um
.

I Rectum“ Qua-ll m the Plains. lSy Ferny H. St. Juiln.
.51 '

\\ inmh. the l'hild Spy. is Hm .: (Henson.
The l-iillllli ’l‘rnppgr; ur.‘l‘hl: Ynllng W hitc-Bumllo
llllnll-rs. 'yy ('hnrll-a huwnrll.
’i‘h Furl-M. Nprctcr; ur. 'l‘hu Yuung Hunter’s Foe.
. ' nll.
\ lid N'ni. tlll- ' 'rmqmr. By “'m. R. Eyaker.

. Sily - Bugle; or, The Illdinn Maiden of Se.
('l-nlx. My |.ll-ll¢,. (m. llnzelLr/n.
The l’I'nirlo Trapper. j (7. Dunning Clurk.
The. Antelope llny. By Geo. L. Aiken.
1,01”: film“ or. The lhvuri'fv‘uille. By L'npt.ColnItocl(.

(‘4)! llnel Cronin“, Lhu Bear King. By Chnrlea E.

l “’lll’ll Vi

m... u.
0M Pegs, (hr- .‘llllllliulneel‘. By Lewix \‘i‘. Carson.
The “hull. Illnltrl'. l‘yilnrr)‘ “film‘-

l‘llm-k ,l’nniher, lllu Hull-Blood. By Jouuph E.
llulgl-r . r.

(ml-mil, n... Guide; or, Peril: ofthe Frontier. By Lieu.
.1. ll. lilllllllllpll.

I44 Kelli. the llullgnr. By Ellwul'vi S. Ellis.

“5 Hill liulrlylnn, lilull: r. By Eliwnld “'illcli.

1.16 The l'nililErL-cli liivnl; or. The 'Fllngled Tull].
ls,  .. l5lulgur,. r.

147 The Mlmkml Avenger. l!) "01. l‘renlisalngrulmln.

143 Nut, [he ‘l'rnlllll-r (uni lllrfinll Fighter. By Paul J.
l’ruscult.

149 The. Elli Demon; or, The Giant Iimlhnrs.
C. Hlll'hnugh.

150 The Boy )Iuntnn -Ilunier: or. Euulnllo, the
Beautiful Amtlzon. By Frederick \\'hilhker.

151 Frank Yates, the Young Trnppcr; or, Mounuin
Kllln's Warning. By Jusuph E. Badger, Jr.

152 “’lld Raven, the Sum. lly Oll L'nomuu.
153 Lynx-Cup; or, Full: ’I‘gllmmrs’ Among HM Sioux. By
l'nul liiilbs.

15!]- The (‘lmmplon Texnn Rider; nr, Rl-d Bus-lo,
uuu llu» ll.-.~~.ul..a Hunter. ily Ilnrry St. Gonrge.

155 hunky Dick‘n Doom. lians. E. Budger,Jr.

156 ll‘runk Roll, the lth Spy. lly 01] Cmnn-a.

157 Nick Doyle. th Gnld Hunter. By T‘. H. Myurs.

153 Kidnnppod Dink; 0r, The Fate vi Hm Fire Fly. By
J. Stallluy lil-ndrmun.

159 finnl‘n Long Trail; Dr. Tim Twin Scmfla. By W. J.
Hamilton.

160 llnnk TriplL-t'a Vow. By lllmy Hazard.

Nil The Mad Skipper. By R. Nnrhuch.

162 The 'i‘l-nppl-r King. By Muj. )lnx hi rlino.

[133 Simon Kenton, lllmhlr. By Elllf‘l’flnl) RUdlnlln. ‘

161 '(l:l|c lloy Chief; or, Frank lk-ll'a Cumpucc. By 011

.mlLI'a.

165 The 'l‘r-ndcr Traitor. Hy J. Stanlry ill-mlurm-n,

166 "ill ano‘n (Til-w. By Mrs. Orrln .Inun'u

167 ’ 'luc "goung Trnilcr. By W. J. lluulillon.

lnn- L. .

168 Tim HIM-(1m- Spy.
ilwviy July .

169 Lnnh Lulu. llm (llll Cnltvrnlln Hunter.
{\I'L'llur. mull. .Illly u,

170 The \Vhltc “'oli’.
July 1:1.

111 Tim Swnmp Guide.
.1 uly 23.

llcndic‘n “ny’n Librnry is {or Mile by all Newndenlwa,
five ('nnlu llt'r copy, or aunt by null] on reel/1pc nf six can“ each.

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